Saturday, October 13, 2007

Jimmy Holds The Line

by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Jimmy had been dipped in ketchup the previous night and by morning it had hardened into a dark and rubbery armor. An old tea-kettle was his shield and his only weapon was his harsh vocabulary. He’d spent many weekends down at the docks picking up naughty words from the merchant marines.

He stood at the border by himself and faced down the hordes of Canada. Two million men strong, they threatened Jimmy’s people with sameness. Overwhelming, unrelenting sameness. The guards had all fled, the army and air force were away on other business. Jimmy held the line. Indeed, not one of the two million was able to push him back, not one could best him in personal combat. Not one had tried. They all went around him.

Save for about thirty of them, they weren’t even aware he was there. As the Great White North swept over the Great Green South, as Washington, Montana, Michigan, New York and the rest fell, Jimmy swung his tea-kettle overhead and called those Canadians some of the filthiest names their pure red ears would have ever heard, had they been able to hear him. But they were far beyond his reach now and the ketchup solidified into a disgusting, blackened, cement-like gunk. Poor old Jimmy, the last man willing to fight for America was trapped forever because the rescue workers were too grossed out to touch him.

As for the fate of his country, no one had noticed the invasion and life went on as usual.

Inspiration: It's been one full, fat month since I've posted anything here, because I'm suddenly a busy guy. The only reason you're seeing this is because Rani keeps bringing it up. So if you're happy to see this, thank her for looking out for you dogs.

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