Note to Bob from Accounting’s international readers:
this weekend Americans celebrate Independence Day (also know
as The Fourth of July), commemorating the signing of the United
States’ Declaration of Independence from Great Britain.
This set off an historical chain of events in which we’ve
defeated your nation in various “hot” and “cold”
wars, unless your country happens to be named “Vietnam.”
I write this dispatch from a
very comfortable leather recliner in the forward cabin of
Air Force Two, the private transport of our Vice President.
You are probably thinking, big deal, give me a call when they
make an action-thriller about that plane. Air Force One is
currently unavailable as CIA operatives (acting on an anonymous
tip from yours truly) comb the aircraft with a blacklight
in search of an old semen stain left by one William Jefferson
Clinton while escorting the Hooters All-Hot-Wing team to a
special reception at Camp David, a trip listed in all official
travelogues as “international gender equity summit”
at a taxpayer expense of $340,000. The national news weeklies,
I have found, never tire of a good Presidential splooge story
for which I am handsomely compensated.
But my decidedly second-class accommodations are whisking
me back to Baghdad, where I recently served a tour-of-duty
as an embedded reporter sending real-time dispatches on the
effect of the Iraqi war on Scandinavian sex workers.
You see, Donald Rumsfeld’s throwing a Fourth of July
barbecue at Saddam Hussein’s former imperial compound
(now rebranded as the Halliburton/Outback Steakhouse Palace)
and demands my presence on his beach volleyball team. And
as the architect of Total
Fucking Victory, the PR campaign that followed the comparatively
limp “Shock and Awe” offering of the war’s
tumultuous early days. Where better to celebrate freedom and
the birth of our nation than in a place where we’ve ushered
in an uncompromised American-led peace relatively unmarred
by occasional plundering of supposed irreplaceable cultural
artifacts that closely resemble rubble? Every nation first
gallops on the colt-legs of mistakenly-detonated bunker buster
collateral damage before magnificently galloping in hyperpower
hegemony.
Besides, Rummy really knows how to throw a Fourth event. Last
year’s soiree in Kabul featured an impromptu concert
by the Foo Fighters while Matthew Perry was strung up piñata-style
and beaten with reeds on the soles of his bare feet until
he agreed to do another year of Friends, our Defense Secretary’s
favorite sitcom.
I can’t wait to see what fun Baghdad holds. The guest
list is always under tighter control than the President’s
nap schedule, but the hot rumor is that Rummy’s developed
a serious Sex in the City jones, ordered seven hundred pounds
of lime jello in an inflatable kiddie pool, and has the numbers
of Sarah Jessica Parker’s and Kim Catrall’s publicists
in his speed-dial.
Sarah Jessica’s never been one to do nudity or anything
even within a whiff of girl-on-girl, but Rummy can be pretty
persuasive when it comes to matters of the security of our
fine Nation, now two-hundred and twenty-seven years young.
Just ask a certain beret-wearing former Iraqi dictator who’ll
have a private seat reserved for him in a combination tiger-cage/dunk-tank
besides the volleyball court. As the expression goes, every
party needs a pooper.
God bless America.
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Above: Rummy gets 'crazy patriotic' at his
4th of July party
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