The American Spectator

“The fu— I don’t. Don’t you remember that Vietnamese girl that was in our class junior year? Veronica somethin’?”

“You banged her?”

“I didn’t bang her but I know a guy who did.”

“She didn’t bang nobody.”

“I swear. She banged this one guy in our class. Jules? You remember him? Big stud.”

“Hey Brandon, you remember that Vietnamese girl Veronica in our class? You think anybody ever banged her?”

But Brandon had gone back to the game. “I ain’t listenin’ to you guys,” he said, staring at the screen. “Wow, look at that! 1400 kills. I bet neither of you guys never got that high.”

Buzz and Tom picked up their controllers and once again were soon lost in the cloudburst of shrapnel and exploding anti-aircraft shells with battleships sinking to the bottom of the sea.

Then after twenty minutes or so a high tremolo worked its way into their consciousness from upstairs.

“Holy s—it, that’s the pizza,” said Brandon, abandoning his controller. “Wow, that was fast.” He bounded upstairs into the light of day.

When Brandon got to the door, however, it was not the pizza deliveryman but a towheaded young man in a Boy Scout uniform. “Excuse me, sir. Would you like to sign our petition asking the government not to make the Chinese orphans go back to China?”

“Whaaat?” Brandon stood in astonishment.

“Would you like to sign our petition? We’re sending it to Washington.”

“What’s this about?” asked Brandon, bewildered.

“The Chinese have invaded Pearl Harbor and are demanding that all adopted Chinese girls be send back to China. We’re arguing they shouldn’t have to go. ”