Today’s indelible image is intrepid Joe Lieberman on a surprise visit to Baghdad, retracing John McCain’s footsteps, market and all.
Not since 1988 has any Democrat (oops, Independent) provided more fodder for stand-up comics. Back then Presidential candidate Mike Dukakis popped out of a tank in an oversized helmet and became the kind of joke Lieberman deserves to be.
Senator Joe, looking past his helmet and flak jacket, sees “progress” from the Surge. No word yet about whether he bought a rug.
Yuk-yuk. Lieberman understands the Middle East better than you, I imagine. I lived there a decade and speak and read Arabic fluently [or did until the rust of time intervened]. I personally believe that after the fall of Baghdad, Gen. Jay Garner and the Task Force he had assembled in Iraq was also summarily called off the job by the Supremo Generalissimo-wannabe Donald Rumsfeld, who in Cobra II is described as nixing the hundreds of man-years of expertise on the Middle East in the Garner group because "we need fresh thinking." Subsequently, hyper-sycophant Jerry Bremer and Middle East expert Khalilzad were nominated as co-ambassadors, but Bremer complained and Zal was canned. Wouldn't want linguistic knowledge and vast expertise as part of the mix in the post Baghdad conquest mode. That would not fit in with the Rumsfeld modus operandi.
ReplyDeleteThat said, the long-term consequences of allowing Iraq to succumb to AQ/Shi'ite chaos is even worse than what is happening there now---and the virus that will spread from an American debacle is far worse than that TB bacillus quarantined in Atlanta at the moment.
Before I get into the gist of my bombast, I have a somewhat rhetorical question in regards to Elmer Fudd's, er, Mr. Lieberman's 'loyalties": How does Dick Cheney's cock taste?
ReplyDeleteWell, as ole' Pug Boyden would say, we all choose our own hell. As the over-flowing cesspool of this administration is starting to even wrinkle the probosci of it's staunchest supporters and media bend-over buddies, the pointlessness, nay, absurdity of life is becoming more of a blinking neon sign in the desert of our shared existence somewhere outside of Barstow with the warning- "Last water, 100 miles." So with the finger-popping insouciance of a hormonally challenged teenage dickwad, I protect the remaining scintila of my sanity as I behold these pompous assholes and greet each day with- Duh!
But it confirms what I always assumed about my character. That is, Apollonaire rather than Dionysian it be. Far too reflective and analytical, I ain't jumpin' in the mosh pit of hurled invective and colored confusion. Be it Woodstock or Lollapalooza, I'd be concerned about the mud and lack of sanitation in the Port-o-Potties, as the naked girl danced by me, otherwise wearing a winsome smile and plum-colored nipples. Foghat or Red Hot Chili Diarrhea bleeting out it's best, each performer with four stacks of Marshall 4X10's peaked out and rattling my fillings, what was left of any objective energy blasted outside the skull like the afterburner of an F-16.
Deputy Dawg does Baghdad. He is incapable of irony. He's incapable of comprehending anything but the vacuous reflection of his own sorriness. As each boy and girl, pick a side, falls, he preens and prances and pronounces. For each drop of blood that falls, its one more day in the darkness of hell for his soul. God could never embrace such a cold specter as his. He is consigning his shade to the darkness, the most remote corner away from the light and love of God that is possible. I almost wish some day I could see him standing there, bereft and absolutely astonished that his sorry posturing didn't make him Gabriel.
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