Katie Couric swung the door open to the penthouse suite at the Ritz Carlton Huntington Hotel in Pasadena, California. The door slammed on the wall making a very loud boom and bounced back almost hitting Sean McManus as he entered from behind. It was 7:34 PM, but the early evening sun hung over the distant Pasadena hills, cutting through the smog and the 106 degree heat. Katie through her bag down on the couch and walked up to the window looking at the palm trees that were drooping in the oven-like air. Sean McManus closed the door to the hotel room gently.
"I told you I didn't want questions," said Katie.
'Of course you were going to get questions, Katie. That's what happens when you appear at these functions," said Sean.
"This was my idea, this Eye on America tour, not yours. I am in control of this, and I told you this would happen if we came here," said Katie, without turning, still standing at the hotel window.
'You have to face the media at some point, Katie," said Sean.
"I am the fucking media. Do you get that? I don't have to face anything," said Katie.
"You're pissed they asked you about what you were going to wear at your debut?" asked Sean.
"My debut? My debut? You think I am a debutante? It is not my goddamn debut. It is merely my first night in the fucking chair, OK," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And I am going to get tired real fast if all anyone gives a shit about is what I am wearing or what makeup stylist I am using. I am becoming, in fact I am the CBS News Anchor with a capital 'A,' and I dictate what is news and what is not news. And my goddamn wardrobe is not news," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And this fucking Television Critics Association whatever meeting, who the fuck are these people? Television critics? Don't they have anything better to do? The world is blowing up and they are asking me about Dan Rather, like he matters anymore, for chrissake," said Katie.
"You handled everything well. You didn’t lose your cool," said Sean.
"Of course I didn't lose my cool. I smiled through the whole thing. That's what you are paying me for, to keep this fucking smile on my face even though I am dealing with idiots and morons. Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to keep this smile going? It is worth twenty million dollars this fucking smile, twenty mil a year, and I can turn it off anytime I want. Like right now. See. Am I smiling? Am I smiling? No. But with the camera, with the fucking lights, when it matters, I will smile. And I will keep smiling, Sean, to keep you and CBS happy," said Katie as she turned to face Sean McManus, the President of CBS News.
"That's good, Katie," said Sean.
"So you better fucking do one thing, and that is keep me happy. I don't need this shit. I have everything I want. So keep me happy, and I will keep smiling. And don’t think the two million dollar monthly paycheck is keeping me happy. That keeps me neutral. Neutral, got that," said Katie.
"OK. OK. Got it," said Sean.
"A bottle of champagne. Order room service. We'll start there," said Katie as she sat on the couch and removed her high heels.
"Yes. Of course. Of course," said Sean.
Imaginary Moments of Drama, Politics and Culture - By Gary O. Bennett
Thursday, August 7, 2003
Saturday, April 5, 2003
Bashar al-Assad Takes A Call From Mahmoud Ahmadinejad
Bashar al-Assad sat in the ornate wood chair that was flecked with small semi-precious gems in the parlor of one of his palace suites in Damascus. Bashar was wearing casual beige slacks and a white shirt that was not tucked in. It appeared like he had stopped mid-stream while dressing to sit by the large blue land-line telephone that sat on the oak table in front of him. The table was a perfect square, and had identical chairs one each side, all empty but for Bashar's.
Bashar was young and fit but had a lot on his plate. He often felt like he was living in the shadow of his father, Hafez al-Assad, who was President of Syria from 1971 until his death in 2000. Bashar was born in 1965, and so was young in 2000 when he became President of Syria after the death of his father. Bashar did not want to be President. This privilege was meant for his older brother, Basil al-Assad. But Basil died in an automobile accident in 1994. Upon the death of his father, the Syrian Parliament quicky lowered the minimum age for the Office of Syrian President to 34 to accommodate the election of Bashar, who ran unopposed.
Bashar thought about his education. He was a doctor, having completed his medical degree at the University of Damascus, and his specialty in ophthalmology in London hospitals. Bashar spoke fluent French, English, Arabic and Farsi. Farsi was the language of Iran. And at the moment he was waiting for a call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran. Bashar knew why Mahmoud was calling him. Mahmoud believed that the tide was shifting in the favor of Iran and Syria in world affairs, and wanted to make certain that Syria remained firmly on the Iranian mission of destroying Israel and preserving Hezbollah. Bashar hated the conversations with Mahmoud. Mahmoud never listened. Mahmoud preferred to speak and hear himself speak, like he was on some juggernaut that could not and should not be stopped. Mahmoud made Bashar nervous.
The telephone rang.
The telephone rang, and Bashar al-Assad adjusted himself in his chair to prepare for this call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. They were so different, Mahmoud and Bashar, thought Bashar. He viewed Mahmoud as an uncultured loudmouth who had the bad manners to assert the power of being the biggest bully in the playground. Mahmoud came from the street. Bashar came from royalty. Bashar had manners, and he was not personally disgusted by the thought of an Israeli state or Jews in general. He did not adopt the great Islamic mission that Mahmoud seemed to be on, a mission that Bashar feared was going to drag Arabs back to the middle ages.
On the fourth ring, Bashar picked up the phone.
"Hello," Bashar said in perfect Farsi.
"We have an opportunity to deliver several long range missiles to Syria to be trucked to Lebanon. The Israelis are for the moment shy about bombing moving vehicles," said Mahmoud. It was just like Mahmoud to bypass diplomatic pleasantries and launch into the purpose of his call.
"I am concerned about trucking missiles through my country," said Bashar.
"We will truck them on school buses. The Israelis will not strike school buses," said Mahmoud. Of course, Mahmoud ignored Bashar's hesitation.
"They are already using aircraft again," said Bashar.
"Just to support their troops. The missiles will be arriving tonight," said Mahmoud. Unbelievable, thought Bashar. The President of Iran was so presumptuous and had already sent the missiles. Bashar was insulted, but his diplomatic instinct told him to ignore his feelings.
"Maybe it is time to make a deal with the Israelis," said Bashar.
"Our people are suffering in Lebanon. It is time to make the Israelis and the Americans pay for their crimes. I am glad you agree," said Mahmoud.
What a jerk. As if Mahmoud was talking to a child. This was typical of Persians. For centuries they had always thought of themselves as better than Arabs, as more cultured, and smarter and wiser. It annoyed the shit out of Bashar, as it did other Arab leaders, but Mahmoud was so 'in your face' about everything he did. And his playground bully routine appealed to the Arab street, Allah only knows why.
"Where are the missiles being delivered?" asked Bashar.
"I do not have that information," said Mahmoud.
Liar. Mahmoud knew. He just did not trust Bashar.
“One more thing. Make an announcement that the Syrian Army is on high alert,” said Mahmoud.
“They are on high alert. It is a matter of caution,” said Bashar.
“Yes. But make the announcement. It will give the impression that the stakes are being raised,” said Mahmoud.
“I do not think that is wise,” said Bashar.
"I have to go. As a courtesy I wanted to let you know about the missiles. Make the announcement. May Allah be with you. God is great," said Mahmoud. The phone line clicked. Mahmoud had hung up.
Bashar placed the handset in its cradle. He had wished to evolve Syria into a modern state with culture and freedoms and capital investment. But events seemed to swoop him and his nation in directions not intended by Bashar. Bashar had put out feelers to the Americans, overtures to communicate that he wanted to deal and to move forward. But Bush was so deaf, ignoring every overture. In point of fact, Bashar would rather have a meal with an American than with an Iranian. But Bush had painted Bashar as a monster. And his country had pushed him to befriend Iran.
Bashar did not know if he should continue trying to make overtures to the Americans. Indeed, Bashar did not know what to do about the fast moving events and chaos. Indecision sapped Bashar of power. And power is what he needed right now. Power to act. Power to save his nation, and possibly the region. Power to stop Iran.
Bashar was young and fit but had a lot on his plate. He often felt like he was living in the shadow of his father, Hafez al-Assad, who was President of Syria from 1971 until his death in 2000. Bashar was born in 1965, and so was young in 2000 when he became President of Syria after the death of his father. Bashar did not want to be President. This privilege was meant for his older brother, Basil al-Assad. But Basil died in an automobile accident in 1994. Upon the death of his father, the Syrian Parliament quicky lowered the minimum age for the Office of Syrian President to 34 to accommodate the election of Bashar, who ran unopposed.
Bashar thought about his education. He was a doctor, having completed his medical degree at the University of Damascus, and his specialty in ophthalmology in London hospitals. Bashar spoke fluent French, English, Arabic and Farsi. Farsi was the language of Iran. And at the moment he was waiting for a call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran. Bashar knew why Mahmoud was calling him. Mahmoud believed that the tide was shifting in the favor of Iran and Syria in world affairs, and wanted to make certain that Syria remained firmly on the Iranian mission of destroying Israel and preserving Hezbollah. Bashar hated the conversations with Mahmoud. Mahmoud never listened. Mahmoud preferred to speak and hear himself speak, like he was on some juggernaut that could not and should not be stopped. Mahmoud made Bashar nervous.
The telephone rang.
The telephone rang, and Bashar al-Assad adjusted himself in his chair to prepare for this call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. They were so different, Mahmoud and Bashar, thought Bashar. He viewed Mahmoud as an uncultured loudmouth who had the bad manners to assert the power of being the biggest bully in the playground. Mahmoud came from the street. Bashar came from royalty. Bashar had manners, and he was not personally disgusted by the thought of an Israeli state or Jews in general. He did not adopt the great Islamic mission that Mahmoud seemed to be on, a mission that Bashar feared was going to drag Arabs back to the middle ages.
On the fourth ring, Bashar picked up the phone.
"Hello," Bashar said in perfect Farsi.
"We have an opportunity to deliver several long range missiles to Syria to be trucked to Lebanon. The Israelis are for the moment shy about bombing moving vehicles," said Mahmoud. It was just like Mahmoud to bypass diplomatic pleasantries and launch into the purpose of his call.
"I am concerned about trucking missiles through my country," said Bashar.
"We will truck them on school buses. The Israelis will not strike school buses," said Mahmoud. Of course, Mahmoud ignored Bashar's hesitation.
"They are already using aircraft again," said Bashar.
"Just to support their troops. The missiles will be arriving tonight," said Mahmoud. Unbelievable, thought Bashar. The President of Iran was so presumptuous and had already sent the missiles. Bashar was insulted, but his diplomatic instinct told him to ignore his feelings.
"Maybe it is time to make a deal with the Israelis," said Bashar.
"Our people are suffering in Lebanon. It is time to make the Israelis and the Americans pay for their crimes. I am glad you agree," said Mahmoud.
What a jerk. As if Mahmoud was talking to a child. This was typical of Persians. For centuries they had always thought of themselves as better than Arabs, as more cultured, and smarter and wiser. It annoyed the shit out of Bashar, as it did other Arab leaders, but Mahmoud was so 'in your face' about everything he did. And his playground bully routine appealed to the Arab street, Allah only knows why.
"Where are the missiles being delivered?" asked Bashar.
"I do not have that information," said Mahmoud.
Liar. Mahmoud knew. He just did not trust Bashar.
“One more thing. Make an announcement that the Syrian Army is on high alert,” said Mahmoud.
“They are on high alert. It is a matter of caution,” said Bashar.
“Yes. But make the announcement. It will give the impression that the stakes are being raised,” said Mahmoud.
“I do not think that is wise,” said Bashar.
"I have to go. As a courtesy I wanted to let you know about the missiles. Make the announcement. May Allah be with you. God is great," said Mahmoud. The phone line clicked. Mahmoud had hung up.
Bashar placed the handset in its cradle. He had wished to evolve Syria into a modern state with culture and freedoms and capital investment. But events seemed to swoop him and his nation in directions not intended by Bashar. Bashar had put out feelers to the Americans, overtures to communicate that he wanted to deal and to move forward. But Bush was so deaf, ignoring every overture. In point of fact, Bashar would rather have a meal with an American than with an Iranian. But Bush had painted Bashar as a monster. And his country had pushed him to befriend Iran.
Bashar did not know if he should continue trying to make overtures to the Americans. Indeed, Bashar did not know what to do about the fast moving events and chaos. Indecision sapped Bashar of power. And power is what he needed right now. Power to act. Power to save his nation, and possibly the region. Power to stop Iran.
Saturday, November 9, 2002
Madonna Lectures Guy Ritchie On Islam As She Does Yoga In Her Underwear
Salty sweat beads formed on Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone's face and sculpted bare arms as she completed one hundred push ups. Her breasts were held tight by a black running bra, and she was also wearing a black thong. Madonna was as naked as someone could be without being naked. As she finished her last push up, she raised her slightly rippled butt into the air in the yoga pose known as a Down Dog, where her hands and toes were firmly planted on the red mat below, arms and legs straight, and her body forming an inverted "V."
Madonna's hair was long and tied into a pony tail, which hung down, its last few inches lying on the mat under her head as she remained in the Down Dog for a count of fifty. Madonna then stood into a sun salutation, raising her hands into the air, stick straight upwards, her palms together in prayer-form. She took a deep breath in and lowered her arms to her side.
Guy Ritchie sat on a bench drinking out of a small straw that was poked into a small soy milk pack. He looked at his wife, at her arms and legs and face. Almost every muscle was visible, all the striations of muscle tissue revealed themselves through Madonna's aging skin. The blue blood vessels ran up and down Madonna's arm and legs, not to mention Madonna's neck. The unstoppable juggernaut of age betrays itself everywhere, from head to chin. Of course, Madonna's oxygen injections and botox had smoothed out her face, and the strawberry hair and side part gave Madonna a thirty something look. But it appeared to Guy that his wife's passionate, no, obsessive quest to maintain a lean and mean body had actually resulted in making her look older, not younger.
Of course, everyone was in awe that someone 48 years old could possibly be so trim and obviously fit. But the unmentioned, the unspoken truth was that it aged Madonna, much like the marathon runner who looks older than their years. Guy couldn't say this. Not to his wife, of course. Madonna would launch into a fury about Guy's bad habits and poor nutrition. Hence, the soy milk pack Guy was holding in his hand.
Guy hated soy milk. He had given up beer. He had given up whiskey. He didn't smoke anymore. He was nearly a vegetarian. And there was something about the whole life style change imposed on him by his wife that drained Guy of any creative impulse. He had virtually dropped out of filmmaking. He felt lost and confused and supremely healthy. As if his life force had been sucked out of his libido and his penis and sent to his blood chemistry or liver, or some body part that had nothing to do with cranking out a story or shooting a movie.
"I think we should visit a mosque. It's the only way," said Madonna.
Oh Christ, thought Guy. Madonna had lost touch.
Guy Ritchie's wife wants to go to a mosque. Guy was not sure he heard his wife correctly. Madonna was in a twisted position on the floor of the Presidential Suite of the Westin Excelsior Hotel in Rome on the Via Veneto. The suite was the rounded corner of the famous hotel, which Madonna insisted on, or more accurately assumed she would get. The hotel had to move a Saudi oil minister to another suite to accommodate Madonna's expectations. Guy was aware of this because the hotel manager was in a tizzy to satisfy the Saudi minister, who was only mollified when offered the Hotel's Bugatti as a free car to use while in Rome.
"Did you hear me? Guy, I hate when I talk and you don't respond. It's so fucking annoying," said Madonna.
"Yes. I heard you," said Guy.
Guy had almost had enough of Madonna's quest to bring the world together, to somehow solve the mess in the Middle East with two gay dancers, one tattooed with a Star of David, the other with a Star and Crescent. Guy thought the two dancers wrapping themselves around an aging pop star whom was writhing and gyrating her body with sexual gestures was not only weak and shallow, but embarrassing. But no one was going to tell his wife that. No one could tell Madonna anything anymore. She knew best about everything. Certainly about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.
"I don't really want to go to a mosque," said Guy as he sipped some more of the dreadful soy milk through what Guy sometimes thought of as an infant straw.
"That's the point. Of course you don't want to. That is why we will go," said Madonna as she contorted herself into another yoga pose.
"I am not wearing that shit, and I am not lying on the floor praying to Mecca, or whatever the fuck they do,' said Guy.
'You just have no love in your heart, do you. We go to church, we go to synagogue, and now we go to a mosque. You must love the people who hate you. That is the only way. We can bring people together that way," said Madonna as she started to do one-arm push ups. Guy hated when his wife did one-arm push ups, something he could never do, and as far as he was concerned a feat meant only for men.
Guy thought his wife sounded like an evangelist. But that is what happens when someone starts to believe in the truth of their own shit. Guy hungered for that time when the ambiguities of character inspired him, the people who had turmoil, who wallowed in self doubt but carried on nonetheless. But Guy's wife, Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone had long ago lost any self doubt. She was everything that Guy thought was totally boring about character. His wife was on a mission she firmly believed in. Guy loved people who were not sure about anything but slogged though the day just to make it to the evening.
"Yes, sweetheart. You are right. I need to get a little more love in my heart. What mosque do you want to go to? I mean, is there a mosque in Rome?" said Guy.
"We need to go shopping for the right clothes. Mosque clothes," said Madonna.
"You know, I don't think we can be together in the mosque. Don't they separate the men from the women?" asked Guy.
"We need to start a reform Islamic movement. Reform Muslims, like Reform Jews. We shall go into a mosque and start to enlighten them," said Madonna as she finished her one-arm pushups and stood, removing the tie from her pony tail letting the long strawberry hair fall over her marble-like shoulders.
"I think you are dreaming," said Guy.
"Typical. That is why you are who you are. I'm going shopping. Try to do something useful today, OK," said Madonna as she removed her running bra and exposed her round but sagging breasts. Madonna wiped the sweat from under each breast with the running bra, lifting each one with one hand as she daubed the bra on the red skin underneath. Guy thought that his wife’s breasts were looking baggy.
Madonna went into the large bathroom and shut the door. Guy Ritchie finished his soy pack and though it on the floor. He was going to do something useful. He was going to find an English pub in Rome and have a few beers. He was going to try to find himself again.
Madonna's hair was long and tied into a pony tail, which hung down, its last few inches lying on the mat under her head as she remained in the Down Dog for a count of fifty. Madonna then stood into a sun salutation, raising her hands into the air, stick straight upwards, her palms together in prayer-form. She took a deep breath in and lowered her arms to her side.
Guy Ritchie sat on a bench drinking out of a small straw that was poked into a small soy milk pack. He looked at his wife, at her arms and legs and face. Almost every muscle was visible, all the striations of muscle tissue revealed themselves through Madonna's aging skin. The blue blood vessels ran up and down Madonna's arm and legs, not to mention Madonna's neck. The unstoppable juggernaut of age betrays itself everywhere, from head to chin. Of course, Madonna's oxygen injections and botox had smoothed out her face, and the strawberry hair and side part gave Madonna a thirty something look. But it appeared to Guy that his wife's passionate, no, obsessive quest to maintain a lean and mean body had actually resulted in making her look older, not younger.
Of course, everyone was in awe that someone 48 years old could possibly be so trim and obviously fit. But the unmentioned, the unspoken truth was that it aged Madonna, much like the marathon runner who looks older than their years. Guy couldn't say this. Not to his wife, of course. Madonna would launch into a fury about Guy's bad habits and poor nutrition. Hence, the soy milk pack Guy was holding in his hand.
Guy hated soy milk. He had given up beer. He had given up whiskey. He didn't smoke anymore. He was nearly a vegetarian. And there was something about the whole life style change imposed on him by his wife that drained Guy of any creative impulse. He had virtually dropped out of filmmaking. He felt lost and confused and supremely healthy. As if his life force had been sucked out of his libido and his penis and sent to his blood chemistry or liver, or some body part that had nothing to do with cranking out a story or shooting a movie.
"I think we should visit a mosque. It's the only way," said Madonna.
Oh Christ, thought Guy. Madonna had lost touch.
Guy Ritchie's wife wants to go to a mosque. Guy was not sure he heard his wife correctly. Madonna was in a twisted position on the floor of the Presidential Suite of the Westin Excelsior Hotel in Rome on the Via Veneto. The suite was the rounded corner of the famous hotel, which Madonna insisted on, or more accurately assumed she would get. The hotel had to move a Saudi oil minister to another suite to accommodate Madonna's expectations. Guy was aware of this because the hotel manager was in a tizzy to satisfy the Saudi minister, who was only mollified when offered the Hotel's Bugatti as a free car to use while in Rome.
"Did you hear me? Guy, I hate when I talk and you don't respond. It's so fucking annoying," said Madonna.
"Yes. I heard you," said Guy.
Guy had almost had enough of Madonna's quest to bring the world together, to somehow solve the mess in the Middle East with two gay dancers, one tattooed with a Star of David, the other with a Star and Crescent. Guy thought the two dancers wrapping themselves around an aging pop star whom was writhing and gyrating her body with sexual gestures was not only weak and shallow, but embarrassing. But no one was going to tell his wife that. No one could tell Madonna anything anymore. She knew best about everything. Certainly about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.
"I don't really want to go to a mosque," said Guy as he sipped some more of the dreadful soy milk through what Guy sometimes thought of as an infant straw.
"That's the point. Of course you don't want to. That is why we will go," said Madonna as she contorted herself into another yoga pose.
"I am not wearing that shit, and I am not lying on the floor praying to Mecca, or whatever the fuck they do,' said Guy.
'You just have no love in your heart, do you. We go to church, we go to synagogue, and now we go to a mosque. You must love the people who hate you. That is the only way. We can bring people together that way," said Madonna as she started to do one-arm push ups. Guy hated when his wife did one-arm push ups, something he could never do, and as far as he was concerned a feat meant only for men.
Guy thought his wife sounded like an evangelist. But that is what happens when someone starts to believe in the truth of their own shit. Guy hungered for that time when the ambiguities of character inspired him, the people who had turmoil, who wallowed in self doubt but carried on nonetheless. But Guy's wife, Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone had long ago lost any self doubt. She was everything that Guy thought was totally boring about character. His wife was on a mission she firmly believed in. Guy loved people who were not sure about anything but slogged though the day just to make it to the evening.
"Yes, sweetheart. You are right. I need to get a little more love in my heart. What mosque do you want to go to? I mean, is there a mosque in Rome?" said Guy.
"We need to go shopping for the right clothes. Mosque clothes," said Madonna.
"You know, I don't think we can be together in the mosque. Don't they separate the men from the women?" asked Guy.
"We need to start a reform Islamic movement. Reform Muslims, like Reform Jews. We shall go into a mosque and start to enlighten them," said Madonna as she finished her one-arm pushups and stood, removing the tie from her pony tail letting the long strawberry hair fall over her marble-like shoulders.
"I think you are dreaming," said Guy.
"Typical. That is why you are who you are. I'm going shopping. Try to do something useful today, OK," said Madonna as she removed her running bra and exposed her round but sagging breasts. Madonna wiped the sweat from under each breast with the running bra, lifting each one with one hand as she daubed the bra on the red skin underneath. Guy thought that his wife’s breasts were looking baggy.
Madonna went into the large bathroom and shut the door. Guy Ritchie finished his soy pack and though it on the floor. He was going to do something useful. He was going to find an English pub in Rome and have a few beers. He was going to try to find himself again.
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Saddam Hussein Wishes He Could Help The Americans
The bang of metal on metal woke me again. It was always the same wake up call. The barrel of an American rifle hitting the metal bars on my little room. The walls were cinderblocks, the floor was poured concrete, the cot was a metal frame. The toilet was missing its cover. The desk was metal, as well as the chair. The sounds of metal on metal, hard surfaces against hard surfaces surrounded me, all night and most of the day. The only thing soft in my life was the mattress and the sheets. My flesh. My flesh was soft. The Americans at least gave me new white sheets every day, and my soft flesh would nestle in the sheets every night, but also often during the day. My flesh was getting less soft, though, as the days passed. I am on a hunger strike, you see. I have not eaten in days, maybe weeks. I drink. The Americans give me water. I know they are putting some vitamins or minerals in the water to secretly provide nutrition. That's OK. I let them think that I do not know, but I like it just the same. Afterall, this is for show, my hunger strike. It is a symbolic thing. So if everyone thinks I think that I am not getting nutrition even tough I am, then that is just fine with me.
The Americans rotate the Marines so no one ever develops a relationship with me. Sometimes I think that is good. Sometimes I think that is bad. I would like to talk to someone. I do know English, sort of. I can understand the American Marines when they talk to each other. I want to tell them how to run things in Iraq. I want to tell them how to do it. I actually wish to help them because my whole country is falling apart and the Americans do not seem to know how to glue it back together. They do not seem to understand that I was actually more like them than they fully understood. Religion is a big deal here in Iraq, but I tired to make it less of a big deal. Because I understood something that the Americans seemed to not understand, and that is many of my fellow Iraqis, mostly the Shia, desire to convert the world to their point of view, and so the only way to keep them from pursuing their mission is to make them concentrate on something else, like staying alive.
I kept the Shia on edge. I kept the Kurds on edge, who were really a different problem. I liked the Kurds. They were good fighters and they were organized, and they were sensible. But they had a lot of oil and they felt that they should control it, and they also wanted their own damn country. So I had to get tough with them. But now that I think about it, I should of forged an alliance with them so we together could undercut the Shia. But now the Americans have unleashed the Shia, and they are raging and they are mad and they are itching to start spreading their shit. Look how fast they have moved since unleashed. Of course, they have the help of the Iranians. The Iranians are on top of the mountain now. They are sitting high and mighty with lots of money, with their loudmouth president, and thinking that they are somehow more moral than everyone else.
That is the problem. The minute someone things they are more moral than the next guy, they no longer become sensible. The way I see it is, you assess a situation from a practical standpoint, not a religious or moral one, and you proceed from there. I wish the Americans would go back to their practical ways. I wish the Americans would stop with their high and mighty goals of spreading democracy and start thinking about money and power and alliances again. I would alter the way I speak of things. I would crush the Shia in the only way they can be crushed, with supreme and ugly force. They are like cockroaches. And they need to be exterminated. I understand that. It is a shame that the Americans did not consult with before they conquered me. I would have given them a little advice. Now they have created this huge mess that will keep spreading unless someone does something about it. The Shia are worse than AIDS. When will someone figure that out.
The Americans rotate the Marines so no one ever develops a relationship with me. Sometimes I think that is good. Sometimes I think that is bad. I would like to talk to someone. I do know English, sort of. I can understand the American Marines when they talk to each other. I want to tell them how to run things in Iraq. I want to tell them how to do it. I actually wish to help them because my whole country is falling apart and the Americans do not seem to know how to glue it back together. They do not seem to understand that I was actually more like them than they fully understood. Religion is a big deal here in Iraq, but I tired to make it less of a big deal. Because I understood something that the Americans seemed to not understand, and that is many of my fellow Iraqis, mostly the Shia, desire to convert the world to their point of view, and so the only way to keep them from pursuing their mission is to make them concentrate on something else, like staying alive.
I kept the Shia on edge. I kept the Kurds on edge, who were really a different problem. I liked the Kurds. They were good fighters and they were organized, and they were sensible. But they had a lot of oil and they felt that they should control it, and they also wanted their own damn country. So I had to get tough with them. But now that I think about it, I should of forged an alliance with them so we together could undercut the Shia. But now the Americans have unleashed the Shia, and they are raging and they are mad and they are itching to start spreading their shit. Look how fast they have moved since unleashed. Of course, they have the help of the Iranians. The Iranians are on top of the mountain now. They are sitting high and mighty with lots of money, with their loudmouth president, and thinking that they are somehow more moral than everyone else.
That is the problem. The minute someone things they are more moral than the next guy, they no longer become sensible. The way I see it is, you assess a situation from a practical standpoint, not a religious or moral one, and you proceed from there. I wish the Americans would go back to their practical ways. I wish the Americans would stop with their high and mighty goals of spreading democracy and start thinking about money and power and alliances again. I would alter the way I speak of things. I would crush the Shia in the only way they can be crushed, with supreme and ugly force. They are like cockroaches. And they need to be exterminated. I understand that. It is a shame that the Americans did not consult with before they conquered me. I would have given them a little advice. Now they have created this huge mess that will keep spreading unless someone does something about it. The Shia are worse than AIDS. When will someone figure that out.
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