by Garry Reed

(Published 01 October 2007) 

"Daddy, why do we fight wars?"

Mommy looked fondly to her husband, reclining in his favorite armchair, reading the Sunday sports. Daddy laid down his paper and glanced wisely back at Mommy.

Daddy said, "Son, stand there in front of our picture window and tell me what you see?"

"I see the house across the street," the Son replied.

"Now," Daddy said, "suppose you see Saddam Hussein in the front yard and he's beating up his wife and he's killing his own children. What would you do, Son?"

"I'd run across the street and hit him until he stopped," the Son exclaimed with bravado ringing in his voice.

"No you wouldn't, Son. What you would do is get all your little friends together and make them go across the street and try to beat up Saddam. Some of your friends will get hurt and some of them will get killed but eventually they will win and they will beat mean old Saddam to a bloody pulp."

"And I'll help them!"

"Don't be silly, Son. What you will do is stand right here in our living room in front of our window and you will cheer them on. You will tell them how brave they are and how patriotic they are and how freedom-loving they are."

"But how can I make Billy and Kenny and Dougie and all my friends go fight?"

"You will tell them that it is the patriotic thing to do. You will tell them that they will be fighting and dying so that they can keep everyone free. Because, Son, you are a Bushclinton, and we Bushclintons don't fight our own wars. We get other people to fight our wars for us. We are politicians, Son. Politicians stay in their warm houses while other people who aren't as smart as we are go across the street and fight. Remember that."

"But … but … won't they hate us for that?"

"Of course they will, Son. But it doesn't matter. Because they will still vote for us and give money to us and do what we tell them to do no matter how many stupid decisions we make or how many times we mess up their lives."

"Why do people do that, Daddy?"

"Well, Son, I think Mommy can explain that better than I can."

"Yes, Honey. They act that way because they are children. Even after they've grown up they're still children. It's just like your Daddy and me. You see, Daddy is the Boss of this family. When Daddy abuses me and hits me and gives me black eyes and a bloody nose I always come crawling back to him because he is the Boss and I am his adult child. In some families it's the Mommy who is the Boss and the Daddy who gets abused and cheated on and henpecked, and he's the one who comes crawling back. But it's all the same. That's how most people are, Sweetie. No matter how many times their Political Mommies and Daddies abuse them, they will keep crawling back for more. They will keep paying taxes and voting and believing pretty-sounding lies and going to jail even when they didn't hurt anyone. All because someone told them that they're good little Citizens and should always love someone else more than they love themselves, like a televangelist or a flag or a social welfare program or anything else that makes them feel warm and cozy while they're living under some Politician's thumb."

"So, uh, if I grow up to be a Politician I can live my life on other kids' allowances and never have to be afraid of anything?"

"That's right, Darling. Except that maybe someday you might have to watch out for those mean people who call themselves Libertarians."

"Huh? What's a Liver Terrarium?"

"Oh, don't worry about libertarians. They're just people who think that adults should act like adults and take responsibility for themselves instead of giving their responsibilities to us Politicians."

"But that would ruin all your fun, wouldn't it Mommy?"

"It certainly would, Son," Daddy barked sternly. "But it's our job, the job of real Politicians, never to let that happen."

The Son thought about this for a very long moment.

"Daddy, Mommy, I want to be a Politician when I grow up."

"Oh, how sweet!" Mommy wept.

"That's my Boy," Daddy crowed.

Be watching for Sonny Bushclinton, and hordes of his little private academy classmates, on a ballot coming to your precinct soon.