The War of the Posers

“Heroic?” What-ever!? I mean, can they score a sweet VIP booth at Crobar?

And besides, uh, camo makes my ass look fat.


Mr. Gilliard tires of the whey-face spawn of Republican privilege cheerleading for their Fake War and Liar President as they whiz in cozened comfort between dorm, dram and doxy in Daddy’s Beemer. Talking up a blithe storm about how ooey-gooey their widdle hearts get with the Freedom and the Marching and such… just so long as the actual dirty work of war and death is left to the little people.

Turning a striking shade of Strident Red (it’s the New Black) when keening on about Iraq, and rurgitating undigested lumps of GOP Talking points with such projectile vomiting firehose force that their wee, mustard seed testicles scurry up into their body cavity for warmth and safety…

(Well, the girls that it. Obviously the male of this species has no genitalia whatsoever.)

…they then blanch a positively flourescent shade of Coward Yellow and scamper into their wallets and cower behind trifles at the mere suggestion that maybe they owe it to The Cause and The Country to actually ante up some of daddy’s precious dynastic blue blood to back up their Big Sassy Patrioting bluster.

I have to believe that Mr. Gilliard is musing at least a little about the wisdom of the Bard when he asks the musical question: Is the Play the Thing, to catch the conscience of the gutless little chickenhawk King?

Here’s a taste;

Speaking of cults, I've been thinking about our little Republican friends who refuse to enlist. I think more direct methods of persuasion might be in order.

Me: So, Young Republican, I'm here to take you to the recuriting center.

YR: Uh, where?

ME: The recruiting center. It's time you enlisted.

YR: But I have a year of college to go

ME: So? Lots of National Guardsmen were deployed with college to finish., what makes you so special?

YR: But they chose to do that

ME: Yes they did. And now it's time for you to choose

YR: What?

ME: Your MOS. Infantry or MP.

YR: What?

ME: Say What one more time motherfucker. Say what one more motherfucking time, ok.

…

YR: Why me?

ME: Did you write the following: "it is essential that we support the President in Iraq. Strength and resuloution are our best tools against the Islamofascists".

YR: Yeah. So?

ME: Are you a liar?

YR: Liar? No.

ME: Well, motherfucker, what do you think "support the president means"?

YR: To defend his policy against liberal attacks?

ME: Nope. It means your ass is getting on a bus to Jackson or Parris Island. You choose. Because we need more troops and well, who better than Young Republicans. Hell, they hired
you guys to run the CPA. Now, you get to patrol Iraq.
…

Now go read the Whole Thing.

Maybe after Mr. G’s working-over, maybe they’ll be ready for a little “All My Sons”.

Maybe a little “Antigone.”

Maybe “Medea”.

But if it doesn’t count towards their final grade, and they can't pay some scholarship-and-Pell-grant serf to do it for them, I kinda doubt it