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Please excuse this reprisal of an earlier post. Since polling now indicates the bastard should show fake empathy, he is now meeting with loved ones of those lost in his bullshit war. The thread concerning this in LBN (and picture of * in yet another military jacket) regarding this has my blood boiling, so this is therapy for me - maybe you, too.
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Hello, George. Happy almost Thanksgiving to you, The Lump, and the rest of the chicken hawk cartel. I know you must be a very busy man today, what with fundraising, lying, and dusting off your Message: I Care persona, but I thought I’d just drop off this quick note to make sure you and yours are doing well.
I noticed that your National Security advisor came out not too long ago to let all the world know how much you care about the brave men and women dying for Barb and Jenna’s retirement fund. While I certainly wished that it could have been you speaking, I realize that you cannot be let out by yourself at times like this, for fear of making what your staff so lovingly likes to refer to as a “gaffe”. You must be led around like the buffoon that you are, lest you wander off somewhere and reveal the truth. So while you shamelessly lie your way through another reading of Terror 101 while eating $2000 per plate chicken, real America gets a little bit of good old second-hand compassion.
I also noticed recently that you have decided to raise the death benefit of those poor souls who looked you in the eye and went to war believing in your honor, and who now can only scream silently into the abyss knowing that honor is something you will never own. It must be so comforting to you to know that the screams go unheard, and yet another man or woman will soon do the same. These are the people who will die hating you now for their freedom, and you throw a little money at them to make it all go away. What will their families do now with that extra money, George? Will they buy a new living room set, perhaps? Will they “grow” your economy? One less number on the unemployment roll always helps in an election year.
I often wonder what it must be like to be you, George. Could you help me out? How does it feel to be devoid of empathy, utterly unable to care about anyone not in your circle, and with a personality bordering on the psychotic? Do you wish you were a child again, Georgie, blowing up frogs and having Mommie Dearest mold you into the despicable piece of flotsam that now stands before us? Do you wish you could pull the switch again like you did in Texas? Remember how you made fun of Karla Faye, who pled for her life professing the faith that you wrap yourself in? Is that what does it for you these days, Georgie, playing Boy King? Or playing Hide And Seek where you’re never “it”? You never wanted to play soldier for real, but this is fine. Daddy said you didn’t have to die the first time, and you say you don’t have to this time, and you get to wear a really neat padded soldier costume. Unlike many of those under your watch, though, you get to wear it more than once.
Well I guess I’ve said enough for now. I know you’re really busy, but before I leave could I ask just two small favors? Because of you, hundreds of Americans are dead, and hundreds more are sure to follow until we remove the stench that is your very being. You have no shame, this we know, and you have proven to have no conscience as well. Given your abilities, I won’t ask anything difficult, and given your history I can’t ask for truth. I will merely ask this.
Could you maybe, just maybe, learn the names of the dead? Could you maybe, just maybe, find some long dead ember of human compassion within the void that passes for your soul? I wish this of you daily, foolishly, as if black could someday be white, as if dignity can be bought as easily as public office. Is real compassion part of the plan, George? Is it up on some teleprompter somewhere, waiting for a dip in the polls? Do fake tears come with it, or are those only for the big-time donors?
I have no faith that you’ll be able to deliver on this one, George, so I’ll ask for my second favor now. Could you go to maybe one funeral, just to see what it’s like? Find a mother whose just finished hearing a bugler playing Taps and stand in front of her. Let her loathing pour over you in waves. Let her scream at you with all the obscenities she can muster in the name of her dead son or daughter, and let her rage dictate her response. Let her act for every American who on this day has finally risen from the stupor and said ENOUGH. Let her expose you for the bastard you are, and then let her have five minutes alone with you. Just the two of you. Let her act as though she speaks for every true American, and for every true veteran. Let her speak for every American who awaits the day where you no longer matter, and for the day when this nation can and will be proud of itself once again. Let her speak, and then let her then send you out before the American people where, with eyes blackened and lips bloodied, you can try and tell them of the pretzel.
This time they’ll know better.
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