Tag Archives: Good Will Hunting

Fr Byers, a deputy sheriff? Why not?

Matt Damon spouted off a diatribe in Good Will Hunting as to why he shouldn’t work for the NSA. I suppose it’s the kind of thing that Edward Snowden would, in part, agree with. Sorry for the occasional bad language.

Meanwhile, let’s draw an analogy of why yours truly shouldn’t be a deputy sheriff. If you’re wondering what this is about, see: Deputy Fr Byers? I’m flattered, but… First let’s see what Matt says, then I’ll offer an analogy.

“Why shouldn’t I work for the NSA? That’s a tough one… but I’ll take a shot.. Say I’m working at N.S.A. and somebody puts a code on my desk, something nobody else can break. Maybe I take a shot at it and maybe I break it and I’m real happy with myself, ’cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East and once they have that location they bomb the village where the rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never met, never had no problem with get killed. Now the politicians are sayin’ “oh, send in the Marines to secure the area” ’cause they don’t give a shit. It won’t be their kid over there, gettin’ shot just like it wasn’t them when their number got called, ’cause they were all pullin’ a tour in the National Guard. It’ll be some kid from Southie over there takin’ shrapnel in the ass. And he comes back to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job ’cause he’ll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile he realizes the only reason he was over there was so we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used a little skirmish over there to scare up domestic oil prices, a cute little ancillary benefit for them, but it ain’t helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. They’re takin’ their sweet time bringin’ the oil back of course and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martinis and fuckin’ play slalom with the icebergs. It ain’t too long ’til he hits one, spills the oil and kills all the sea-life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy’s out of work, he can’t afford to drive so walkin to the […] job interviews which sucks ’cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin’ him chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he’s starvin’ ’cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue-plate special they’re servin’ is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State. So what’d I think? I’m holdin’ out for somethin’ better. I figure […], while I’m at it why not just shoot my buddy, take his job, give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? I could be elected President.”

///// Ha, ha, ha. O.K. So here’s an answer I could give to the Sheriff who asked why I shouldn’t work for him as a deputy sheriff serving arrest warrants, and remember, he told me I would go it alone as they don’t have any kind of SRT (special response team):

“Why shouldn’t I work for the Sheriff’s department? That’s a tough one… but I’ll take a shot.. Say I’m working at the Sheriff’s department and somebody puts an arrest warrant in my hands, a case no one else would or even could touch with a ten foot pole. Maybe I take a shot at it and maybe I bring the guy in without getting killed and without killing anyone else, and I’m real happy with myself, ’cause I did my job well, I get my moonlighting money, and I can keep my bankrupt parish open. But maybe that guy, wretched as he is, was the last hope, as hopeless as that is, for another dozen people caught up through no fault of their own in his domain of drug and gang violence up in these back mountain ridges. Now, having this location mapped out, the series of trailers is raided by the DEA, which should have been there in the first place had we known then what we know now, and then, while they trash through the trailers a dozen people playing the hero to none of themselves, people I never met, never had no problem with get killed. Now the politicians of the county are sayin’ “oh, send in the FBI to secure the area” ’cause they don’t give a […]. It won’t be their kid over there, gettin’ shot just like it wasn’t them when their opportunity to serve came up, ’cause they were all pullin’ a tour on a desk job. It’ll be some kid from Northie over there, another foreigner from outside the county like me, takin’ shrapnel in the ass. And he comes back to find that the FBI he used to work at got outsourced to a mafia-esque bikey gang he used to surveil. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job being in charge of the very illegal drugs in the bikey gang that he wanted to bring down, ’cause he’ll work for fifteen cents a day and can piss at the side of the road. Meanwhile he realizes the only reason he was over in the mountains was so we could install a vigilante self-serving government that would sell us all drugs at a good price. And of course the drug makers used a little skirmish over there to scare up drug prices closer to home, a cute little ancillary benefit for them, but it ain’t helping my buddy whose living expenses have gone up because there’s no competition because everyone’s on drugs. They’re takin’ their sweet time bringin’ the real drugs back of course and maybe even took the liberty of hiring a drugged up runner who likes to get high and play slalom with the sheriffs pursuit vehicles. It ain’t too long ’til he hits one, loses the drugs and changes life as we knew it. So my buddy’s out of work, he can’t afford to drive so he’s walkin to the […] job interviews which sucks ’cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin’ him chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he’s starvin’ ’cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue-plate special they’re servin’ is back mountain possum laced with contact-Fentanyl. So what’d I think? I’m holdin’ out for somethin’ better. I figure […], while I’m at it why not just shoot my buddy, take the job he used to have, give it to his sworn enemy, hike up drug prices ever further, bomb any village I want, club a dog, hit the hash pipe myself and, oh yes, join the National Guard? I could be elected President.”

//// Or, maybe, that’s not quite how it works. Thanks but no thanks for the advice, Matt.

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