I look up from my office computer to see two figures in camo with guns outside my window. My first thought is for my students' and my safety: I grab my phone, crawl under my desk and call 911. The dispatcher keeps me on the line until someone can see if ROTC is doing maneuvers.You have to wonder about someone so absolutely blind to irony. She swears up and down that she's going to call 911 every time she sees a gun on campus, even in the hands of ROTC. So, suppose she gets her wish and the cops do show up? Is she going to call 911 when she sees their guns, too?
I can barely talk—first, with fear, and then with rage when the dispatcher reports back that yes, in fact, I've probably just seen ROTC cadets, though they're going to send an officer to check because no one has cleared it with them. They thank me for reporting it.
A few minutes later, a university officer calls me back—not to reassure me, but to scold me for calling 911. He says ROTC has permission to do this exercise. When I tell him that this was news to 911 and that they encouraged me to call whenever I see a gun on campus, he seems surprised.
He also tells me that ROTC will be doing these exercises for the next couple weeks.
So I reply that I guess I'll be calling 911 for the next couple weeks—and I will. Every time.
You have to wonder how a quivering mass of jell-o like that works up the nerve to peer out from under her blanket fort every morning.
And bear in mind that this wasn't in some soft, toothless corner of the northeast or one of the squishier coastal enclaves on the shores of the Pacific! No, this took place in hairy-chested North Dakota, albeit in one of those ink blots of California/New York/Massachusetts that are spreading across our fair land...
(H/T to Weaponsman)
