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Moscow Babylon February 6, 2002
Der Neue Mcfaul
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
Page 3 of 4
It's a classic twerp move by the geek in the crowd during an after-school fight, squeaking from somewhere near the back, "Yeah, but if you're so tough, why don't you kick TWO guys' asses at the same time!" It's the only way liars and frauds can get themselves noticed. McFaul believes that we should do to the Third World today what we did to Germany and Japan. Here is the McFaul plan, as laid out in The Washington Post: "The destruction of these dictatorships, followed by the imposition of democratic regimes." That's "imposition," as in, you'll be democratic, and pro-American, whether you want it or not.

Italy voted in Mussolini in 1922, Germany voted in Hitler, the Serbs Milosevic. The present day Iranian regime is the only democratic regime in the Persian Gulf. All democracies, and all America's enemies.

Of course to a Stegosaur like McFaul this is beside the point. What matters is remaining, or becoming, relevant. That is achieved by ingratiating oneself by any lies necessary. Even if it means issuing propaganda pieces that essentially call for the annihilation of entire nations. Even if it means calling the dismantling of Russia's democracy and the genocide in Chechnya "justifiable."

But something doesn't ring true here. The problem with trying to pass yourself off as a hardened militarist is that you have to look and sound at least somewhat convincing. At heart a mere bureaucrat stung with a bit too much ambition, McFaul thinks that the best way to ingratiate himself to The New Boss is sounding more bomb-crazy than the next business-formal Republican. That's where his shtick weakens -- the awkward over-compensation when trying to sound tough, the inability to calibrate a real right-wing militarist's menacing reticence. McFaul's confidence is clearly in the socio-sexual sphere; he is out of his league trying to pass himself off as a right-winger. He can probably wow 'em at any Stanford Foundation cocktail party on Page Mill Road. But he's not tough, he's not scary, he's not a warmonger, and he never will be. He wants to live to a ripe old age, and it shows. He wants to throw the frisbee to his golden retriever. He wants to retire someday to a gated community in Arizona and play golf with his more successful colleague, the tenured Condi Rice; he dreams of a future where she remembers his name. This is not the dream of a warmonger. Real warmongers want to die, and they want to take everyone, especially the optimists, right down with them.

To those of us who have been there all along, to us utterly impotent twerps who spent years scrawling tanks on our peechees and who kept that dream of total warfare in our hearts, if there's one thing we still have, it's a good nose for sniffing out frauds. McFaul is a classic fraud. The style and tone of Das Neue McFaul is hollow, reaching. He's lying through his pearly-white teeth and through his Pert-groomed hair, through that half-sagging but otherwise healthy body of his sculpted through pick-up games at Pauley, where he's known as an asshole and a hack who always calls fouls.

But our opinion doesn't count. McFaul's going to win. He's going to get away with it again. That's what hurts. He'll get somewhere with the successful swine, the real waffencrats who run things, because they will use whoever is useful, and damned if McFaul isn't doing his utmost to make himself useful. He's a practiced whore. He knows how.

Last week at Night Flight, I wasn't even planning on taking a whore home. But there was this one. Blond. She kept laughing stupidly, telling me how drunk she was. She said she wanted me to do her up the ass; she liked pain, she said. She knew how to make herself useful to me. She had a nose for that.

I took her home. I fucked her, probably for far too long. As it turned out, she was on the rag. And she didn't tell me. It was not a good experience. I sent her home, but she got my money. And I got a stain on my bed, and several days of intense self-loathing and regret.

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