D is for Demented Hypocrite.

The author at 11 months old.

Hey, Jake here. Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been able to get on the blog, but my old man has been doing a much better job of keeping the computer from me since he saw my last post. There’s no telling how long he’ll be upstairs shoving clothes in drawers instead of folding them so they can have that lived-in look. I better get to it.

Those of you who have read my dad’s fiction might suspect that he has a thing for freedom. Anyone who has read his blog knows that’s true. In Brightside telepaths are rounded up and imprisoned, a statement about Guantanamo Bay, Japanese internment camps and the NDAA. 25 Perfect Days and 5 More Perfect Days go even deeper with false flags, drone strikes, government spying, and all kinds of crazy stuff. On Facebook, Dad’s always bitching about police brutality, the destruction of our civil liberties. What a joke. My Dad’s the biggest control freak, a hypocrite who most certainly does not practice what he preaches.

His stance against indefinite detention without trial is ridiculous when you consider what he does to me. When was the last time I had a trial? He locks me behind gates, keeps me from exploring, and whenever he feels like it he just picks me up, takes me away. He detains me, restrains me, never lets me do what I want. He straps me into the highchair, straps me into the car seat, straps me into the stroller. My screams fall on deaf ears, he does not care.

When it comes to torture, the true hypocrite comes out. It’s been banned for 5 years and he still cries about waterboarding, says it’s not right to treat anyone like that. He’s quick to point out that torture hasn’t resulted in any true confessions, that a government that condones such behavior is worse than the terrorist acts they claim they’re trying to prevent and that the torture will only encourage more.

Pretty strong claims for someone who practices babyboarding. Why the hell is that okay? I don’t know if you’ve seen it before, but it’s not pleasant. They pick you up and slam you onto this table, strap you down. Sometimes he’s by himself, sometimes with Mommy. I scream, I cry, but they don’t stop. They tell me to shush, to be quiet, to stop being a crybaby. They laugh at me and strip me down, rub cold, wet wipes all over my supposedly-private parts. I wish that was it, but there’s always more. Sometimes they’ll rub at my face, other times shove fingers up my nose, in my mouth, poking at ultra-sensitive gums where teeth are ripping through.

It’s not just the torture and detainment that must stop. It’s the spying. Dad says it’s disgusting that a country would waste such an outrageous amount of taxpayers’ money to spy on those same taxpayers, producing no results, no terrorists. He’s always talking about how the TV, the laptop, all of our phones. They all watch us, record us, make sure we do no wrong. Even when they’re turned off. Won’t be long until all smart appliances are doing it. Edward Snowden is his hero.

Then one day I’m lying in my prison called crib and what do I see. A camera. This son of a bitch has been spying on me from day one. The hardest part for me to swallow is that it’s not just him, Mommy’s in on it too. The monitor was on her nightstand and the last time I snatched her phone I saw the app. There on her screen, clear as day, is my holding cell. These sick bastards watch me while I sleep, without a blanket because they’re probably worried I’ll go all Guantanamo and take my life. I can’t crawl and hide in a corner, I can’t cover myself. I have no privacy.

I don’t know what the answer to any of this is, I just had to get it off my chest. Maybe Dad has some good points, maybe some of his complaining is valid, but until he stops being such a hypocrite, I’m not listening to a word he says. Unless he sings that song and tells me to stomp my feet if I’m angry. I can do that.

Because look what else that bastard does to me. It was 90 degrees out but he insisted I make an appearance as Gimli.

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