The big new issue spreading from the crazed lips of a bunch of rednecks with wild, vacant eyes and empty withered souls is terror babies. Yes, it has apparently come to this. In the year 2010, the greatest threat our nation faces is apparently terror babies. The rallying point for millions of Americans, angry at the world, desperate and without reason or sense, is terror babies. In the midterm elections in November, politicians, the men and women tasked with protecting us, with ensuring America's prosperity, will stand up and yammer about terror babies.
It is nearly impossible for me, a reasonably intelligent man who progressed beyond the intellectual peaks of the third grade, to understand this phenomenon. Therefore, I have asked my neighbor, a man who will only identify himself as Skeeter, to guest write the rest of this article. I will still be typing, though, because Skeeter doesn't have any hands after he blew them up in a freak fireworks accident in his backyard last month. And also, he doesn't know how to read or write. Well, take it away Skeeter.
Thank ya, Neil, you soft ass liberal. Ya see, the thang about these dang ol' terror babies is that these Mexican ladies (note: Skeeter actually used a slur for both "Mexicans" and "ladies" but we are above such things here at Heavy so I changed them for polite purposes.) come swimmin' across the Rio Grandey river and then pop a squat and push out their little bastards in the mud so they kin git the wellfare and such.
And then, after the kids been looked after by 'Merican doctors, they hustle they asses back across the border and train 'em to be terrorists. An' then they send 'em back across the border when they a little bit older, like maybe four or five, all strapped with bombs and drugs and stuff and then they become terrorists, ya see?
(Note: at this point, I began to argue with Skeeter and he became incensed. He excused himself to do some whippets in his garage and when he came back he was laughing and claimed that he just saw a terror baby in action.)
Naw, man, seriously, I was just standin' in mah garage, mindin' my own business - which, by the way, if I can plug somethin' here, is custom detailin' dirtbikes and ridin' lawnmowers - when I saw a little Mexican baby (note: Again, a slur was used in place of "Mexican" and also, strangely enough "baby".) I hollered at him "You, ya little Mexican baby, what the hell you doin' here?" The baby started reachin' for his diaper, all slow like, ya know, like he had a bomb or somethin' in there and so I ran out of the garage, but I stumbled 'cause I was still lightheaded from them whippets, and the baby ran away. I done sniffed him out, though and I found him tryin' to break into mah house. I yelled at him "Hey! Baby!" That little bastard turned 'round and told me "Death to America!" Can you believe that?
(Note: I told him that I could not, in fact, believe that and he proceeded to lecture me about the Constitution and then started rambling about how the fourth amendment was "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife" and then claimed that I wanted to sleep with his wife. After a brief scuffle, I soothed him with a can of Busch Light and the promise that he could hunt tree frogs on my property.)
So, anyway, like I was sayin', that little baby done mouthed off to me, and I had to defend the honor of mah country, so I chased the baby up mah driveway and then I done pulled off his diaper and I tanned his ass, showin' him some good ol' American discipline and he started cryin' and throwin' hisself a tantrum, but I tell ya what, that little baby gonna think twice 'fore he messes with ol' Skeeter agin.
(Skeeter then excused himself to a trailer parked behind his house after his teeth began to grind. He emerged fifteen minutes later after taking what he termed his "medicine" but which I suspect was meth. He appeared wild eyed and frightened and said he couldn't talk to me anymore because he saw men hiding in his bushes and they looked like they might be "some of them El Kaider fellas." He ranted and raved that he was going to call the police on them and would occasionally start yelling at my bushes, screaming "I know yer in there!" until finally, he took off his shirt and started pacing back and forth. I worried about his health and I managed to calm him down with another can of Busch Light and a promise that I would tell him if I saw any terror babies lurking about. He then asked if he could pass out on my couch and I had to tell him to go home. I could still hear him screaming about terror babies an hour after he left and then his wife called and yelled at me for "riling him up." I asked her what she thought about terror babies and after a long and in depth conversation over the phone, I could only come to one irresistible conclusion: it was time for me to move.)