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If there's one thing that you
must know about me by now, it's that I'm a gambling man. I've
yet to meet the wager that I won't stare down, kick in the
shins, and then throw gum in its hair while it writhes in
pain.
And I thought I'd met my match in Rumsfeld. We rendezvoused
in a little-used suite of offices in the level-5 sub-basement
of the Pentagon to shoot some dice between press briefings.
I'd been ghostwriting his spots ever since the first Mother
of All Bombs (MOAB) dropped on the Iraqi high command's pajama
party last week. The usual two-button-suited, Kennedy school
updates were wanting for sizzle. And I brought the grease
and the skillet to his stand-ups before the White House press
corp.
"Shock and awe?" Yeah, that was mine. And it's already
played. Next week's phrase is going to be big.
But now Rummy was blowing across the dice rattling in his
hands like Saddam's rusty sabre. I threw a pile of twenties
at his feet.
"You know, if you were to watch the news, you'd think
we were losing this damn war," I said as he prepared
to roll.
"Whatever." He rolled. Snake eyes. I picked up my
money. "What do they know? MSNBC puts our own helicopter
crashing by accident on a loop and neglects to mention that
we've ground up the Imperial Palace like coffee beans."
"If we're so damn tough, why don't we just roll over
Baghdad tomorrow? Call in the airstrikes, light up the whole
damn city like a book of matches in a fraternity bathroom.
Get it over with."
"I could do that if I wanted to. But you know, those
embedded reporters might notice a million charred bodies,"
said Rummy. He held the dice up to his forehead, trying to
will them to boxcars. "Burned up civilians really luminesce
on those night-vision cameras. PR nightmare."
He rolled again. You know what happened. Money changed hands
Bunsen-ward. Rummy removed a wingtip and slammed it against
the wall a dozen times, the slapping of his shoe-leather echoing
through the empty hallway.
"No, you maniac, don't go barbecuing innocents"
I said, flipping through my fattening stack of Andrew Jacksons.
"You just need a new catchphrase to see you through the
first round of casualties."
"'Shock and Awe?' We already did that."
"That's played." I waved a fan of twenties under
his nose, knowing that makes it angrily, involuntarily vascular.
"Then what?"
"Three words: 'Total Fucking Victory.'"
Rummy took the dice and heaved them down the hallway. I had
the feeling that they landed out of sight, single white dots
pointing north.
"I like it," he said. "That'll play in Tallahassee.
Hell, that might play in Amman." He started to peel off
more bills from his bankroll. Then, thinking better of it,
handed me the whole thing. "Powell's gonna shit himself!"
He just might.
I cannot lie to you. Total Fucking Victory is a
huge hit.
So big, in fact, my trademark application for it stipulates
that anyone using the phrase must not abbreviate or otherwise
foreshorten it. No TFV, no Total F'in Vic, none of it. The
three hottest words in this still fledgling Operation Iraqi
Freedom must be allowed to unfurl like the original Stars
and Stripes over Fort McHenry in 1814, only this time it flies
above the rubble of a five-century old mosque mistaken for
a telecommunication center. From three thousand feet, a minaret
looks a lot like an antenna.
Such are the costs of Total Fucking Victory.
Rumsfeld's press conference couldn't have gone any better
even if it had been presided by Don King and featured two
heavyweights in a choreographed eruption, diving over mic
stands and press tables to demonstrate the ferocity of their
rivalry. In fact, King was in attendance. But without a pair
of boxers at weigh-in, he looked a little lost. I'd overheard
him trying to convince Rummy and Secretary of State/Dove Milquetoast
Colin Powell to just take a fucking run at each other, but
Rummy knew that the numinousness of this martial catchphrase
would carry the day on its own. He merely needed to step aside
and let Total Fucking Victory do its job.
The event was somber and dignified. A giant plasma TV descended
from the Pentagon press room ceiling, and a PowerPoint slide
show displayed a montage of great American military triumphs,
punctuated with images of a nighttime Baghdad spectacularly
aflame. The score, by frequent Oscar nominee John Williams
(who, sadly, failed to achieve victory of his own this past
Sunday) rose to a crescendo of sweeping, majestic strings
and a chorus of ululating Turkish folksingers. Then came a
sound effect suggesting a cartoon anvil being dropped onto
a baby grand piano, before the otherworldly voice of James
Earl Jones intoned, "Total. Fucking. Victory."
The effect was mesmerizing, so I decided to let the unapproved
punctuation slide, for now.
Confetti cannons sprayed the conference room with the "Surrender
Now!" leaflets that have cascaded over the Iraqi countryside
by the millions upon millions, promising a future of sock-hops
and jukeboxes filled with Elvis tunes to all who turned their
backs on Saddam.
A spread featuring roasted garlic hummus and some pita bread
was overturned by a phalanx of heavily-armed members of the
National Guard, and a new table featuring cheeseburgers, pizza,
and apple pie was set up in its stead.
For perhaps the first time in recorded history, the nattering
of the press corp was hushed for a full fifteen seconds --
until a reporter for the Sacramento Bee began to chant the
three words that will turn the tide of the war and international
public opinion toward America, the soon-to-be-triumphant hyperpower:
Total Fucking Victory.
Michael Moore, who up to this point was stewing at the back
of the room, joined the chant. He hastily scribbled "I
*Heart*" over the blood-red "Fuck" above an
unflattering image of our Commander-in-Chief he'd pasted to
the sandwich board that girded his Borscht-belt midsection.
His megaphone rang not with protest, but with the three words
that force the Iraqi dictator from his compound to the surface
streets of Baghdad like a stick of dynamite in a Good Ol'
American Fishin' Hole.
Total Fucking Victory.
The t-shirts were silk-screened and of high, Hanes-Beefy-T
quality, and there were plenty to go around.
In between mouthfuls of pizza, Don King discussed with me
the possibility of formulating three words for an upcoming
Lennox Lewis fight. I jokingly suggested Big British Pansy,
and we shared a knowing laugh. A retainer changed hands and
we agreed to talk once the war is over, once Total Fucking
Victory is achieved.
And once Total Fucking Victory is deployed to the front lines
like a divinely-sanctioned sandstorm, that shouldn't be long
at all.
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"Total
Fucking Victory" replaces "Shock and Awe" campaign
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