Well, the truth is out there and there’s nothing we can do to stop it now. All the verified blue checks on Twitter have discovered our deep dark secret. Everyone who owns a MAGA hat is a terrorist.

Everyone in that red hat is a terrorist period — Ira Madison III (@ira) January 19, 2019

It’s true, of course. I usually start my day in a dark room, awakened by a sinister alarm that sounds suspiciously like an underground bunker siren. I make my way down a dark and evil hallway, where I wake my dastardly white children and instruct them to change out of their MAGA sleep shirts and into their Catholic school uniforms (gasp!). Their uniforms are yellow and blue plaid, but shown in the right light (usually one shone by CNN) they appear brown with black and red patches. Next, I pad into the bathroom, where I try to hide my wicked dark circles and carefully apply my assault smirk in the mirror and practice my facial expressions so as not to commit a face crime and give myself away at the school drop-off.

Then the real horror begins. I admire my MAGA gear (tucked away in a drawer) that I can’t wear in public. If I did, everyone would know my secret: I am an American terrorist. I regularly terrorize my neighbors with MAGA eggs from my MAGA chicken coop. It warms my cold heart to know they take food from a person they would normally hate on sight if they knew what resided in the secret drawer that houses the Hat of Oppression.

Then it’s off to a place only we MAGA terrorists shop: Walmart. You must have a particular scent to get in undetected, so I normally wait outside, where I force an underpaid big-box employee to bring groceries to my car (double-bagged in the thickest plastic they can find) in the pickup lane reserved for the MAGA overachievers. I don’t know why they’re always smiling. I’ve been told that the low prices I take advantage of lead to their subjugation (which, of course, just makes me cackle with glee), but they always seem upbeat and pleasant. I check my order, making sure extra plastic straws are included so I can smuggle them in an unmarked brown box to my relatives in California. We’ve been running this illegal operation for the last several months and the demand is growing. The risk is great, but good MAGA terrorists understand the importance of good drinking paraphernalia, not to mention the margins on those babies! I may be able to buy myself a new earth-killing SUV soon.

I climb back into my gas-guzzling minivan with the actual cow-leather interior made from the bloody carcasses of animals that may or may not have ever seen grass. I’m not sure. I just don’t like seats I can’t wipe down. Then I head over to stake out the McDonald’s and pick up a Diet Coke full of fake sugar that may or may not give me cancer — something I don’t worry about at all. While I’m there, I usually compliment the cashier’s strikingly painted nails that she must spend hours on. She has no idea I’m a MAGA terrorist. She just thinks I’m nice. (Sucker!)

As I head home, I subject my four-year-old son to Christian programming and songs about my sky Jesus. After we unpack all the non-organic vegetables and full-sugared cereal, I pour my kid a bowl of cheese puffs and let him watch Mister Rogers, who is not the mild-mannered tolerant guy you think he is! I especially like the episode where he menacingly sings, “A girl can be one day a woman, and a boy can be someday a man.” (Subversive and dangerous material like that is all over my house, including more than one pocket Constitution.) Usually, while I’m singing along and indoctrinating my son into these radical ideas, we also foster his toxic masculinity by playing with monster trucks, cars, and trains. He once asked me to paint his nails and I told him he’d have to move out first. And that one time he wanted to put on his sister’s princess dress I ended up pulling out my sewing machine and Gramma’s mink stole and making him the dopest king’s robe and crown you ever saw. Then I told him, “My son, you can pee standing up. You were born to be a king and rule over those silly girls.”

I’m quite literally the civilized world’s worst nightmare. I didn’t even get to the guns yet. My girls got their first Red Ryders at age four. Bows and archery are big around here. I don’t want to brag, but if we ever have to go on the offensive, I have a small army with good aim. My son has an extensive Nerf gun collection, but since he’s four, it’s probably time to move him up to BBs. Mr. Fox buys all the children camouflage gear for hunting. He has big dreams about taking them out to murder some animal he’s going to force me to cook (probably barefoot in the kitchen) for dinner.

I have images of a beaten man nailed to a cross in my house, around my neck, and in my car. My children use prayer beads. On Sundays, we not only go to Mass, but the children wear creepy robes and serve on the actual altar with an actual priest while I sometimes lead the congregation in singing and chanting about blood and sacrifice. It’s ghastly. After that, we sometimes volunteer at whatever ominous Catholic indoctrination program is happening, like feeding the poor or delivering meals to shut-ins and smiling at elders in nursing homes (some of whom are probably Democrats. If they only knew!).

I prop up the patriarchy regularly by doing housework and ironing shirts for my husband, who is above me in all things and makes most of the money while I stay at home and feed and care for children and animals. I even watch sci-fi I don’t like because he’s in charge of the remote. I hope, by my actions, to weaken the feminist movement one sandwich at a time.

But the scariest thing I do is encourage and train my kids to follow in my contemptible MAGA footsteps. I look forward to the day when they will want to buy their own MAGA hats and partake in MAGA jihad with all the gusto that their mother does. When that day comes, I’m going to take them to the March for Life, where we will proudly come out of the closet wearing our Hats of Hate while we march for the rights of babies of all races not be stabbed to death in the womb.

My fellow Deplorables, may we bravely live up to the glorious lives of all the MAGA terrorists who came before us. We stand in solidarity with the famous MAGA terrorist who probably bellowed, “Taxation is theft!” before he bayonetted a guy in a red coat. For we hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal no matter the hat, whether tricorn or red with white letters! We will never be afraid of tyrants who claim to be our betters and try to outlaw items of clothing. Instead, we will trigger them with our Hats of Terror. So I propose that we take our Hats of Shame out of our dark drawers and turn them into Hats of Freedom and institute from this day forward #MAGAHatMondays, where we expose the mental midgets with hat phobias to our true nature. We may be Walmart shoppers, but we have excellent taste in hats.