The War on Terror begins at home. My home.

So what's been going on with everyone these past couple of months? To my surprise, Detective Boyd has moved on, undoubtedly to investigate the old ladies in the Valley. Better keep an eye on those little tennis balls on the bottom of their walkers; you'd be surprised at the things they can hide in there.

My mosque can still be seen at its regularly scheduled time on the evening news—some Muslim man did something in Iraq, maybe we know him, too. But you can't blame the media for that. They need to put a face to the terror, and the little Muslim girl with pigtails and bows sucking on a lollipop is such an easy target.

As for the Afghani family, we're just going to go on living life as we know it—constantly being threatened by loud-mouthed jerks at work and permanently being held under the scrutinizing eye of bureaucracy forevermore. The government still can't tell us if we're terrorists—they're going to have to call us back on that one—but their offer for coffee is still on the table.

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