The scary truth is that Bush could take hours of batting practice in a stadium full of Arabs right now if he wanted to, dressed a bright orange target suit, with a «'Thrax Me» sign taped to his back, because he's probably the safest Christian alive. If he were to fly into Kandahar tomorrow, they'd line the streets for him! They'd cheer him from their half-standing mud huts!
I first came to this awful conclusion on September 11th; only the harried ups and downs of dopamine and seratonin levels have played with my conviction.
I do not recommend to anyone snorting a quarter gram of glass the night before the worst military defeat in American history. The crash is awful. A 767 plunging into the Pentagon is kid's stuff compared to the crash I went through. This wasn't your every-day run-of-the-mill speed I'd scored -- it was pure glass, brown crystalline. Crashing on speed is bad enough, but crashing during an imperial crash is something epic. My book deal fell apart. I had to contemplate all the money I wasted moving here. And the rank American women that I'd fooled around with (I thought that you can't get laid in the United States -- in fact, you can, and THAT's the problem, God help me!)
The speed did make for some interesting dialogue, however.
I had left my little Samsung digital recorder on by accident while watching the TV coverage of the attacks on September 11th. It's a great little instrument, a little silver stick that I lifted from my ex-girlfriend, small compensation for the year of life she stole from me. Here's what I heard: «...Shit, we've got to nuke them. That's it. We've got to nuke them. [...] Nuke. [...] Nuclear weapons. Only nuclear weapons will work.» Forward about an hour, and I'm still on the same rant: «Nuclear weapons... We've got to use them. [...] nuclear missiles, bombs, and missiles. Just nuke them. [...] Hey Allie, did you know we have nuclear artillery shells? ('Really? Ha-ha!') Yeah, nuclear artillery shells.» Later: «We have to nuke them. [...] Where the fuck is Bush? ('I dunno! Ha-ha!') We gotta nuke 'em. He's got to tell the people who are responsible that [...] nukes are necessary. To the people responsible for the nukes. Where is Bush, fuck! ('I don't know, Mark. Ha-ha!') He's got the goddamn nuclear suitcase. Open it up! The numbers. He's got the code numbers. We've got to nuke them, Allie. ('Ha-ha!') I'm serious.» Later, when Hillary Clinton was being interviewed and Bush was still popping around somewhere in the middle of the country, pretending to be targeted, I foamed, «She should be president! She'd nuke them! Oh yeah, she doesn't fuck around. Hillary would nuke. ('Ha-ha!') She'd be all: 'My fellow Americans, I have taken the decision to nuke the entire sub-continent.' Oh yeah, Allie. She'd have a giant spiked dildo on her presidential desk. The fucking thing would be grinding away, it'd be a spiked fucking vibrator with a nuclear tip. Uranium-depleted casing. ('Oh God, Mark, yer crazy!') She can't wait to shove it in and watch the mushroom clouds from her bunker. 'My fellow Americans, we have just nuked Afghanistan. Oh! Ah! Ah!' Where's Bush? He needs to nuke Afghanistan!»
Well, you get the picture. A total waste of energy. Then the crash came. I wanted to flee, to hide. I put a giant white flag out of my window. But there was no one to surrender to. So I went back on the speed, and it got worse. The brain folded up. Book canceled, anthrax spores, womyn calling, daily talk shows with squeaky Republicans and hand-wringing liberals... my god, Rome really is burning.
I'm just coming out of it now. The crash is receding. Dopamine are returning to their dangerously low levels from absolute zero.
Every day, Bush betrays himself. Instead of sending us off to kill, he asks us to shop till we drop. Gore is even worse -- just in case you're wondering who's side he's on, he's growing out a beard and referring to Bush as «My commander in chief.» If that isn't a hidden message, I don't know what is.