Op-Ed: Build the Great Wall of America!

Great Wall of America

R. Gordon Dalrymple

By nature I am not a fearful man. Once on a camping trip in Wyoming, I stared down a bobcat intent on stealing my dinner of kipper snacks. It was on a rock ledge above me, ready to pounce. I think it sensed my superior Eland vitality, as the Frogs say, stronger than the redolent fish. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. (full disclosure: I also had a cocked Ruger .44 magnum trained on the bastard)

But there are some things that give us all chills, that disturb our sleep — like the nightmare I had last week. The worst of my life (I will describe the whole thing later). It was about America’s dire geopolitical situation, with a very personal edge to it. This nightmare convinced me that Trump’s border wall is wholly inadequate for our national security. I’m so disappointed in him. He hasn’t laid one brick yet while we need nothing less than a wall embracing the whole continental Homeland — a Great Wall of America.

We think we’re so invulnerable with the two “friendly” nations on our northern/southern borders and the two huge moats on our east and west. That might have been a safe bet in the steam age, but today Canada and Mexico are wide open to ground insurgencies, the Atlantic and Pacific broad, indefensible gateways to an amphibious invasion by surging Chinese fleets taking up where the Ming Dynasty left off. The Homeland is more vulnerable and surrounded than ever, just like in my nightmare. My infinitely kind, forgiving and talented wife Wendy has been gracious enough to render this graphic for me of the strategic dilemma we face:

Thank you, Wendy darling. Now I must confess:

The Nightmare

Asleep, I heard dogs barking at a loud whooshing sound. Thunder rocked the house, ceiling fragments rained down on me, then the windows exploded. I looked outside to see dark figures lurking, mean green eyes glowing in the dark rain. They were different sizes and tones and grunted with different accents. “There’s one!” one of them yelled.

They grabbed me. I wrestled away and ran to the living room, where they knocked down the front door and poured in. I tried the garage but they poured in there, too. I fled to the kitchen, where they broke through the glass door panel. “He’s trapped now,” said one of the aliens. I grabbed the food processor and whirred it around by the cord like a bull roarer. That really pissed them off. They overcame me, hoisted me up, opened the fridge door and jammed my head into the freezer. “This will cool him off. This will get the hothead thinking right for the New World Order,” they said.

But the explosions had knocked out the power grid. My hot head gradually melted the ice in the freezer. They pulled me out, shocked that I was still able to curse them. I wrung my head like a wet dog. The water spray shorted out several of the green eyes — probably night-vision goggles. I punched two of them out and ran back to the bedroom and dove to the floor, grabbing my Glock from under the bed.

I fired one shot. That’s when I woke up.

With a real Glock in my hand, smoking, Wendy screaming bloody murder, her cat screeching because I had blown half its tail off. Her precious 14-yr. old surrogate child. I was no longer in a dream, but in a real domestic nightmare with real blood on the wall and a woman who would have done me real physical harm if a blunt object had been handy.

I think the cat had brushed up against me during the dream and triggered (excuse the pun) a memory of that encounter with the bobcat, on top of the horror of the green-eyed aliens, plus six late shots of Cutty Sark, and I had panicked and sleep-crawled to grab the Glock with the hair trigger… She thinks I was unconsciously trying to murder the cat. I have pleaded that it was an honest lucid dream accident, to no avail. I am no longer allowed to keep the Glock in the bedroom.

But the silver lining is that, after several nights of fitful sleep on the sofa, I have correctly interpreted the dream. The explosions were EMP missile strikes, probably from North Korea, that knocked out the power grid, followed by nukes. My house was the United States. The alien invaders, pouring in from the four cardinal points, represented an alliance of our worst enemies: Russians pouncing in from the thawing Arctic through Canada, now ruled by Fidel Castro’s bastard son (Justin is a dead ringer; check it out). The darker aliens in the south-facing garage represented Al Qaida/ISIS terrorists streaming in through our porous southern border. Muslims are indistinguishable from Mexicans when they shave.  The kitchen and bedroom invaders were Chinese, subjecting me to the ancient ice torture. They came in from the east and west, across the oceans.


The noose is tightening while we quibble over small, insufficient increases in the defense budget. A Great Wall of America, with heavy weapon turrets every 100 yards, would help us all sleep better at night. It would be one helluva an infrastructure project, too. My dream told me this: we must be ever vigilant, ever prepared, even as we sleep. Even if, as a nation, we can’t keep a Glock in the bedroom, we can certainly stock the garage with plentiful firepower. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Wendy!

And when they come in the night? We’ll be ready. And we’ll blow more than their tails off.

Keep the watch,