Invaders from the North
My friend, Fred, has been having a tough time lately. He has been transferred from Happy Dale to Merry Meadows where they are less tolerant of his penchant for holding wiener roasts on the front lawn. It's not Fred's fault that no one had ever explained to him that the "dogs" and "wieners" that get roasted are not the same as wiener dogs. Besides, the governor is rich enough to be able to buy a new Dachshund, and Fred was kind enough to save him the ears even though they are the best part.
So poor Fred has had to fall back to his old job of crafting a foreign policy for the Bush Administration. Needless to say, this is a frustrating task since all his best ideas keep getting rejected, although his idea for �bringing democracy� to Iraq worked pretty well.
Thus Fred could really use something productive to do with his time. Sure he and the late Carl Sagan (whom no one else seems to be able to see) get together from time to time to shout messages to any aliens who may be listening, but this is more of a hobby. And the aliens only answer occasionally, usually in cryptic riddles like, "Tell NASA Elvis says to send up more Rikki Lake tapes and Nielson boxes, if they ever want to see their Mars probe again." Actually this may explain a few things, like why Saturday Night Live is still on the air. To help Fred keep busy, I offered to let him write the rest of this essay, provided he had something relevant to say. He does, so here's Fred.
Few people realize that at this very moment we are on the verge of being invaded by a foreign power. Yes, the Canadians are coming. And their spies are already here. Flock after flock of Canada geese have been arriving for weeks unchecked, despite the fact that they openly profess their allegiance to a foreign country.
It astounds me that I cannot cross into Canada without being interrogated about why I am carrying so many guns. I try to tell them that poodle hunting is legal in Canada, one of the few good things about the place, but they always refuse me entry. When I do get across unmolested, they always confiscate the pelts on the way back. I'll bet that right now there is a border guard lounging on a poodle-upholstered sofa. They keep the best goodies for themselves.
Yet thousands of these feathered fifth-columnists can enter our country without once being asked if they are affiliated with the Canadian military. So they go about their business, mapping out landing zones for the gliders the Canadians have been secretly stockpiling. (When you wear bright red uniforms, it's important to arrive quietly if you want to have any shot at surprising the enemy.) Messenger geese fly freely back and forth relaying the latest strategic information in exchange for breadcrumbs, the currency of winged espionage
Taking advantage of our lax geese-control laws, these Canadian agents have infiltrated parks across the country, and have even been seen on the White House lawn! Sometimes you will see Canadian deep cover agents paying off their honking couriers in the park, often subverting decent citizens into joining in giving aid and comfort to the enemy.
Take heed, America: time is running short. One day, perhaps next week, you may wake up to find the streets clean, the neighbors polite, and a mounted policeman in a bright red uniform on the corner. The horror, the horror.
What can we do to avert this disaster? Demand the creation of goose border stations. Write your Congressman in support of the endeavor to recruit double agents from the ranks of the Canada geese. Do not feed these fowl spies when you see them. And most importantly, watch what you say in the park--there may be geese listening.
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