"We've had so many wars fought because everyone thought God was on their side. That's what led to this," explained Nina, of a certain desert quagmire. "When you concentrate power in one person, you're in trouble. When you're fighting for God, you're in trouble. This administration, maybe more than any other in our history, sounds to me like, 'I know what God wants and I'm going to carry that out.'"

Yep, we're all in trouble.

JAILBAIT: Zandra Moberg and Nina Huizinga may soon find themselves behind bars. : Michael T. Regan

Of course, you didn't need to see Nina gaze from behind her bifocals to know that. From Abu Ghraib and wiretapping to Haditha and covert renditions, the global handbasket is sliding down that long, dark tunnel to Hades. Nina, her cohort Zandra Moberg and the rest of Philadelphia's Grandmothers for Peace want to reel it back in. And when a grandmother talks, you damn well better listen.

So in June of 2006, in Philadelphia, the grannies, fed up that nobody else has dented the war machine, have decided it's up to them to save the day with more than a stern lecture and history lesson. Sure, they'll be over at Rittenhouse Square handing out their "Ten Reasons Why the U.S. Must Leave Iraq" pamphlets from noon to 1:30 p.m. today. But this growing group of, um, aged activists have a bigger trick up their shawls.

Later this month, they'll force the Philadelphia police to slap them with cuffs, haul them off for fingerprinting and charge them with disorderly conduct. Bush—"the Decider," as Nina, who worries that her phone may soon get tapped, likes calling him—may think he has God as his co-decider. But grandmothers have the divine right to say whatever's on their minds (end the war immediately and drag the president out of his office by his ear), whenever they want to say it (yesterday).

Following the lead of the Raging Grannies of Tucson, Ariz., and the Grandmothers Against the War of New York City, these sunbonnet-sporting gals—in their 50s to 90s—plan to make a memorable visit to the Military Recruiting Center at Broad and Cherry streets on June 28th. "We're going to try and enlist," explains Zandra, a grandmother of two who, out of deference to her gentleman friend, would just as soon keep her age to herself.

In both Tucson and Manhattan, the grannies were refused entry into the military, so they staged sit-ins outside recruiting centers only to get arrested. Buoyed by their April 27 acquittal, the New York dames will stop in Philly en route to a July 4 protest in D.C. While here, in addition to an engagement at the White Dog Cafe, they'll applaud and chant in the background as the Philly grannies, who have grown from an eight-woman klatch at a member's Fairmount home two months ago to a 50-some-member publicity machine, tell Uncle Sam where to stick it.

"I'm in it for the long haul, even though at 66 years old, my long haul's limited," says Nina, a longtime activist who's already seen the inside of a jail cell.

"We have 18-, 19-, 20-year-old kids, with their whole lives in front of them, being sent to Iraq to die. It's illegal. It's immoral. It's wrong," adds Zandra, a Quaker who, despite pacifist leanings, saw the merits of World War II.

"I've had a good life, a full life," continues Nina, estimating that between six and eight grannies are ready and willing to go to jail for the cause. "Take me instead. We ain't dead yet! … If they're just going to waste somebody's life, they should waste mine."

Of course, the recruiters probably won't even open the front door, let alone ship them off to boot camp. (But oh, how they'd just love to go: "The Army needs some new blood, make that old blood," Zandra jokes. "And basic training might do us some good, right?") Instead, they're taking a comical tact to a serious issue, a way to get people to think about their stance, and jump into action themselves. After all, as Zandra puts it, "It's hard to dismiss grandmothers. We're sacrosanct, like apple pie and family values."

Translation: It's time to stand up and do something to make your cuffed grandmothers proud.