Which, in Ayers case, not that there’s anything wrong with that….

…humor intended, and nothing more.

I AM BILL. I grew up in a simple little gated community just like yours, with white picket fences and where all the aux pairs and gardeners know your name. When my dad came home from a hard day’s work as a CEO, he was never too tired to help me with my homework or tousle my hair for winning the Lake Forest Academy essay contest on Hegelian Dialectics. Yes, he was a simpleminded bourgeois technocrat of the capitalist war machine, but he made sure I got the tuition and tutors and sailing lessons and allowance I needed to make it on my own. I wish he was still alive so I could tell him how much I really planned to kill him last.

I AM BILL. I work with my hands, grizzled and calloused from years on a non-ergonomic keyboard. Maybe I don’t know pipe wrenches, but I know pipe bombs, and I’ve built them right there in my communal kitchen and I’ve watched with pride as they’ve offed a couple of pigs. Sure, maybe I’ve made a few mistakes with wiring or detonator timing and it ends up killing a couple of comrades. But you know what? I get up, dust myself off, and get right back to the drawing board. Because when it comes to international Maoist revolution, quitters never win and winners never quit.

I AM BILL. I love traveling the highways and byways of this great, puke-inducing country we call America, visiting its police stations and ROTC buildings and legislative halls. And when the pigs finally catch up with me and dad hires a legal team to get me off on a technicality, it lets me know that yes, Bill, you can go home again.

I AM BILL. I may have started small. But I still have a crazy plan that one day I will make it big and finally plunge this danged country of ours into a bloody cataclysmic race war. And if you think you can stand in the way of my dream, or escape my escape-proof reeducation death camps, well, then you don’t know me.

I AM BILL. I’m still married my to my college sweetheart, and we believe in family values. Especially Manson Family values. After all these years she still hands me my lunchbox at the door every morning, which she has packed with a chocolate kiss and a tiny pinch of Semtex from her hope chest. I can’t imagine where I’d be without this woman and her law school salary. Because no matter what I accomplish in this world, this beautiful, insane bitch will always be the real psychopath in the house.

I AM BILL. I believe in upholding America’s great traditions, like the Days of Rage and Wounded Knee the Haymarket Riots. Call me sentimental, but my heart still swells with pride whenever I see a Boy Scout color guard parading Old Glory down the street, and a young anarchist rips it away from the those fascists and starts it on fire.

I AM BILL. I fervently believe in educatiing all our children, whether they are Black like Mumia, or Asian like Pol Pot, or Palestinian like Sirhan Sirhan, or recovering whiteys like me. Children are our future. They need funding for programs in aboriginal physics and political consciousness, so they can rebuild the collectivist agrarian labor camp society that once made this country great.

I AM BILL. Unlike Joe the Plumber, I pay my taxes. Because I know that until the inevitable violent overthrow of the dystopian AmeriKKKan nightmare, taxes are the necessary price we all must pay for critical government services like roads, and ACORN, and my university pension. Plus according to my attorney it’s harder to beat the rap on tax evasion.

I AM BILL. I love the Cubs. There’s nothing I enjoy more than sitting in the grandstands of Wrigley Field sipping a cold one, dreaming of the day when my beloved Chicago People’s Cubbies bring home the Castro trophy at the World Series of Socialist Peace and Beisbol. And, after the Yanquis are executed during 7th inning stretch, there will be free nationalized People’s Budweiser for everybody. As we Cub fans say, “wait ’til next year!”

I AM BILL. I believe in helping young people — especially those who show potential as innocuous, non-threatening front men. I work quietly behind the scenes helping them get a foot in the door, arranging entry-level jobs on foundation boards, hosting their political events, ghostwriting their memoirs. I don’t do it for the glory. I do it for the quiet satisfaction of knowing that someday these young people might just grow up to be the vanguard of the permanent worker’s revolution that will destroy the system from within, and that’s all the thanks I need.

I AM BILL. I hate AmeriKKKa. Which you know, if you aren’t blinded by false consciousness, means I actually love America — because dissent is the highest form of patriotism, and bombs are the highest form of dissent. And if you don’t like it, you can lump it, you fascist AmeriKKKa-loving America hater! America, hate it or leave it!

I AM BILL.

http://iowahawk.typepad.com/iowahawk/2008/10/i-am-bill.html