Help Me Reach 12 on the Manly Scale of Absolute Gender

If you like the patriotic work we're doing, please consider donating a few dollars. We could use it. (if asked for my email, use "")

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Hot Caramel

Oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. Oh we wanted it so bad, so bad. We were dying for a war, and a knight riding in like Gawain, or Galahad. But all was not what it seems, we did not hear the screams, from a sargent who had been there, from General who was on the air, from a Governor who knew it unfair. It was all drown out by the blare, with a little help from Tony Blair.

A frat boy Presidency, with all the buff young men in charge, and charged, and charging. Some of us, still want it so, a firm President, with a firm belief that no means "fuck me harder." From the beginning, he has been firm. And with a surge of firm manly confidence, and a swelling of national pride, which affirms everything he stands for. Stands. Firm. Stands. Firm. That's how frat boys are, firm and headed for daddy's firm when they can firm up their transcript a bit with some gut classes. And as far from the fight as possible. They have better babes to do.

Oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. We wanted it so bad, the sands like caramel, the waves of young men rising like a swell, on the ocean. We wanted to be had. Judith Miller was our patron saint, only she was paid in better coin.

We wanted them to rip through our constitution and take us, to tear out first amendment away and run their firm hands all over our country, using his huge mandate on us, paying close attention to the twin towers that are what everyone stared at in the skyline of Manhattan. Lovely lady liberty wanted nothing more, nothing more, oh how she begged for it. We wanted to be wet, wet, wet for him.

Blame who you like, because oh, oh, oh, how we wanted it so. Wanted to be his whore and let him use, use, use. Like a drum or a muse, a siren song we can't refuse, a IED that won't defuse.

That's why we didn't need to discuss or debate whether to go to war. Instead, two big smoking pillar argued it for us, and we were warporned into it. I've seen the writing of the time described as "an endless parade of wargasms." And strangely, for such a hard, firm, President, it was soft old men like Thomas Friedman, David Brooks, Karl Rove and Ari Fleisher that argued for him. Among the warporners, the women were men, the men were women, and the country was ready to be sheep.

So we stumbled into the bed we had made. Everything else left unsaid. And our execution was left unstayed, we sore afraid. We were so afrad, that we forgot who the bull horn was pointed at.

But we've grown sick and tired of Bush. Some of us want, recovery. Recovery is a long way away. Because we have to admit more than that we are sick and tired of Bush, but we have to admit that we were sick, and tired, and confused. And that we are finally sick and tired of being sick and tired.

We are tired of a festival of failures, and arming the enemy. Even Republicans do not want forty more years, or even four. We do not even want any more.

And we are just barely ready to do just that. We finally smell a rat. The whispers for impeachment are now old hat. Now just fancy that.

We were dying for a war that we wanted so bad, so bad, so bad. And like caramel it is hot and sticks to everything, everywhere and everyone. Will it matter if we want out of it so bad, so bad. Only if we cry, and scream out loud, so loud that they can hear us, in their dreams, will they hear our screams.

We have to want out that bad, because the taste of it will be sweeter than sugar, and more intoxicating than porn.

No comments:

Post a Comment

We'll try dumping haloscan and see how it works.