If You Give a Terrorist a Bowl of Cereal
It's been said that my house is boring. Tortuously boring, even.
With that in mind, I have come up with a humane alternative to Gitmo.
Our terrorist's day will start at 7:30 am, when he crawls out of his bed (which ironically, is a bunk bed that looks just like a military vehicle, you'd just have to see it), and searches through his drawers for clean clothes.
He'll find clean underwear plus a t-shirt or shorts. He'll never find both.
Mr. Terrorist will have to come down the stairs (which is very exhausting, I've been told), and rummage through the dryer to find the clothing item he needs.
Once dressed, he'll report to me, only to be told that he's wearing someone else's shorts and he needs to try again.
Back in the hot, small laundry room, he'll sort through a mound of towels and panties and black Army socks to find a pair of jeans that could belong to him, but are at least two inches too short.
Yes, he will be wearing high-water pants all day long.
Mr. Terrorist will say he's hungry and ask for breakfast, and I'll tell him that he knows where the cereal is.
He won't be tall enough to reach the cereal, so he'll have to do some strenuous lifting and take a heavy chair from the dining room into the kitchen to get his Chocolate Lucky Charms.
This won't be the cereal he wanted, but I'll tell him, "Tough, I haven't been to the grocery store. You can have that or oatmeal." His spirit will be crushed, but he'll get the Lucky Charms and the milk and make himself a bowl of cereal.
He'll want to eat in the living room so that he can watch TV, but I won't let him. I'll force him to eat his cereal on the Spiderman placemat at the dining room table.
To add insult to injury, I will make him put his used bowl and spoon in the sink himself.
Disgruntled, and searching for relaxation, he will reach for the Koran or the TV remote. Unfortunately, I'll notice clover-shaped marshmallows on the kitchen floor, and I'll make him come pick them up. I might even encourage him to just eat them.
And since he's already in the kitchen, Mr. Terrorist will be forced to help me unload the dishwasher. He'll have to stretch to put the plates away and I'll require him to be diligent so that he doesn't put forks in with the knives and knives in with the spoons. He'll complain and ask why he has to do all this work and no one else does, and I'll remind him that he has a DVD player in his room.
I'll give him a break for a bit and allow him to do something he likes with his personal time. He'll like this for about 5 minutes, at which point he'll become incredibly bored and whine that there's "nothing to do in this house."
I'll remind him that he has a Koran, a prayer rug, movies, video games, toys, books, and paper and crayons, but since he's so bored, he can help clean up the house.
Here comes the real torture.
Mr. Terrorist will be forced to lumber up those exhausting stairs and round up an overflowing armful of dirty, stinky laundry. He'll have to carry this burden all the way down the stairs and bring it to me in the laundry room. To make things worse, he'll drop a pair of Power Rangers underwear and a frayed towel on the stairs and he'll have to go back up to get them.
And since he's so bored, I'll tell him he needs to work on his reading. I'll tell him he can read any book he wants, even comic books. He'll pick up his Koran and sulk on the couch, reading out loud to annoy me.
After several minutes of this, he'll protest, "But I've already read this one!"
"Fine," I'll say, "Read something else. I don't care what, but you have to read."
He'll scowl and go back to reading his Koran for about 20 minutes, and then he'll ask to watch TV.
"Can I watch Al-Jazeera?" he'll ask. "We don't have Al-Jazeera. How about The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy?"
He'll complain, but he'll flip the channels until bony Grim appears. He'll sprawl out on the hard, barely carpeted floor and rest his dirty feet on the couch. "I'm hungry," he'll cry.
"But you just had cereal," I'll say. "But I'm still hungry. Can I have a piece of cake?"
My cruel reply will be, "Not right now."
The poor, uncomfortable, bored, hungry Mr. Terrorist will lay there in front of the TV like a slug for nearly an hour, in a coma-like state, broken only by fits of hyena-inspired laughter.
When lunch time comes, I'll prepare a plate with a hot dog, macaroni and cheese, and mandarin oranges for him. "I wanted the blue plate!" he'll complain. "Fine," I'll say, "Switch places."
He'll become ill at the thought of eating pork, but I'll remind him that it's mostly mystery meat, with very little pork, and surely Allah will understand the distinction between a hot dog and true pork.
He'll protest some more, but since he's hungry, he'll eat his hot dog. He'll want a glass of milk, but I'll make him get it himself, and I'll even make him wipe up his own spills.
He won't like the oranges and he'll say that they "give him a bad taste." "Tough," I'll say. "You can't have a Kool-Aid Popsicle unless you eat all your food, especially the oranges."
He'll choke down one orange, while making gagging noises, but won't bother to touch another one. When he's finished his hot dog and mac and cheese, he'll ask for his Kool Pop.
"You didn't eat your oranges," I'll remind him.
"Yes I did." "No, you ate one. Look, the rest are still on your plate."
He'll begin to cry and the crying will turn to sobbing. He'll be convinced that I'm evil since I promised him a Kool Pop if he ate his food and he did eat his food.
Since he's obviously cranky, I'll make him take a nap.
He won't like that.
He'll whine that he's "not tired" and he'll scream, "I don't wanna take a nap!" I'll lay him down on the bony futon and ask him if he wants a blanket. He'll grunt at me and say no. He'll angrily cover his face with a pillow to express his utter disgust with me.
I'll hear him sobbing quietly and muttering under his breath for a couple of minutes, and then the house will be filled with silence. I'll walk over to him and gingerly remove the pillow from his face and move his arm out of its uncomfortable position.
Sweet little Mr. Terrorist will need his rest for the cruel, boring, strenuous rest of the day that awaits him. He'll awake to find himself taking out the filthy American garbage, picking up disgusting dog poop, playing a video game with someone else without sitting on them or calling them a "dumb baby," and more food that doesn't "give him a good taste." And I'll even make him...gasp...play outside!
Living in my house is a horrible fate to befall anyone, even Mr. Terrorist. It's harsh but fair, if you ask me.
Send the terrorists to my house...I have a clean, warm bed and some chores for them!