"In retrospect, Ambassador Chris Stevens would have gotten more attention sending snotty e-mails to random citizens." -- small dead animals
Over here we have this here general person. He’s a kind of hero type because.... well... because -- in ancient times when America led the world -- he led something called “The Surge;” which is to say he knew where to spend a billion bucks in Mesopotamia.
This here general's a good looking Gary Cooper type with the slim and rangy physique that comes from running miles and miles every day. Like Cassius he's got that lean and hungry look. And he has his hungers. He spends a lot of time away on Rome’s business in the far provinces and he needs a little stress relief from time to time. Now he might take his wife of more than three decades along but let’s face it. She has, as everyone is in a hurry to show you, let herself slide a bit across the years. Formerly cute she now looks like Barney Frank in a fright wig. Not at all the kind of thing to give the lean and mean fighting machine general the stress relief he needs at war or at his new job -- which is overseeing the failures of the finest spies a devalued dollar can buy.
Send in the babe with the big shoulders, fat lips, easily dislocatable jaw, large worshipping eyes, and the ability to run with the general across the desert sands to the little uparmored HumVee secured oasis under the Mesopotamian moon. Cue hippy girls with unrestrained breasts...
"Midnight at the oasis
Send your camel to bed
Shadows paintin' our faces
Traces of romance in our heads...."
Ahh love.... And who is hurt, really. After all, a man’s got his needs and a brawny man-girl adept at squat thrusts and push-ups has got her career ambition needs. She's doubly blessed in the "new action Army" as well as having it all back home with a high-earning worker bee and two swell kids. It’s the American Dream, really.
Paula Broadwell with her first best-selling suckupathon, "All In." No doubt she's now planning the sequel, "Balls Deep."
But dreams die hard. And, in time, of course, the always potent general has to move on from war and return to his central mission which is figuring out how to bring the bad/good news of American decline to the current residents of the Senate and Royal Palace in a way they’ll like. Like any other good and faithful servant he’s rewarded with pride, position, a first class health care plan unobtainable to citizens, and a plum job to keep his wife, more frowsy by the day, happy in her “help” for the poor “consumer.”
And then the power couple of the General and his spouse seem to be introduced into a continuing stream of hot swingers so that their odd deranged marriage can thrive by having a steady stream of sexual playmates while the General is hearing whispers that he too could be President.
Then the original Fatima from the desert jogging years comes back and decides, it would seem, that she needs to have the hot and ever potent general back form the latest miniskirted man muncher. Out go the threatening emails and in comes, out of absolutely nowhere, the Praetorian guard known as the ex-Marines of the FBI. And, in the fine tradition of absolute stumbling about tradition of the Three Stooges, the FBI “discovers” entirely by “accident” emails that the senders and receivers have somehow forgotten cannot ever be really “disappeared” from the Internet.
Meanwhile, I suppose, the weekend and on our little seminar trips out of town, the wife/mate swapping/lending orgies go on. And on. And on. And on in the tedious way that affairs work themselves out.
Meanwhile, with all the emailing and fornicating here there and everywhere, one wonders who is actually minding the store and doing the work and following up on the business of the nation at war or in Washington. Meanwhile, with all the finest technology trillions can buy, emails cannot be hidden but the real-time killing of Americans by Arabs can be watched. Meanwhile, as the President golfs and the Secretary of State wanders about the world in search of someone so blind as to actually give her a tumble, the burning goes on and the flames rise high leaping from this embassy to that third world sewer of a nation, to this failed policy, to that failed concept... moving with a grim determination towards that state where it can all be called a real firestorm.
But we don’t have to watch. We have this shiny thing. This shiny new -- look a puppy! -- distraction where we can watch these aging and marginally attractive secondary characters in DC literally go off and fuck themselves.
The country’s in the very best of hands.
Posted by gerardvanderleun at November 13, 2012 9:31 AM
Hi, my name is Jill Kelley. I don't always wear my lingerie to Pentagon sponsored brunette orgies, but when I do I like to wear the stuff that's short and makes me instantly accessible.