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On Thanksgiving Day, I stopped by the palatial home of my longtime friend and lawyer, E. Hobart Calhoun, a fellow Mensa member, bon vivant, and part-time oenophile. He was burning leaves in his front yard. I jumped out of my reconditioned hybrid Ford Falcon and raced to stomp out the flames, feverishly checking for any sign of the EPA death squads routinely patrolling our neighborhoods these days.
“Have you lost your mind?” I asked E. as I stepped out of my rugged Duluth steel-threaded overalls, which had caught fire in spite of Duluth’s guarantee that they were flammable or inflammable, whichever word is right.
“Relax,” E. said with his characteristic intelligent chuckle. “You’re standing on hallowed ground. I’ve declared my estate to be a Sanctuary Home.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how these cities around the country have pronounced themselves Sanctuary Cities, and therefore not subject to the laws of the State or Federal governments?”
“Sure. It’s in all the news.”
“Well, I’ve done the same thing with my home.”
“That’s right. I’ve filed affidavits at the court house. Now, nothing is illegal here on my property,” he said, lighting up his favorite crack pipe and blowing the blue smoke into the lower troposphere. “In fact, as soon as I finish raking and burning leaves, I’m going to wash my Escalade in my driveway and let all of the sudsy water run off into the storm drain to commingle with the nation’s water supply.”
“My God, E.,” I said, grasping the enormity of the concept. “The EPA can’t do anything to you if you live in a Sanctuary Home.”
“Correctamundo,” E. said. “The IRS and the county can’t touch me, either. I no longer pay income or property taxes. I’ve also removed all those tags on our couch pillows that say ‘do not remove under penalty of law.’”
A huge hazardous material truck began backing onto E.’s front lawn. A bevy of Hazmat-clad men jumped out and began stacking stainless steel barrels in the yard.
“Nuclear waste,” E. said, anticipating my question. “I’ve contracted with Sen. Harry Reid to take all the radioactive waste he kept out of the Yucca Mountain storage facility in Nevada. They’ve already buried 10 loads in the backyard and filled the pool with heavy water. And you know what else? The backyard glows at night now, so I’m saving a ton on electricity by shutting down all my outside lights.”
“Your neighbors are all right with this?”
“You know that jerk Potter who lives next door? He ran over here last week and started screaming. Even took a swing at me.”
“You got in a fist fight?”
“Not exactly. He’s in the back yard, about 30 feet down,” E. said, patting the Uzi on his hip, which he redesigned to hold 900 rounds. “You should come by this afternoon. I’ve got some boys coming over to hunt bison and bighorn sheep behind the house.”
“Aren’t they endangered species?”
“They will be later today,” E. said.
©2016 Michael HenryPublished in Humor
Try that new big box store popping up everywhere: DDT-R-US. MH
Who’s reading Ricochet? This post is linked at American Digest.
I wonder if Instapundit will find it.
Part time oneophile: (spits) This wine is terrible. It tastes like burnt yams and smells like my compost pile.
Waiter: You didn’t complain about it when I served it to you last week.
PTO: That was my day off.
Welcome! And thank you for the leaven of wit and humor – artfully applied.