Wednesday, December 22, 2010


You would think with literally thousands of Islamists and Leftists going after Obama, the U.S. Secret Service would better serve the nation by defending the presidency from the bad guys rather than to waste valuable taxpayer dollars stalking and harassing an honest old retired soldier like Ronald "Ronbo" Barbour, but such are the realities of the People's Republic of America.

About 0930 hours Missoula, Montana hours (This is 8:30 a.m. to those of you living in Rio Linda, California) the vast arm of federal law enforcement swept into the parking lot of my motel near the icy cold and swift running Clark Fork river. The SS agent well equipped with expensive sun glasses and backed up by two of Missoula's PD's finest storm troopers dressed head to toe in black with wicked looking automatic pistols at the ready, advanced fearlessly to apartment number #15, which is the well guarded Ronbo Bunker.

Actually, my apartment isn't guarded at all, but don't you just love the way I build up the suspense? Being an Alfred Hitchcock fan does come in handy.

When the officers of the law arrived at my door, they took up position on either side, the SS agent to the left and the two storm troopers to right. They carefully scanned the parking lot looking for units of the famous Montana militia that marched in full force down the main street of Hamilton (about 50 miles south of Missoula) last summer with display of weapons and warnings to the local sheriff to keep the Feds out of the Tea Party section of Montana. They saw nothing out place in the subzero Montana winter except a guy falling off his bicycle when he hit a patch of ice on the bike path.

Don't ask me why people in Montana insist on riding bicycles in winter on roads and sidewalks covered with ice. I suppose it must one of those cultural things you learn about after several subzero winters up here. A snowbird thing. I digress...

The SS agent heroically reached across my door with his arm fully exposed...and KNOCKED!

The tension rose when I yelled out, "House Keeping? I need clean towels."

The officers remained silent. The temperature was below zero but inside their armored vests the sweat rolled as fast as the Clark Fork river in spring, this was the moment of truth. The famous Ronbo was less than one foot away, perhaps armed with the equally famous XSR-71 semi-automatic experimental sniper rifle with its deadly .50 caliber 20 round magazine that was accurate up to two miles. The senior Missoula PD storm trooper thought about calling for back up, like a M-1 main battle tank from the Montana National Guard at Ft. Harrison.

Then the door suddenly opened and the officers were face-to-face with the famous revolutionist and unarmed Ronbo who looked downright harmless.

"Ratz," thought the SS agent who saw in his mind's eye the glory of promotion to the elite Presidential Guard, "I hoped he would resist! Then I could have made the evening news on CBS and the front page of the "New York Times" and "Washington Post!" I would have got that promotion to GS-20! I may have even been made Director of the Secret Service by a grateful President Obama! I would have been known to the world as, "The Man Who Killed Ronbo."

"Stalking and harassment," I said in the open doorway to the SS agent.

"Huh?" said the SS agent who thought the interview wasn't going the way the instructors at the Academy said it would go. Clearly the clever Ronbo had put him on the defensive in front of two local wanna-be storm troopers. This would not do.

"Ronbo," said the agent attempting to take the offensive, "I don't have a warrant and you could tell me to go pound sand...."

"Go pound sand, " I said and slammed door.

The three officers looked at one another in abject sadness.

No firefight.

No motel being leveled by tank fire and going up in flames for the evening news.

No Media interviews, articles, or 60 Minute programs.

No promotions.

The radio in the squad car broke the silence.

"This is Smitty. Hey sarge, do you still need tear gas? We just found some in the supply room under a pile of MREs."

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