by Herman B. HayesThey brew wonderful coffees, teas, and other delicious drinks. They provide refreshment, and a place to relax. There is only one problem with the ubiquitous coffee shop.
They also brew treason.
It is true. America’s coffee shops have become hotbeds of anti-American activities. They provide liberals and the godless heathens a safe haven in which to meet and discuss the takeover of our great and God fearing nation. Yesterday, I took a clandestine trip to my local coffee shop, aptly called “The Whispering Storm.” I dressed to fit in with the local crowd, wearing a beat up looking vintage (trash can) tee-shirt, dirty pants, and no deodorant. I almost made the tactical error of taking a shower and washing my hair before leaving my house, but I remembered to stay dirty.
I parked my Cadillac a couple of blocks away, and made my final approach on foot. Shuffling sloppily towards the front door, I attempted to remove all traces of intelligence from my visage. (For a person of my amazing intellect, this is practically impossible, but I managed.) It took me a moment to find the door handle, as the entire entrance was gaudily festooned with photocopied papers advertising the upcoming performances of bands. Mind you, these were bands with names like “Anti-Flag,” the “Treason Trixies,” and the “Defecate On All That America Stands For and Molest Your Neighbor’s Daughter Trio.” It was more than obvious what kind of situation I was walking into.
I was entering a den of treason.
This modest looking “coffee shop” was in fact a brothel of the mind. I had no idea how horrible my adventure would soon turn out to be. I entered the shop, walked up to the counter, and ordered an iced treason, which they had labeled as “iced tea.” I had no intention of imbibing this vile liberal libation, but I needed it to blend in as I gathered information on this evil gathering. All around I saw groups of liberals quietly discussing the destruction of the American way of life. Some were old, some were young, all were worthy of a good stint in a detention center. I sat at a stool near one group, and overhead the following conversation. The names have been changed so the people involved will not know that their phones have been tapped, their library records checked, and their friends interrogated:
Tina: Mmm...This is good coffee.As you can plainly see, dear readers, these Satanist liberals are guilty of treason! They dare, in a public space no less, to make disparaging comments about our beloved leader, and even about Jesus. I nearly throttled them both with my bare hands, but I was on a mission. I thought that things could get no worse. Eavesdropping on other conversations had yielded nothing but the same treasonous oral effluence. Moreover, I needed to urinate.
Pete: Yes it is, and I hate Jesus and our government.
Tina: Really? I hate Jesus and our government too!
Pete: I think that our government is not always correct.
Tina: I know! Sometime they make errors of judgment.
Pete: Sometimes Bush makes mistakes, and then won’t apologize.
Tina: For sure. Sometimes he sounds like a babbling idiot.
Pete: I cannot wait for the next election, so that we can change course through a legal and democratic process.
Tina: Hooray for elections!
Pete: Hooray for democracy!
I made my way through the crowd of sinners, and to be honest I would have felt safer in a mosque. I entered their fetid washroom, stood before the urinal, and almost died. There, before my eyes, was a sticker. This was not some cuddly bear sticker, or even a Mr. Yuck. It was a photo of our dear President Bush, with the caption “Terrorist.”
I came to on the bathroom floor, shaking like a leaf. I removed the cell-phone that I was carrying in an ankle holster, and called the local F.B.I. field office, which I have on speed dial. They told me that they would “check it out.” This means that whoever placed this treasonous self-adhesive travesty on the wall will be dragged off to a detention center and spoken to “gently.” Good for them.
I have no idea how I got out of the treason-shop. I found myself leaning on my silver Cadillac, letting the warm rays of the God-given sun lift my spirits. I had entered the belly of the beast. I had seen the enemy. I had survived. I knew their tactics. We need to know all that we can about our liberal enemies. To finish, remember these words from my dear late father:
Knowing is half the battle.