MY BROTHER IS IN THE ARMY [and he is still alive]

I parallel parked perfectly, as usual. Grabbed my book-bag, cd's, and purse and made my way down the side walk. Two guys were walking towards me, both in base ball hats. The guy on the left was short and had a St. Patty's Day green t-shirt on. He was smoking a cigarette and his footsteps were wide, like a faux cowboy. The other was tall and wore a pitifully-pale yellow polo shirt. He had a lanky body that weighed his shoulders down, and the centerpiece of his face was an obnoxiously large nose. As I approached them they continued their travels and conversation,

"I didn't vote. I'm not even registered," the tall one said. I couldn't help myself. Maybe it was the PBRs, maybe it was Valient Thorr.

"That's pitiful," I blurted out.

"I serve our country, that's more than you do," the tall guy responded as I passed them. I rounded the corner of the sidewalk, turned my head and yelled back,

"My brother is in the army, and he votes. He's got two up on you."

I won't point fingers. I won't blame an elected official. But I will get mad and further the debate:

Does democracy depend on journalism, or does journalism depend on democracy?