It all started with a simple, yet entirely critical misunderstanding.

The shiny-domed, twitchy farmer with helter-skelter eyes asked me if I had any guns.

Unfortunately, because he’s one of those close-talkers who utters every statement as though it’s a state secret, I thought he asked if I had kids. I gleefully answered, “Yep, got two of ’em.”

And just like that, I was drafted into a Libertarian militia.

But, I am getting ahead of myself. In order for any of this to make any sense—and being “sensical” is a tenuous struggle when telling this story—I need to start at the beginning.

When my wife and I bought our current house, one of the things we loved was that it bordered a farmer’s field, meaning that we were very unlikely to ever have neighbors in our back pockets. The only downside, however, is that this farmer doesn’t maintain the fence row that separates our properties. That means by the time July rolls around, the weeds have grown at least seven feet tall (no kidding) and from our living room window, it looks as though we don’t maintain our yard because the field is obscured from view. There’s also more poison ivy in there than I’ve ever seen in one spot (and given that I am an outdoorsy type, that’s saying something).

Enter the crazy landscaper dude—crazy and about as smart as a sack of hammers. And lest you think I am being too hard on Mr. Potting Soil, I should tell you that this is the same guy who greeted my very pregnant bride one afternoon with, “Boy, Charlotte, you’ve put on a lot of weight.”

Yes, I think we can safely refer to him as a mental midget and move on.

One summer the aforementioned mentally unhinged landscaper was doing some work for us when we asked him if he was comfortable cleaning out the fence row for us. He said he wasn’t without permission from the landowner, so I said that I would talk to the farmer about it.

A couple of days later, said landscaping nutjob shows up at our house and says, “Boy, that farmer didn’t like me too much.”

Turns out, Mr. Mulch stopped at the farmer’s house, marched up to the door, rang the doorbell and told the farmer that his property was “an eyesore” and that he wanted permission to clean it up.

Now, you might imagine that this message wouldn’t be well received by a completely well-adjusted individual. Given that crazy landscaper guy was talking to even crazier Libertarian militia guy, things got nuclear pretty quickly.

While I wasn’t there to witness it, I think it’s safe to use your imagination when picturing the exchange between these two. I envision the usage of exceptionally poor grammar, lots of pants-hitching and wild (obscene) hand gestures.

Immediately after hearing tale of the encounter, I called the farmer (who at this time, I did not realize was plumb crazy) and apologized profusely for the actions of Mr. Green Jeans. If you’ve ever had a conversation with a crackpot, then you know that I quickly realized that I had stumbled into an intellectual quagmire from which there was no escape. After listening to him rant for a solid 10 minutes, I nicely told him that I would make sure that my landscaper stayed far, far away from his property and ended the conversation.

Later that evening, I heard the sounds of a chainsaw running behind my house. When I looked outside, I saw the good farmer sawing through brush and horseweed that easily topped eight feet tall. Against my better judgment, I ventured outside and introduced myself.

Now is when the story gets interesting.

After stopping the chainsaw and sizing me up (I was pretty sure he was trying to decide if my carcass would fit into his freezer) we formally met with a brief, economical handshake. Immediately—and I mean within the first 30 seconds of conversation—he tells me that he is a Libertarian and that Libertarians believe “good fences make good neighbors.” He went on to say that there was a revolution coming and that I wanted to be on the right side of it.

That’s when the whole guns vs. kids gaffe tripped me up, changing my life forever.

Once the general thought I was a packing heat, I was immediately drafted. I am not making this up either. He told me that there was a revolution coming and that he—and several of my “like-minded patriot neighbors”—had formed a band of merry freedom fighters to defend the neighborhood when the government falls and society goes to Hell in a handcart.

And just like that, I learned what it means to be a patriot. He said, “Because you’ve got guns, you can be a border guard.” Apparently, he missed the entirely quizzical look on my face—the same look my dog gives me when I talk to him about anything other than food—and went on to tell me that he had a clean well and that he would supply water, but no food. It was up to the rest of us to supply food if we wanted any of his water. I made a mental note to stock up on Slim Jims, Mt. Dew and corn nuts. I know Mt. Dew isn’t a food, but this warrior doesn’t roll without it.

There was no swearing-in, no pledge to carry out my clandestine duties and no secret handshake. I awoke that morning a middle-aged book editor and went to bed a member of a coalition whose very mission is to protect, well, I am not sure what, but I am certain it is important.  After my sudden and apparently mandatory enlistment, the general departed, the fading sunlight twinkling off his shiny pate.

Shortly thereafter, Charlotte returned home from running some errands and I told her that she shouldn’t be alarmed, but I was pretty sure that I had just been drafted into some sort of super-secret Libertarian militia. She asked what my orders were, but having been duly sworn to secrecy, I told her that a soldier’s orders were best-kept secret. I wouldn’t want any of our Democrat or Republican friends to try to coerce information out of her with threats of death by drone or the tyrannical overthrow of the American way.

So, in the time since, I have been promoted from a lowly private to corporal—promotions don’t come soon or easily in this militia. While I am not entirely sure what border I am guarding, I have chosen to guard the fence row since it’s the only immediately visible border. Each night, I sit high in the tree near the edge of my property, wearing my baseball catcher’s gear and armed with various Nerf weaponry, keeping a silent vigil over the border.

And don’t think it’s not dangerous out there. Why, just last week, I warded off an imperialist opossum that was clearly up to no good. For months now, I’ve also had my eye on a “scarecrow” on the other side of the field that I am certain is no scarecrow. I suspect it’s a cleverly disguised enemy combatant who has been assigned to watch my movements. It’s a cold war of sorts—one that I intend to win.

‘Tis a lonely life, but a rewarding one. Each morning when my shift is over, I go inside knowing that I’ve kept my neighborhood safe from the socialist dogs who are hiding around every corner and who aspire to rob us of our liberty.

Sleep well, citizens. Sleep well.

Note: This is a satirical column and is not intended to be any kind of real political statement. I know almost nothing about the Libertarian party other than my Libertarian lieutenant is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. It’s just an amusing and true (mostly anyway) story.