I didn’t start out on the left wing. I went through high school, went to college, and joined the military, all while solidly within the red side of the spectrum. To be fair I was steadily progressing from states-right secessionist to run-of-the-mill conspiracy theorist to fiscally moderate socially liberal semi-adult.

The libertarian phase. I try not to discuss it when I don’t have to. That’s where most of my marine corps friends got stuck—they think we can stop crime not by increasing police presence but by giving every man, woman and child a light machine gun. How would they distribute these without raising taxes? The free market. AKA Wal-Mart.

I never really had to “come out” to anyone about it because once I landed in North Carolina those same friends got to watch me slide into liberalism gradually over the course of a year. Also, there is an unspoken understanding that no one should discuss politics while everyone’s holding a loaded gun.

The people it’s been truly awkward to reveal my ideals to have been my family. Particularly, Uncle Scotty.

Walking into Scotty’s house is like walking into the cartoon version of the Somalian black market. You are immediately confronted with three gun racks holding at least ten firearms each, sorted by caliber. There are buckets of exotic machetes and spears like potpourri containers from satan’s living room. A fully loaded tactical 12 gauge is propped up in the pantry next to Frosted Wheaties. Rush Limbaugh alternates with Glenn Beck on the speakers.

Infowars.com is up on the computer. There is a rusty school bus next to the house, loaded with a year’s supply of freeze dried food. Walking into this dimension of hyperbole as a young man is confusing. On the one hand you’re struck with the sudden realization of “Jesus Christ, this is the family I came from.” On the other hand, it’s like being a kid in a candy shop.

Uncle Scotty is one of the last surviving members of a clan of angry white post-mountain men, trapped inside urbanized New York. The fruits of his hoarding instinct are magnificent. He literally has as much firepower as my entire reserve detachment.

Unfortunately politics are never a far away topic during any discussion about anything at all. Naturally, I question him within the limits of respect—but with the aim of inflaming. I keep it to the level where I can still hang out and look at the pretty guns, but just enough to at least attempt to plant the seeds of rationality within his tinfoil cone-wrapped head. To be frank, he only tolerates me at this point because of my service.

It’s cool though. The Scott-monster is the most comforting person I know. His fantasy land of shadow government black ops teams and Obamacare/welfare parasites is easy to deal with. And it looks a lot more like real life than you’d think once you look at it more closely.

There really is a revolving door between government and corporate hierarchies. The NSA and Google really do watch you, and the military really does send special ops teams to train guerrillas in countries you have never heard of to turn the tide in wars which the public has no insight into.

While I don’t think it’s the fault of the recipients, I do agree the social services in this country really do need drastic overhaul—they’re both socially ineffective and fiscally inefficient. El Scotto Loco’s version of the world isn’t so much a hallucination as an oversimplification, and one that’s extremely tempting.

I call or visit this man to live for five minutes in a world where the seemingly intractable struggles of my generation are reducible to us-against-them problems. Sometimes, I’ll put on Glenn Beck or Infowars every now and again in private just to pretend.