Dear Mr. President, members of Congress, judges, FBI agents, Bureau of Land Management, EPA, IRS, Sheriffs and Chiefs of Police, law enforcement officers, and anyone acting in any capacity for the government who think their job is to keep us down, keep us in our place, keep tabs on us, keep their hand in our pockets, keep inciting racial discord, keep spending money, and the rest of you government lackeys who never actually worked for a paycheck.

It’s time for us to have a conversation. You don’t know me, even though you have sifted through my email, listened to my phone conversations, oversaw my blog and Facebook posts, taxed the hell out of me, never once actually acted on any of those letters, phone calls or emails I sent you expressing my opinion about upcoming bills, or how you govern the country. Let me tell you a little about myself before we get to the meat of the matter.

I am Mrs. Nobody, and I am Mrs. Everybody. You have passed me on the street and never noticed. I am pretty unremarkable, except, you see, I am not. I have spent most of my years as a student, a wife, a mother, a worker, a boss, a small business owner, an artist, a cook, a blogger, a reader, a Christian, a dog lover, a really lousy singer who likes to sing along to oldies, and a patriot. Recently, I achieved possibly the highest honor in my life with the birth of a little smiling girl and a happy  laughing boy. I became a grandmother.

That essential spark we humans carry inside us was fanned again into flame, as each new generation tends to do for us. We settle down into life and we become somewhat complacent until something rocks us, something so exciting and holding such promise for the future, so that naturally, as new parents and grandparents, we are stirred to passion and concern for our world and the world we will leave for our beloved children and grandchildren.

Maybe that’s why you guys are so big on abortion, because you don’t need all those new kids upsetting the status quo you have going on, but I digress.

Back to our conversation. Several years ago I made the comment to my friend Yatz that if I were in the Army, I’d probably be a cook. I said that for a number of reasons, and on a number of levels it has meaning to me. At the time, it was pretty self deprecating, and meant to be, but I have had some time to think it over and I have decided you government jerks (I wanted to use the term pricks, but I thought better of it. Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton are in on this letter too) had better be afraid of us cooks.

This is going to be a chain of thought list here, in no particular order of occurrence or ranking of abuse. It’s Mother’s Day when I am writing this, and I have better things to do than lay out a history lesson and formal outline of your abuses. You commit them faster than I can keep up anyhow.

 You allowed my fellow Americans to die in Benghazi, and you didn’t even go to the security meetings while you schmoozed and boozed and slept and sent your minions out to lie and deceive, you stood in the way of military assistance, and then you flung your heinous, evil, “What difference does it make?” comment in the face of wives, children, mothers, fathers, friends, the world, and, oh, yeah, me. You sent the IRS to harass and persecute me when you stood in front of the Tea Party.

You are allowing veterans to die and fudging the numbers to cover your sorry, worthless, lemme say that one again, worthless butts. You are arresting parents at school board meetings who question your agenda. You are driving armored Hummers in my small town, you “peace officers.” You are harassing gun owners, you are attempting to use every tragedy, every nefarious method you can connive to take away or abridge my right to own and carry a gun, you are forcing me to pay for abortions and birth control, you are fighting my freedom of religion on every front, especially against my Christian brothers and sisters serving in the military.

You are adding I can’t count that high trillions to my national debt. It’s not THE national debt, it’s MY debt. You are illegally arming terrorists through every schinniving (look it up) scheme you can come up with.

You are bowing and scraping to Muslims, thugs, and malcontents, all while giving me the finger. You are labeling domestic terrorism as workplace violence, while labeling me and other Christians, other gun owners, other activists like me, terrorist in your training materials. You are passing bills that will be the final crack in the bank, and probably also be the very thing that kills me prematurely and deliberately, in the middle of the night, and then you can’t  get the damned website off the ground when you could have hired a twelve year old geek to do better than your hundreds of millions of dollars lackeys.

You are making America the laughing stock of the world, and you are doing it with joy in your malice. You use the Constitution of The United States of America as toilet paper.

This is by no means a complete list, but it does bring us to the last offense. You are circling the Bundy ranch, you bunch of buzzards. You are threatening the patriots who stood with him and his family. You are digging, reaching, debating your next moves. How far can we go without awakening the sleeping giant that is the slumbering American citizen, who fought world powers to the ground to establish this country, and have had to do it again some number of times since the first?

Here’s your sign, morons. This is it.

This cook is buying ammunition, taking self defense classes, shooting at targets, writing articles, posting on Facebook, debating with strangers, writing and calling you Congressional dimwits. Most of all, I am arming myself with knowledge of your actions.

I am watching you. I am making your subversive maneuvers known to the public. I am harassing the lofos who want to go back to sleep. I am volunteering. I am praying. That one scares you doesn’t it? It should, morons, it should.

I am preparing.

When the day comes that you cross that line, I will be there. I might be still cooking for the warriors, but I’ll have a gun tucked away, and when the line forms and the lead flies, I will be there.

I’ll be there because it is going to take all of us, from the cooks to the generals, the SEALS to the hillbilly red necks who shoot really good (remember Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, and Alvin C. York?) I’ll be there because I have two grandchildren who are going to be pretty busy cleaning up your mess, along with the rest of their generation.

I’ll be there because I am the great-granddaughter of a woman who faced survival alone on the prairie, with only her children after the death of her husband, a woman who had crossed to those plains in a covered wagon and faced starving times during the Civil War. I will do that because of my future and because of my past. I have chosen to live a life of great joy, and no fame, a life in what you would consider the shadows, but I call peaceful and fulfilling.

You see, you underestimated me. I was never afraid. I was never a coward. Just because I like to cook doesn’t mean I won’t be a damned fine shot when the time comes, physically, verbally, or metaphorically. You will find me standing right beside my husband, my sons, and daughter in law, my very large, very Southern redneck kick ass family. We will be there in the middle of a bunch of people you overlooked. They are called Treepers. Some of them know it already, more are learning everyday. We’re here. We’re nationwide, to quote the song. We outnumber you, we out think you, we are your waking nightmare. We are American men and women in small towns and large cities. We are the young, the old, the cooks and the mechanics, the grandmothers and the preachers. We are the doctors and lawyers, the bakers, and the veterans. We will resist you wherever you cross that line, we will resist you on street corners, in our homes, our homeschools, and our churches. Molon Labe.