Hamilton — everyone called him Ham — had fully bought into the bacon-as-fashion fad. That night as he patrolled the Arizona border with Alex, his ensemble featured a bacon wristwatch, bacon suspenders, bacon bolo tie, and bacon boots branded with the image of a pig cutting bacon out of its stomach and eating it raw and loving every lip-licking bite.
Ham’s t-shirt was comparatively subtle. It read, “If I Were Muslim, My 2nd Wife’d Be BACON.”
This shirt offended Alex. Not because it was anti-Islamist, but because it was poorly written. If you’re making a t-shirt about loving bacon and having multiple wives, shouldn’t you make bacon the first wife? You really want to wear a shirt advertising to the world that you love your wife more than bacon? That’s not funny. That’s half-assed.
And Alex was sick to death of half-assed. That’s why he’d volunteered to join MOAT: Maintaining Our American Turf. No pay, no benefits, and it was BYO everything: badge, booze, ammo, porno, everything. But it was a small price to pay to serve your country. Let Mexicans cross over to American soil so they could take American jobs and sponge off American services, all while America foots the bill? Not in his America.
Between the guns and the porno and the camaraderie with other patriots, patrols were the social highpoint of Alex’s week. But the watch tonight was uncharacteristically unfun. Ham and Alex reclined on the hood of Alex’s blue-and-rust truck — backs against the windshield, rifles on their laps — not speaking. Alex had tried to explain to Ham how half-assed his shirt was, which led Ham to the conclusion that Alex hated freedom.
They might have sat sulking side by side all night long had not Ham seen, from between his bacon boots, two figures in the distance walking blithely toward America.
Ham smacked Alex’s arm and said, “Look, Alex! Our first Mexicans! It’s go-time! It’s show-time! Rock ‘n’ roll!” etc. Read American Moat