Caught In the Crossfire of the Iraq Circle Jerk:
So, like, do you think Deborah Johns would be proud if her Marine son William died to create another Iran? Opposed to Cindy Sheehan's now-interrupted vigil outside of Bush's Crawford ranch, Johns is one of the mothers of soldiers embarking on the "You Don't Speak For Me, Cindy" Tour (aka the "Tools Across the U.S.A" tour). The caravan will wind its way across the western U.S., from San Francisco to Crawford, with stops at the Doubletree Hotel in Bakersfield, where the brave right-wing supported caravaners can relax by the palm tree-lined pool, and the Dallas Hyatt Regency, with its multiple restaurants and amazing fitness center. That'll show Joan Baez she shouldn't join Cindy's followers in the ditches of Crawford.
But do you think Natalie Healy, who lost her son in Afghanistan but believes that the conflicts there and in Iraq are related, would be proud to know that Daniel, one of those missing Navy SEALS, died in a "larger" war that ensures the rise of a state that will enshrine the repression of women as part of its constitution? What about all the other anti-Sheehan mothers dug up by the media in a desperate attempt to offer "balance"? Do you think they wonder which conservative perversion of Islam will Iraq take? The Saudi Arabian track, where women can't drive or go much of anywhere without being accompanied by a male? Or what about the Taliban track, where girls can't even be schooled? And what about the veil? How insane will Iraq become to live up to the Islamic ideal that man is head of the household? Is this what you sacrificed your kids for? (And the Rude Pundit is not saying this to "attack" Islam - when wackjob fundamentalists try to impose Christian dogma on a government, he calls bullshit. And let's not even get into Israel.)
It's not that the whole Iraq War isn't an epic disaster the likes of which makes Custer's "Last Stand" seem like a well-planned, well-ordered, by the book military operation. It's not that anyone not suckling at the teat of Bush administration "leaks" and "anonymous sources" didn't know that there was going to be a prolonged conflict, with lots of casualties, and, you know, no fuckin' WMDs. No, no, we know all that shit, along with the inevitable civil war and/or Islamist state as the end result. It's just that it's about to get really, truly, oh-fuck-how-can-he-even-show-his-face-in-public embarrassing for George W. Bush.
Sometimes teenage boys, when not engaged in pimple-poppin' or text-messaging or watchin' Hobofight videos, like to masturbate. No, really. It's a known fact: teenage boys like to jerk off. And sometimes they like to jerk off with their friends. Maybe a group of 'em. All sittin' around the basement, talkin' about hot pieces of ass, thinkin' that each of 'em has their eyes closed as they start to rub their cocks, and if one of 'em looks, he'll be the one called a "gaywad," even though to catch him, someone else had to be lookin'. It's like callin' "Shotgun" when you're about to get in a car. Whoever says it first wins.
Yep, sometimes teenage boys have well-polished circle jerk behavior, ejaculating so the spooge only lands in a Kleenex or a well-used pillow. Seein' who can top the other for moanin' and pretendin' they're fuckin' some girl, refusin' to recognize that if they'd all just admit they're gay they'd have a whole helluva lot more fun, such a fantasy world, man, such a fantasy world. Uh-huh, it's all well and good. Until Mom walks into the basement. Then you're just a bunch of teenage boys caught with your dicks in your hands. Sure, you can try to explain it away, but, really, it's better to put your dick back in your pants and run home.
George W. Bush is the proudest of the serial masturbators. He can't give it up. Here he is, plagiarizing himself, in his why-bother radio address this past Saturday: "In a few weeks, our country will mark the four-year anniversary of the attacks of September the 11th, 2001. On that day, we learned that vast oceans and friendly neighbors no longer protect us from those who wish to harm our people. And since that day, we have taken the fight to the enemy." God, you just wanna avert your eyes and cover your ears so that you don't have to witness the jacking off anymore, the unashamed yanking of that cock until he comes all over Condi's hair. (Plus, you know, could someone please fucking tell Bush that oceans didn't protect us from the British back in the day? Or that Native Americans weren't really all that well protected by oceans, either? Or, really, anyone since, say, the invention of the boat?)
It's only gonna get worse. Now Bush is gonna go on a tour, in roughly the opposite direction of the anti-Cindy caravan, to re-sell his war. He's gonna compare it to World War II. And he's just gonna shame us all, as we watch the cringe-inducing cheering crowds, the panicked flailing of the kid who's trying to explain to his mom why there's so much dry cum on the basement floor.
It's such a sorry state when the circle jerk must abruptly end. But Mom's walked into the room, and she's pissed.