"NOW, I'M NOT the type to get worked up over nothing," my friend Rutger Fury was saying, as thin curls of smoke rose from his rose-pink ears, "but I've had it up to here, and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

We had been discussing the recent capture of Eugene Hasenfus by the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. I had expressed the opinion that the man was obviously trying to overthrow their government and so deserved whatever he got. Rutger disagreed.

"I, by the grace of God, am an American, a proud citizen of the greatest nation on earth. What right does a puny, pathetic country like Nicaragua have to judge me? Or Eugene?"

I just looked out the window, admiring the beautiful emerald canopy that raced past a hundred feet below the wing of our plane. I couldn't help but worry that someday his America-first attitude might get him in trouble.

Gradually Rutger began to calm down. He took out his airline ticket and reread it approvingly. "Well, my friend, in just 10 hours we'll be in Managua. Mighty fine airline, Capitalist Insurgency Airways."

"Ten hours? But a moment ago you said we were just 10 minutes from Nicaragua."

"From Nicaragua, yes; but 10 hours from Managua. This isn't a direct flight. We have to parachute into the jungle and crawl to the city on our bellies."

I began to sense that Rutger had not told me the whole truth when he had said that we were going to cover a Mamba festival. "Rutger, level with me. Those crates in the back of the plane--they're not really full of noisemakers, are they?"

Rutger smiled. "Sure they are. M16s--the finest noisemaker the U.S. makes. Don't worry, though, son--they're just for keepin' away the snakes and leeches in the jungle. Those Nicaraguans wouldn't dare touch private American citizens."

"But Rutger, 100 crates? Wouldn't that look a tad suspicious if anything went wrong and..."

"Like what?" At that very moment, a loud explosion rocked the airplane. Flames curled around the starboard engine and the air was sucked from our lungs as the cabin depressurized. As the plane spun towards the ground, I realized that this might be my final descent. I also realized that I had left the hot water running at home.

Rutger saved the day by reaching over to buckle my seatbelt. A split second later we plowed into the jungle at hundreds of miles an hour. The sound of the exploding fuel tanks could be heard half a continent away.

"Now what?" I asked, brushing some carbonized cocktail peanuts from my jacket. Rutger just shrugged. It appeared that the ring of Sandinista soldiers that had suddenly materialized out of the jungle would be making our decisions for us.

SO WE ARRIVED in Managua way ahead of schedule and in no time had direct contact with powerful members of the government. A journalist's dream, in a sense.

"You must talk," the jack-booted interrogator advised me. "Who are your CIA contacts? Don't make us use the lash again."

It was difficult to formulate a cogent reply while hanging upside down. "I swear, I was coming to cover the dance festival."

"With 100 crates full of assault rifles? You Americans are so arrogant with your gross violations of international law. How do you think your government would respond if a foreigner came into your country with so many weapons?"

"Actually, sir, we encourage it." Rutger interjected, holding out his 'I'm NRA' membership card. "We Americans love our leisure time."

The prosecutor was taken aback. "You do?" Sensing a moment of weakness, Rutger immediately began to expound the whys and wherefores of the American Way. In a few minutes he had a convert. "But even if the United States does have the right to subvert the government of any country it chooses," the interrogator asked as he drove us to the airport, "Why does it pick on us?"

"Simple, amigo." Rutger smiled. "You don't buy Coca-cola." The Sandinista looked perplexed. Rutger added, "I don't make the rules, guy. I just break 'em." And with that we boarded our jet.

In a few short hours we were home in the sweet U.S. of A. The only problem we had was at U.S. Customs, when Rutger and I were arrested and thrown in prison for possession of controlled substances.

Unfortunately, in America no one listens to you when you scream, "You can't do this to me! I'm an American citizen!"