The Pentagon's Fourth Anniversary of 9/11 Spectacular: Freedom Walks, Bullshit Talks:
Sweet fuckin' mercies, what a mighty celebration of 9/11 they're a-gonna have this weekend in D.C. It'll be a hootenanny, a clambake, baby, an end-of-summer hoedown, or, as the Pentagon puts it, "the opportunity to remember the victims of September 11, honor our American servicemen and women, past and present, and commemorate our freedom." One might think that every day we wake up in America is a commemoration of our "freedom," but perhaps in these Patriotic Actic times, it's best to think of freedom with the same sense as Princess Di's picture on a Franklin Mint plate.
There'll be 3,000 to 10,000 people taking part in the "Freedom Walk," and, oh-ho, what irony with which the event has been named, considering that "organizers...are taking extraordinary measures to control participation in the march and concert, with the route fenced off and lined with police and the event closed to anyone who does not register online by 4:30 p.m. today." Actually, the time is 10 a.m., but, hey, if you can't punk the Washington Post, who can you punk? And your reward for takin' that hike from the Pentagon to the National Mall is a concert by lovable nationalist Clint Black, whose cowboy hat and country/western stylings are sure to attract a mesmerizing rainbow of skin colors in the audience, from pasty-faced to red-necked. Nothin' says "we remember you, men and women who leapt or burned or suffocated or were crushed to death" better than Clint Black wailin' his tunes "No Time To Kill" and "Burn One Down."
Then, as Black sings his final song, "Iraq and Roll," with its condemnation of the protesters who'll no doubt be herded into a small gated area to assure maximum freedom of speech, the real fun'll begin for the patriots in attendance as they're all handed dolls of Osama Bin Laden, dolls filled with blood and meat, and when Black finishes his final chorus of "Iraq, I rack 'em up and I roll," with fireworks launched into the humid night, all 3000-10,000 people will crack open the dolls and smear themselves with the blood as they rip out the meat with their teeth. No, we can't find Bin Laden, but, goddamn, we can eat his innards in effigy. Then Cindy Sheehan'll be brought up onto the podium, stripped naked, and forced to stand there as everyone hoots and laughs at her, tossing the ripped open doll carcasses at her before she's hanged in front of the frothing mass, demanding that their America be restored from all terrorists, here and abroad. Then, oh, fuck, the delicious irony, the President will appear to talk to her nude, hanging corpse, asking the dead Sheehan what she'd like to say to him. "What? What's that?," he'll say, goofily hamming it up, "You got your meetin', now say somethin'." Goddamn, how the crowd'll hoot and holler. And that's when the ecstasy will kick in.
Yep, all that meat will be laced with love doves, and just as the Freedom Walkers begin to feel that heat course through their bodies, as the Army Marching Band blares "America the Beautiful," Dick and Lynne Cheney will appear and begin to fuck madly on the stage, with Dick yellin', "Lemme slam my jumbo jet into your Foggy Bottom of love." Donald Rumsfeld'll bring out a model of the Twin Towers and shove them into Condi's asshole and cooz, the Secretary of State wearing nothing but Ferragamo shoes, shrieking in toothy orgasm as Rumsfeld tries to desperately masturbate onto Condi's hair. This'll be a signal for the real freedom to begin: the clothes'll start bein' ripped off as everyone begins to writhe in the blood and meat spilled all over the ground of the National Mall, fellating and rimming and muff diving and fucking hard and fucking soft and fucking for God, for country, for Bush, all for freedom, man, all for the victims, all for the troops, all, all for lettin' freedom fuckin' ring.
Throughout the frantically screwing crowd, members of the Louisiana National Guard, special guests at the Mall 'cause, you know, who needs 'em back home, will be handing out a tea brewed from the ashes of the World Trade Center and the bones of Saddam's Republican Guard members and the shit and piss of Gitmo and Abu Ghraib prisoners so that Iraq and a 9/11 are forever together, forever linked, inside the bodies of the fucking Freedom Walkers. 'Cause, you know, X gets you thirsty.
Finally, dawn will break on the National Mall, sunrise over the Washington Monument, the nation's hard-on, and James Dobson will saunter onto stage and ask the exhausted, sweaty, semen soaked, blood-covered Freedom Walkers for a moment of silence for our new corpses in the Gulf Coast, our Big Easy floaters, treated like so many turds in the stopped-up toilets of hell. Yes, yes, yes, then the weary marchers will bathe in the reflecting pool until it's turned a deep, deep crimson, like an open wound in the center of the nation's capital.