The other day I saw an SUV with a "Cowboys for Jesus" and an NRA bumper sticker on the back window. Either I would have been branded on the butt with a red hot crucifix or my attempt to liberally dialogue with the driver of this vehicle would most likely have been snuffed by a 9mm report.
"I learned everything I need to know about Islam on 9-11" proclaimed an enormous decal I saw on the back of a pick-up truck, graphically back dropped by the burning Twin Towers. There would be no inside job talk with that guy, unless I wanted to get lynched in a 4WD kind of way.
"I speak English and am proud of it." Was another bumper sticker I saw while walking through a Safeway parking lot. I would have told the woman driver, in Spanish, that I was proud too, but the desert dust had tattooed her skin with menacing designs and I backed away from what could have been an ugly scene indeed.
However, acclimating to the full metal paranoia has been a relative breeze since I get my daily dose of gunfire every time I walk out in the desert with the dogs. Spray painted swastikas on milepost rocks are a common sight as well. I'm provided with all sorts of detritus clues that I interpret as warnings when instead they could very well be guideposts to some future promise one should chase after in a Timothy McVeigh kind of way.
It would take more exposure to the state inclemency, a sun hardening of the arteries before I would sufficiently constrict and take up any cause though. But who knows, maybe if I'm interred long enough in this crack redneck prison, I'll be advocating a shoot- illegals- on- sight policy, mandatory flat tax implementation and become a secessionist as well, not with the intent to split from the United States, God forbid, but from any resemblance of humaneness, civility and residual intelligence hiding deep in the shadows here, desperately trying to survive like the coyotes and tortoises, javelina, wild burros and other assorted target fodder at large.