Terrorist; a noun.
1. A person who uses unlawful violence, and intimidation especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims.
I don’t know when my mother actually started becoming a terrorist. I don’t think she aspired to be a terrorist as a youngster. I don’t think she ever told her mother and dad, “When I grow up I want to be a terrorist!” She was never abducted by a terrorist group and brainwashed, or anything like that. If she had been, we would’ve all known about it.
It was later in her life that she really started acting and talking like a bona fide terrorist. I began noticing it whenever our conversation would drift over toward global economics, or Africa, or Asia, or the Middle East, or the Muslims, or the Hindus. I mentioned one day that the Chinese are making great strides in rocketry and space exploration.
She looked at me as if I had insulted the United States of America, and barked a feisty rejoinder. “Can’t trust them! All they want to do is figure out how to bomb us.”
“Mom, all I said was that they were developing new technologies.” Whatever happened to ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN; ONE GIANT LEAP FOR MANKIND?
“Yeah, and the next thing you know, Red China will be coming over here and marching on US soil!”
My heart tried to say no mom you’re wrong, the Chinese are simply having an industrial revolution just like we had in the early 20th century, but all my mouth managed to do was stay shut. That was mom. She had little tolerance for do-gooders who thought the Chinese might be good people after all.
“Ought to just bomb the whole bunch of ‘em.”
I just kept quiet, knowing that I had already incited her wrath, and not willing to risk setting her off further.
Same way with the Palestinians; “They need to be round up and shot.” Same way with the Persians; “They’ve been fighting amongst themselves for hundreds of years anyway. Just bomb them.” Same way with North Korea, Afghanistan, most of Africa, and most of the Middle East.
I finally got to the point where I stopped discussing world events and politics with her, just to avoid her deadly tirades. Our conversations nowadays consist of mundane items like, “How have you been today?” Or, “There sure are a lot of hummingbirds out on the back porch today!”
I told my best friend Eric about her terrorist ways, and he said, “She probably got that way by listening to those fire-and-brimstone preachers she always listened to on TBN. If you listen to that stuff long enough it can make you crazy with hatred and fear.”
“Yeah she’s pretty full of it,” I said. “Everybody’s an enemy, according to her.”
I told Eric, “I’ll bet that if she had one of those big red emergency buttons mounted on her easy chair (you know the kind they have on big fire alarm panels, the big red mushroom-shaped one that you can quickly slam your fist on top of it, and the fire alarm rings). If she had one of those big red buttons mounted on her easy chair, and if it were wired to launch a warhead that would go kill the Arabs or whomever, then I’ll bet she would be killing people daily by the hundreds of thousands. Africans, Asians, Persians, and Mexicans. “Can’t have them crossing our borders and spreading mayhem all across our country.” Blam! A huge chunk of real estate is blasted out of the earth where there was once a thriving civilization.”
She’d be watching TV and mashing that button so much that the paint would be completely worn off of it, and the fine leather of her easy chair would be worn and discolored in the area of the deadly red button. Hundred megaton bombs would be efficiently dispatched to every area of the globe where suspected evildoers hid out, blowing them to smithereens. Smashing them like cockroaches.
She kept on, “That wannabe dictator down in Venezuela, ol’ Maduro. He’d better watch his step too, or he’ll wind up just like old Chavez did… six feet under. All they want to do is push drugs anyway. Here in America, we live for freedom and liberty, and those people don’t know don’t even know the concept. That’s why we’re the greatest nation on earth, and don’t you forget it. There won’t be any peace down there until we get rid of him and put that other guy in there. What’s his name?”
I finally got to say something. “You mean Juan Guaido?”
“Yeah, something like that. We’ll get him in there and then things will settle down.”
I was surprised that she didn’t mash the big red button again, and vaporize Venezuela. Maybe she was holding off to see how things would go. I didn’t hold out much hope.
“Trump’l fix ‘em,” she said as her hand crept toward the button and I held my breath. “Pussy footed Democrats had better run to their hidey–hole too, and stay out of the way of those who want to make positive change in this world. Bunch of Commies.”
I didn’t dare breathe a word about being a Democrat myself. I quickly changed the subject. “You been to Burger King lately?” Her devious thoughts vanished away into nothingness as she looked away from the TV and toward me.
“No, why? You want to go? I was just going to fix hotdogs for lunch, but we could go down there if you want.”
“Sure, mom,” I said, “and I’ll buy.”
I don’t think a single communist, persian, Mexican, gay, or democrat died that day. God be praised.