One day, some neocon or neocon supporter, let's say Charles Krauthammer, since he has a funny name, was sitting in his living room, relaxing with a nice Anne Coulter book ("So beautiful", he thinks, "so Right."). Suddenly, a mob of Angry Liberals appears, surrounding his house. They are menacing, carrying torches, pitchforks and a socialist agenda.
Charles calls 911 (Ah! 911, sweet 911. Is there anything you cant do?). The police put him on hold for a while, then tell him they'll send a squad car as soon as they can. Charles pauses to mourn the day when calling 9-11 worked so well, but alas, it's time for another tax cut. After all, if they arent protecting him, why should he pay for their operating costs? He can afford private security.
Meanwhile, outside, the crowd is becoming ugly, calling for him to change his ways.
"Neocon thinking is intellectually bankrupt!" one yells, "Along with the country!"
Through the windows, Charles can see that the crowd is trampling his flowerbeds, sitting on his car, reading his newspaper and drinking from his water hose!
This will not do.
Being a good Republican, Charles goes to a closet and grabs a shotgun, opens the front door, and shouts, "This is my property, get out of my yard, and the Devil take your Liberalism!"
So, the scene goes on in this vein. As tensions increase, Charles throws a rock, then someone throws dog poop, pretty soon someone shoots a gun, someone shoots back, and firepower increases, largely on the crowd's side. Charles finds himself more and more besieged as the crowd yells for him to renounce neo-conservatism or get out of the neighborhood.
Slowly, Charles is forced deeper into his house, as the mob advances. His garage is destroyed, his potting shed and gazebo burned. Soon he is holed up in the utility room, in a small wing jutting from the south side of the house. Liberals occupy the rest of the house, sometimes smashing his things, sometimes using them for their own nefarious purposes.
Mostly they leave him alone, pelting his small room occasionally with dog poop, shooting at him desultorily with paintballs and shotguns, but generally settling for dishing out humiliation and keeping him "in his place". From time to time, he gets off a pot shot at the crowd, and while he isnt able to aim very well, he can tell he gets an occasional hit from the angry shouting of the crowd.
"Quit shooting at us, Charles!"
"Get out of my house, you Liberal scum-suckers!"
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Charles! Now behave or get out!"
"But it's my house!"
"Not any more, Charles."
After a few days, Charles is becoming very uncomfortable, and very angry. He has many small wounds, though none are going to kill him, but the indignity he is suffering, the unfairness of the mob, these things prey upon his mind, and he seethes. What right do these people have to storm his house?
"Admit your mistakes, Charles!" they shout.
"I made no mistakes, you leftist bastards!"
Sometimes they let through a delivery guy so that Charles doesnt starve, and sympathizers sometimes take advantage of this to smuggle Charles some sort of weaponry (imagine John Bolton in a tie-die T-shirt and Birkenstocks, posing as a pizza-guy and smuggling in some 20 gauge shells). Charles is trapped, but they mob stays in his house, confining him to this tiny room, shouting things like "give up Charles!" and "admit that we are all dependant on each other, Charles!"
"Never!" he screams, "The pursuit of self-interest is the only way to Greatness!" ("At least, for my greatness," he mutters.)
From time to time, the press comes, and Charles complains of the indignities he's been forced to suffer. The crowd, though, dismisses his complaints, telling the press, "He's a very bad man, you know, why are you taking what he says as true?"
As the days pass, Charles wonders, where are my friends? Sure, they send the odd bit of ammo, and Cheney said he's arranged for the chicken they've had delivered to the crowd to be tainted with botulism, but nobody's been willing to join him in this fight. The police seem powerless, many lament his situation, but no one will really help him.
He takes another potshot. A scream of pain, and the crowd roars in fury. Ahh, satisfaction. Never mind the barrage of return fire, or that it may be a couple of days before another carton of lo mein gets through. It was worth it to get a little of his own back.
Next time on Scenario:
The mob gets tired of waiting, and having decided that shooting at Charles wont make him change his mind, decide to try shooting at him a lot.
ADDENDUM: 1-15-09
Not a comment one on this post. So either it sucked, no one got the "joke", or it was just simply too long. Feh.
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