Debriefing
The secretary returning from the theater
breaks it to the commander-in-chief: We're
getting killed out there, Sir. Getting our
butts kicked, our lunches eaten, our asses
handed to us on a platter, etcetera. We tried
having the marines grow mustaches to show
respect for the cultural norms etcetera, but
the rapes & murders sort of undercut that
initiative, Sir. Sir, there are no good options,
Sir. The president enjoyed the secretary's
nervous military tic of repeating the word
at the beginning & the end of every other
sentence. (He'd been a corporal in Korea.)
Sir, we need another twenty thousand bodies.
Twenty-one thousand to be exact. Or punt.
Actually, Sir, in reality, Sir, there's nothing
another twenty-thousand can do but make
the capitol a little neater as we withdraw.
I never punt, said the president. Where's my
fucking pen? Run it up the middle. Hit it out
of the fucking park. I never fucking punt.
The generals looked grave. Who was this
little puke who never served talking like
he needs a sled to drag around his balls? Let
the record show that the generals looked
grave & that the president never punted.
Let the record also show he put the necessary
bodies on the line & kept them there until
the dunes knelt to Jesus & hell froze over.
Until blood filled all the classrooms of the
universities & all the libraries were burned.
Let the record show that the president never
wavered in his purpose, never let opinion
sway his resolve to stay the course, never
followed & always led, never listened, never
learned, never let the facts get in the way
& always did what his little god -- an endless
whining feedback tone like tinnitus – demanded.
God damn it to fucking hell you shitheel
moron I never punt. Now get those bodies.
--
Joseph Duemer
Professor of Humanities
Clarkson University
[sharpsand.net]
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