When you decided to blow up Iraq, I was with you.
Yes, I am a moron. Thanks for asking.
It wasn't long after September 11. We'd already blown up Afghanistan, but that was like punching out a Starbucks barista. I believe we can all agree that revenge, a very underrated motive, should be a little more satisfying.
So when you said Saddam was with the terrorists, and had stockpiled chemical weapons, a lot of people in these parts thought blowing up Iraq would make a nice sequel. Perhaps it was the testosterone. Perhaps it was the strange way that grief can be salved with violence of your own. But you were giving us a chance to avenge the dead in New York, Washington, and on that plane in PA.
I raised a toast to you, George. Let's blow the shit outta those guys.
Unfortunately, there's this truth about men: With each degree our anger rises, our IQs take a corresponding plunge. Which led to a conspicuous error in my logic: I believed you.
For reasons beyond explanation -- unless God thought it would be a funny demonstration of human fallibility -- we elected you our commander in chief. It wasn't a very good idea. Sorry to be so blunt, George, but you're what's known in Cleveland as a "huge pussy." You're a trust-fund punk. A former private-school male cheerleader. A guy who's never been in a fight in his life. I believe it's safe to say that no one's ever found himself in a bar brawl and thought, Don't worry, the trust-fund cheerleader's got my back.
It was like naming me chairman of the Federal Reserve. (Vegas' over-under on how fast I'd destroy the economy: seven business days.)
Still, there was a way out of this. When confronted by something well beyond our abilities, most of us think to ourselves, "Hmmm, maybe I should hire some smart guys to do this." That's why I don't do my own plumbing.
But you figured you were smarter than the CIA, Colin Powell, and all those generals. They may have devoted their lives to the study of the fight, but you owned a cowboy hat and were really good at clearing brush at your ranch during five-minute photo-ops. For some reason, this made you a tough guy. (It must be some kinda Texas thing. I never could figure that out.)
So you decided that you, Rumsfeld, Cheney, and that guy Scooter could handle this on your own. How hard could blowing up some Arabs be? But Cheney can't even go bird hunting without shooting elderly bankers. And there's a time-honored rule that goes like this: If you have to rely on advice from a guy named Scooter, you're fucked.
When the war started, Iraq was a fairly stable country run by a kook. Thanks to you guys, it's now a highly volatile country run by a batch of kooks, where women get raped, our soldiers get beheaded, old men get kidnapped, and people get blown up daily by psychos who bomb stuff in the name of a God who's really into slaughtering kids and grandmas.
You might want to send out a canine unit to find the upside here.
Of course, everybody screws up. Did I mention we were morons? But the goal is to hopefully wake up one day and go, "Holy shit! My bad!" In situations like this, a little humility goes a long way. Ask my wife.
But you just won't give up, George. Now you're bagging on people for wanting to "surrender," to "cut and run."
First off, what the hell is "cut and run"? You're the President of the United States, for chrissakes. Can't you hire someone to think up better insults?
Second off, to be called out by a trust-fund pussy is like Donald Trump bitching about your hairdo.
Worse, you can't stop yapping about how Iraq had an election, as if this was a miracle cure. Our patented election system will help you lose 20 pounds in 30 days and increase your sexual stamina! But if elections could solve everything, would you mind explaining Ohio?
And now it's getting really embarrassing. You're squawking about The New York Times, which keeps writing stories about your secret this, your secret that. Strategy: I didn't wreck the war. The New York Times did.
In the realm of excuses, George, this is like blaming your car for the time you got drunk and parked it in the kitchen. Besides, The New York Times is just trying to help. Drunks call this an intervention.
Say you got a friend who's an addict. (In your case, you're addicted to being a moron.) And say this guy's addiction is wrecking the lives of those around him. (In your case, that would be a few hundred thousand dead people.) All the guy's friends are supposed to gather around and have an intervention, which is basically a fancy way of telling the guy what an asshole he is. Hopefully, he'll wise up.
But that ain't happening with you, George. You keep talking about Iraq like it's Lake Wobegon, where the children are all polite and can nail at least 6 of the 10 Commandments, where the men smoke pipes and offer fatherly advice on getting in early on some sweet IPOs, where the women's lone fear is whether desert fashion allows for pastels after Labor Day.
Only sometimes they get beheaded.
That's why the country needs The New York Times. And that's why it doesn't need morons like me and you.
Maybe you should quit that job, George. Grab Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Scooter. Come out to Cleveland. We'll buy some shots, shoot some pool, do something where we can't hurt anybody.
Just tell Cheney not to bring his guns. That guy sucks at hunting.
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