13-047

Big Brother, could you spare a dime

With all the brouhaha these days about Uncle Sam’s snooping into the languished lives of working folks, a diligent mind dictated that I take stock of my own humble abode. One can’t be too careful when it comes to protecting the homestead, especially when the government is involved. Unable to balance their checkbook, our debt-ridden Big Brother must look for a proper example of fiscal responsibility. Where better to fix their gaze than on those of us without the means, credit or Chinese backing to overspend?

Much to my relief, nothing extraordinary seemed amiss around the immediate grounds. Flies (after being swatted mercilessly with an antiquated contraption called a newspaper) resembled a fine specimen of organic goo with not a single listening device to be found. Smashing other bugs rendered similar results and left quite a mess on the stucco walls, all of which was for naught.

Causing some concern, however, were a few mysterious workers atop my neighbor’s roof. As I ran by during a reconnaissance jog, the men whistled a strange two note tune that obviously indicated the coast was clear for planting surveillance. Hand gyrations (many that resembled jimmying open an extremely low car door) only intensified my mistrust.

Upon interrogation, I realized the poor dears spoke little English and couldn’t possibly work for at least one party in government. A frosty beverage was offered to the fellas, as a way to ease my conscience at ever having suspected them of wrongdoing in the first place.

“Would you like an ICE cold pop? Oh, po-li-ce take one,” I said.

For some reason, the darlings have yet to return to their jobs.

You would think with all that investigative work, my family and I could just let our hair down around those special aluminum foil hats. But tomfoolery has a way of coming up. I got the jitters again after an online ad informed me that worms could now attach themselves to mail and spy on your dealings. Can you imagine? Once I became aware of a possible infestation, the postbox was fumigated. Our letters thankfully appeared sans worm holes and, following a nice soak in bleach and a quick trip under a microscope, the papers (excluding a few overdue bills) were deemed maggot free.

At the end of the search, exhausted, I grabbed a glass of superbly boxed wine, slid back the rickety recliner and settled in to watch some… Wait, just a New Yorker minute. Why did that rectangular box by the television set just follow my every move?

“What in the devil is that contraption?” I asked my oldest.

“That’s our video game sensor. All you gotta do is move and that picks your motion up and puts it on the screen,” he said. “Oh, and then there’s always the internet connection. We can find people anywhere, ya know.”

And I thought to myself as I ripped the convulsing machine from the wall, “Boy, do I ever”.