Monday, July 19, 2004

I hate the world-wide internet
or: What to make of fan fiction featuring yourself?

I really don't know what to think of DARPA.


They can be strange characters, that is for sure.


I'll never forget that weekly movie-night get-together institution established by yours truly and some favored DOD buds (one time we put up a "no State department surrender-monkeys!!!" sign on the front door but we had to take it down when Bolton got his ridiculous handlebar facial ornament in a twirl over being called a "surrender-monkey." That incident almost got him as pissed off as when we wouldn't stop teasing him about being dubbed "human scum" by the North Koreans).


We decided to invite our geeky brethren to watch "Minority Report" and indulge in those first-class dark-chocolate brownies that you can only get at Trader Joes (yes, I understand that there must be making some kind of sin against the conservative god by patronizing a store famous for clerks in Hawaiian shirts and food stuffs with a minimum of 10 grams of insoluble fiber per serving... well, I am a rich man, but even I cannot keep up with the volume of wine that Wolfy can go through, so I must stock up on the "two-buck-chuck" Charles Shaw shiraz before he darkens my door. The wine is taking a toll: did you know that Wolfy is only 35? Not even Jerry Garcia aged so badly. But alas, if you are going to ride the night train, my friend, then you must pay the toll).

Feith and I were having a swell time heckling that diminutive follower of Lafayette Ronald Hubbard, that actor who has confused good acting with a "intense" stare from piercing eyes that have been subjected to hundreds of $1000/hour hypnosis sessions. The infamous Top Gun, Tom Cruise!

Ha! Maybe Rupert will buy the rights for that fatuous waste of silver-nitrate and I'll be able to submit my own director's cut:

Scene 1. Gratuitous Cruise Shot.

Scene 2. Cruise sucked into jet turbine, becomes a very finely ground grade B actor-meat smoothie with overtones of high-volatility petrochemical.


But back to the issue at hand!


We weren't five minutes into that "film" until the backroom boys were zapping each other's retinas with their pocket-laser-pointers. I'm sure that can't be very good for them, but I knew their eyesight was being sacrificed for the future of biometrics. Later on we were more than convinced our guests were afflicted with Asberger's when one asked me if I "I am sorry to bother you but do you have a sterile room suitable for surgery and a small supply of simple electronic components? We are interested in the implications of subcortical stimulation using timed charges delivered to produce controlled artificial sensations of reality. Also, we will have to converse with Marvin Minsky. May we check if he exists at his home by telephonic means? Do your religious views prohibit us from using laboratory animals in what may be mortality-inducing experiments? If so, we can relocate to the garage. Elseif we will perform said experiments in your house."


As you can imagine, I was a little alarmed. Rat blood is so hard to clean up, even with scotch-guarded rugs.


However, Feith convinced me that had these geeks not been allowed to take apart every lamp and television in McGeorge Bundy's house, the first model of the internet may not have been created.


So we let them play. But next time, we will now better, for we now know what dark fruits their brilliance will bear!


Well, my beloved audience, I was ready to hop into a time machine and make sure the internet never happened after I "googled" myself. I saw something that was at first disturbing, then surreal, then somewhat arousing, then physically reminiscent of that first glass of cheap red wine consumed on an empty stomach at the age of ten (I could have sworn that I lost my frontal lobe from the vomiting).


You will not believe it, but there is such a thing as "Neo-con Slash literature."


All the followers of Bloom and Strauss were there, and we were performing amazing acts on one another, some familiar, some that I had to look up on various erotic sites.


The quality (and I use this word with reservation) of the writings varied. I thought the one where a younger Rumsfeld and I were technicians in a ICBM silo beneath the soils of Nebraska was quite good. We pass the long hours by telling each other our deepest secrets... when one day the call comes: we have to deploy our prodigious payload to protect the United States. We hold hands and turn the keys as we realize we have 20 minutes to express our secret feelings for one another. What ensues is an illustrated(!) graphic novel executed in gratuitous detail. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.


Well, if that was one side of the quality-spectrum rainbow, the following story was on the other.


I was reminded of grade-school literature: strings of declaratives executed in a simple vocabulary. I can't do it any justice, here are some excerpts.

Somewhere secret, in one of the deep dark depths of the pentagon:

...
[Perle] and Bolton once had a fling, but Dick dumped him for growing a moustache.

...
"When you toss my salad, I can't tell where I end and you begin," he had offered as a reason, but now working so close to him had rekindled the flame.

...
"Twat's that you say? I cunt hair you. I have got an ear infucktion, SIR!" said Cambone, laughing and almost falling out of his chair onto his cute, tight ass.

...
Wolfie wondered: how long had it been since he had even sucked a cock? The last was a "quickie" blow in the Safeway bathroom with the lights off-- don't ask, don't tell.

...
"Yes, Secretary. I can feel the lust and the distraction he is feeling in his horniness," Krauthammer said. "He is in definite need of a good porking."

"Well go on boy! Serve your country by servicing him! Double-time!", Cheney exclaimed, "Hallelujah!"

...
"This isn't any position you'll read about in Men's Health: They call it the J. Edgar Hoover, and there's a reason its classified."


"Ohhhh, sssssss, ahhhhhh," he moaned and groaned, as mini-orgasms exploded like cluster bombs hitting the earth.

...
"Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, piss, shit! Fuck! Piss! Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Piss, piss, piss! Shit, shit, shit! FUCK!"
Perle sighed to himself privately as he thought: "When I say 'Talk dirty to me'', I don't mean this. After all this time you should know what I want... talking about Israeli tanks rolling into Tehran sent me to the moon." Perle began to fret as the wondered: "Do we even know each other anymore?"

...
Wolfy began soaping. He soaped his arms and chest. Then he soaped his cock and reached around to soap his ass. Then he reached down to soap up his legs. That was the moment Perle had been waiting for, and he entered the shower.
"Surprise!" A very horny Dick said as he boned young Wolfie up the ass. "Who's the Ubermensch now, huh?"

...
"Arrrgh! What the fuck?!" Cheney exclaimed as his load shot in his pants. He hoped the rest of the NSC wouldn't suspect anything. The news of Baghdad's fall were stirring, to say the least.


"A handy modification of the neural stimulator, Chief," Cheney said, grinning widely. "Poindexter, your state of the art sex toys are worth their weight in gold."

[Don't drink anything before reading this one]
"Arrrrrrgh!"
[...]
"Hunnnnhhhhhhh!"
[...]
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
[...]
"Q!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
[...]
"Aaaannnggghhh!"
[...]
"Unnnghhhh!"
[...]
"Ahhhhhhuuuuuuuuhhh,"
[...]
"Mggmgmhhhhhhhmmmmghhh!"
[...]
"Ungggh, hunnnhhh,"
[...]
oooooooooooooooooh,
... After the climax
he pounded the ground with his fists and ripped the head off his burning penis.

Monday, July 12, 2004

Ari, you are a crafty one. You'll let Shim-Peri have your thigh, and just enough rope to hang himself.

Ho ho ho, foreign minister indeed! Let us see that cheery countenance once you have jousted with the A-rab.

The first duty of a true revolutionary is to stay out of jail, and attack in feigned retreat is no vice!

Thursday, June 24, 2004

Oh this is just Rich.

Mr Cheney, you are a riot.

I owe you a drink.

Saying "Go fuck yourself" to Patrick Leahy? Who put you up to it? I'll wager you good money that Norm Podhoretz bet you his newly-minted medal of freedom that you wouldn't do it.

Sucks to be you, Norm.

When VH1 runs out of material for its countdowns and starts its "top 100 Senate floor instances of being served" or what-have-you, I will be crying high crimes and misdemeanors if you don't get position number two (we all know that time when Andrew Jackson beat the living crap out of his attempted assassin with his cane deserves number one).


Well, I actually know one way you could one-up this one and put Jackson to shame.


We all know that when God closes a door, only then do you notice how flimsy the hinges are. You get my drift.

Dick, as a friend, I have to break it to you: your chances of beating Bill Frist for the VP slot are getting slimmer by the day. The newest Annenburg poll says it all:

Q:"Vice President Dick Cheney reminds you of what famous figure? Write-in answers are encouraged"
  • My overweight ex-marine gym teacher, the one who's pungent breath and sadistic veltangshung indicated a man slowly obtaining revenge on the world somehow through pickling his liver with Cossack Vodka 42%
  • Wilfred Brimley after a lifetime of methamphetamine abuse 12%
  • The gumdrop king from "Candy Land", once an honorable beast, now a disturbed confection determined to conquer all of the sugared lands 32%
  • Phillip Seymour Hoffman's character in Happiness 13%
Its baaaaaad, Dicky. The sheer standardization of their answers either is indicative of your sheer negative impact on the collective unconscious or the inexorable drift of media consolidation leading to the end of independent thought. Honestly, I was surprised no WWF characters were cited.

Back to my point. The door just slammed shut, and as your friend, I want to hand you a
crowbar.


This judge, I kid you not, was a serial masturbator, a public ball-shaver, a penis pump user, a true erotic maestro of the bench.

Have you seen CSPAN's ratings recently? How much self-abuse do you think you could get away with before Wonkette catches on, (oh Anna Maria Cox, if the deity descended before me right now and offered me the choice of a night with you and the Washingtonienne in the four seasons and the joy of Pyongyang hit with 40 megatons of justice.... I guarantee you my dear, I'd have to think about it). I think you'd be able to hit the President pro-tem at least four times in that window of opportunity.


American Pie 4: affairs of state. Cameo: Dick Cheney. Or 'There's something about Robert Byrd'. You would win the war on terror single-handedly; after this escapade, any right-minded religious fanatic would save their explosives and simply wait for the capitol to be turned into a pillar of salt.


Don't say I never gave you anything, friend.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Happiness is the little things.

Iraq is the tactical pivot, Saudi Arabia the strategic pivot, Egypt the prize.
Iraq is the tactical pivot, Saudi Arabia the strategic pivot, Egypt the prize.
Iraq is the tactical pivot, Saudi Arabia the strategic pivot, Egypt the prize.

I won’t tell you it hasn’t been a hard couple of days, but this is what it’s all about. They pay you, day in, day out, for Years, so that, ONE DAY, when called upon, you can respond, you DO respond, your training At Its Peak, and save the day.

Chalabai is gone, and he’s taking Tenet with him. Allawi is in, the infidels have succumbed to strife, Democracy and Reason shall surely prevail, and Riding in Cars with Boys is on Oxygen.

Saturday, May 29, 2004

Operation Maple-Yarmulke Fury

Dick C., our man in the VP, sent me a lovely bottle of carraway schnapps to celebrate the launching of my internet presence. After Renee, my current froggy food-taster (who says the French aren't good for anything?) had a sample (can't be too careful, especially with Dicky C., ho ho ho) and pronounced it 'une vintage excellente, redolent avec notes de honey et spice, vigorous, mais subtle, et finis avec un brilliant coup de grace, beaucoup comme toi, eminence, honh honh honh,' I gave him the customary slap on the nuts and sent him away.

Six nips later I was applying for a job at Mossad when I remembered, I'm already a member.

It was then that Feith called, to remind me that the canucks are Enemies of Democracy everywhere; canadia is truly the France of Our Western Hemisphere.

It was then that Ari called, saying he had my application in front of him (bless our internet age) and perhaps he could find a use to put me to. We had a good laugh about that one. I expressed my concern about the vicious subversion practiced by my Northern neighbour, and asked him if my first assignment couldn't be a little triage. "I emplore you Prime Minister," I said, "Enemies of Democracy anywhere are Friends of Terror everywhere!"

He said, "So then it's a Chavez-Arafat-Martin circlejerk triangle?"

"Fuck you and the failed-state you rode in on," I shouted back with just a faint schoolgirl giggle. "I'll see you in The Hague!"

Well we laughed so hard, I darn near puked.

I asked him if he had gotten the Vice President's little present, and he said that the bulldozers worked great, really knocked the houses right down all the way to the ground, and I said no no, the little little present. I heard a tinkling of glass then, and Ari said "notes de honey et spice."

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Can't sleep.

Watching videos of CNN from the first gulf war. Usually does the trick.

Sigh.

Maybe Norm Podhoretz is still up. I think he's screening his phone calls since that whole Chalabi thing. Its got him pretty down. Well, no matter how bad things get, I still know our man will still get his day in the sun. You just have to have hope.

Hope is what gets me out of bed in the morning.

Another small victory for freedom

Another country opens its dark curtains of terror to let the light of reason in. Sit down. Read the article and be moved.

Hugo Chavez and the Middle East Peace Process

Its remarkable that no one has pointed out the sheer importance of the Chavez/Palestinian axis.

It seems counter-intuitive, but please keep in mind that I have been working in defense for so many years. I've seen lots of classified information that would make your head spin.

I have it on authority from a Venezuelan exiled to the United States by Chavez goons that his Bolivarian-ness has a portrait of Yasser Arafat framed next to his autographed photo of him and Fidel Castro at a burlesque show.

What can I say. I was intrigued. I was wrong about the alliance of the Falklands Islands and the PLO. But the Brits took care of the Falklands, so that was defused promptly. Better neutralize them than get it wrong and see Buenos Aires go up in an atomic holocaust, I say.

I was also slightly wrong about the collusion between the Tutsis and the Hutus to invade Israel.

but I digress!

Back to Chavez. If you read the notes of the OPEC records, there are some interesting patterns. I sent the notes from the Venezuelan delegation to David Wurmser and he was able to obtain the most amazing results. He spent a couple of months locked in a room trying to decode their messages to the Saudis. He put in so much work, and eventually the code was broken. He used the same cipher that was used for the Bible Code and got these following messages.

"Gay cossacks intel. Mobilize immediately. Dick Clark is quelled at midnight."

"Less talk. More volcanic rock."

"Hugo smharm kasper bombing telethon hebron."

"Cattle are barbed when the well goes limp."

"honey good pony hop arafat. beaver cleaver. cleaved kingdom. nitroglycerin."

"hugo chavez makes up for awefoafew length awefafaioeawa in girth. satisfy arafat."

We need to act before it is too late. Call your congressman.

The time for Iran is nigh

Ladies and Gentlemen, I once said behind closed doors that Baghdad was a start, but Tehran was where the real men were going.

Well, if this isn't a casus belli, I have no idea what is.

According to the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Iranians duped our government into attacking Iraq for them.

This is not all bad. No one can say that the world is not a better place without Saddam Hussein in power.

However: we cannot be made into laughing stocks. The United States will not be duped as long as strong men are in power.

Iran also plays finely into the overall scheme for peace in the mid-east. When a democratic country is established there, We will see not one but two major middle eastern nations friendly to Israel and America, open to free trade and civilization.

The Palestinians will have a new homeland in Trans-Jordan, The Jordanians will have a new homeland in Iraq, the Iraqis will have a new homeland in Iran, the Iranians will have a new homeland in Afghanistan, The Afghanis will have a new home in Pakistan, and the Pakistanis will have a new homeland in India.

And then Iran, Pakistan, India, Israel and Al Qaeda will turn their nuclear weapons on Saudi Arabia.

This is a flawless plan. I imagine that the shock waves of fear will send his Bolivarian-ness Hugo Chavez fleeing in fear under Fidel Castro's bed.

Kim Jong-Il? I know what I would do in his position. The magnificence of the geo-strategic land-slide will be so immense that he will have no choice but to stand down in fear for his life.

By the way, I believe the Bush administration has really lost their bearings by initiating any form of diplomacy with them. I'd remind them of the parable about the insane man with a loaded handgun, told offhand in class by Leo Strauss (Wolfy took such good notes, I think Allan Bloom was also fond of this tale).

Issac and Ishmael (no relation to the sons of Abraham, names just used for the purpose of the story) happen to meet each other at a wall. Both men are armed, as it is their right to be able to protect themselves.

Ishmael was clearly disturbed, his hair long and unkempt, his face covered in a swarthy beard. He muttered to a bird in his hand about his desire to kill Issac, for Issac was rich and intelligent; he was resentful of Issac's literacy, his nice clothing and civilized way of life.

Issac, being smart, knew that he could not let this lunatic run free. So he bravely cornered him against the wall and told him to surrender, pointing his gun at the insane man. Ismael capitulated and gave his gun over immediately, for he knew that Issac was truly right. By being cornered by a man with a loaded gun, Ismael for the first time understood that Issac was good, and he was evil.

So this is the lesson: the best way to deal with an insane man with a gun is to corner him and threaten him. We are cornering Kim Jong-Il, but we aren't being nearly as threatening as we should be.

Take a note, President Bush.

I was confounded by the most stunning puzzle.

Have you ever heard of a 'Chinese finger trap?'

I'm not sure what's Chinese about it this peculiar woven tube. But after about 200 games of skee-ball, I was able to exchange these tickets for a brand new trap.

I actually had to cut a corner or two. Or three. It was really easy. All I had to do was find the first 10 year old with a pituitary problem, put my arm around his shoulder, and point at a young goober whose pockets were overflowing with tickets.

"Son," I said, "That young man was standing next to me at the urinal a second ago. You would not believe what he was telling me."

He was interested. I also was holding on quite hard, he didn't have much of a choice about whether to listen.

"That dirty little boy had some lurid things to say about your mother. I may have to draw a diagram, I'm not exactly sure how detailed sexual education is nowadays."

This one always works. His eyebrows perked up.

"I'll just give you the tip of the iceberg. The tip is always the sharpest, so please don't kill the messenger. He's managed to tunnel through the walls of your house, all the way behind the mirror of your Mom's bathroom."

I didn't have to hold on tight anymore. His teeth were grinding.

"I won't go into details, but he says that he likes to smear himself with butter while ... no hold on, stay with me here... videotaping her come out of the shower. He sells the videotapes to the chain smoking loonies in the park."

A couple of minutes later I had my tickets. I think the overgrown young man is before a juvenile judge right now, but I managed to get out of there quickly.

I digress. Back to the finger trap!

Wolfowitz and I were at dinner, and he told me what the purpose of the toy is. You stick your fingers in either side, and then try to get them out. So I shoved my two index fingers inside.

They got stuck.

We didn't know what to do: the harder we pulled, the harder the trap stuck to my fingers. Paul even helped me yank as hard as I could; after a half an hour my fingers were sore and bloody.

After the blood started to flow, there was no way in hell that I would press further into the trap, to give in to its clutches. We all know the story of Munich and its moral: cede not an inch to your enemy, the path will be hard, but in the end, good will prevail over evil. We were bigger than the trap and there was no fucking way we were going to give up.

Long story short, John Poindexter came over with a blowtorch an hour later and seared the thing off. I don't think there was any other way. My fingers are a little singed and I'm still pulling plastic threads out, but I didn't cede a goddamned millimeter to that ridiculous tool.

I'd say it was a good day, overall.