Howdy fellow Earthlings.
I've been doing a little digging about this whole Scott Thomas/New Republic kerfuffle and I've found an exclusive scoop under the rock of truth.
It's an excerpt of Scott Thomas' upcoming memoir of the Iraq War.
Enjoy the cold stench of the truth....
I've been doing a little digging about this whole Scott Thomas/New Republic kerfuffle and I've found an exclusive scoop under the rock of truth.
It's an excerpt of Scott Thomas' upcoming memoir of the Iraq War.
Enjoy the cold stench of the truth....
++++++
THE FIRST CASUALTY OF WAR
by
Scott Thomas
(New Republic Press)
by
Scott Thomas
(New Republic Press)
"Listen up you dog-faced maggots!" barked Sergeant Rock as he came out of his tent which he kept on top of a pile of Iraqi baby skulls. "We've got orders. We're to got the village of Al Kebab and kill everyone in there. Especially the women and children."
"But sir," I said, my voice deep, rugged and manly. "Why do we have to kill the women and children?"
"Because we're American soldiers!" bellowed Sergeant Rock, flecks of rabies-like foam flying off his mouth. "Slaughtering innocent women and children is why we exist and what we do best."
I caught a glance at the orders in his hand.
"Why are our orders written in Hebrew?" I asked, suspicious of a possible Zionist theocratic conspiracy being behind our mission in Iraq.
"Why are you asking all these logical and rational questions about our mission?" demanded Sergeant Rock. "Are you one of those intellectual giants who write for the New Republic, who are greater defenders of American liberty than the crypto-fascist shock-troopers we are?"
"No sir," I said, although I wasn't afraid of the Sarge, New Republic writers never feel fear, I decided to keep my true mission a secret.
"Now move out and go kill us some civilians!" ordered the Sergeant. "Our Israeli masters demand blood. You are ordered to ignore that reference to our Israeli masters!"
The drive to Al Kebab was long, and the road was dusty. So I decided to shoot the breeze with my colleagues. They were the typical Red State breed that represent all personnel in the US Military.
There was Private Cletus Huckleberry, he was raised in the cotton fields of West Virginia. His family of illiterate Appalachian mountain cotton pickers had lost their entire crop to the great Global Warming caused boll weevil scourge of 2005. This left Cletus with no job, no food, no skills, and a case of complete illiteracy. The Army was his only option.
"I ain't reckon on fancy book learnin'" said Cletus, which was his answer to any question that didn't involve the cooking and eating of something called a 'varmint.' I had simply asked him about the weather. I decided to ask him about something else.
"What are your plans for after the army?" I asked.
Cletus shrugged. "I guess I'll go home to Nutter's Crotch West Virginny and marry my cousin."
"Which one?" I asked, knowing he had dozens, all between the age of eleven and fourteen and all named Lurlene.
"Whatever one ain't preggers at the moment with another man's baby," said Cletus. "I hope it's one I ain't molested yet. I like surprises."
"Who cares about weddings!" screamed Corporal Kenny Killum at the top of his lungs. "There's a lot of killing to do! Maybe we can rape some people!"
"It's wrong to rape women," I said trying to be the voice of reason and civilization, like John Edwards.
"Who said anything about women?" asked Corp. Killum. "I'm from Texas! Yee-ha!"
"Stop the truck!" screamed Corporal Ted Token, he had joined the Army to escape the segregated African American slums of the South and be taught reading, writing and basic math. Instead he had been trained to be an ice cold killing machine.
"What's up Corporal Token?" I asked, tightening my flak vest around my broad manly chest, my pectoral muscles rippling in anticipation of combat. "Is it insurgents?"
"No," said Token as the truck screeched to a halt. "There's a woman who has third degree burns. Let's verbally abuse her and give her more emotional scars to go with her physical ones."
I could make out the reflection of my chiseled handsome face reflected in a puddle of Iraqi children's blood. We entered Al Kebab, there were no insurgents, so my unit slaughtered everyone they could find, shooting, stabbing, burning and some pretty vicious pointing at genitals.
"Look at me," said Kenny Killum, dancing and capering wearing a necklace of children's head. "I got me some jewelry!"
I sighed at the rabid inhumanity of my fellow soldiers. Here they were fighting insurgents and trying to promote democracy like the foul cowardly savages they were while the world ignored the real heroes of freedom. People who ran magazines that condemned the US government in wartime, reporters who published top secret war information, and Democratic members of congress who held weekly anti-war votes to undermine this horrible fascist war.
And then there's me.
The greatest hero of all time.
Scott Thomas Beauchamp is the Ernie Pyle of the 21st century.
"But sir," I said, my voice deep, rugged and manly. "Why do we have to kill the women and children?"
"Because we're American soldiers!" bellowed Sergeant Rock, flecks of rabies-like foam flying off his mouth. "Slaughtering innocent women and children is why we exist and what we do best."
I caught a glance at the orders in his hand.
"Why are our orders written in Hebrew?" I asked, suspicious of a possible Zionist theocratic conspiracy being behind our mission in Iraq.
"Why are you asking all these logical and rational questions about our mission?" demanded Sergeant Rock. "Are you one of those intellectual giants who write for the New Republic, who are greater defenders of American liberty than the crypto-fascist shock-troopers we are?"
"No sir," I said, although I wasn't afraid of the Sarge, New Republic writers never feel fear, I decided to keep my true mission a secret.
"Now move out and go kill us some civilians!" ordered the Sergeant. "Our Israeli masters demand blood. You are ordered to ignore that reference to our Israeli masters!"
#
The drive to Al Kebab was long, and the road was dusty. So I decided to shoot the breeze with my colleagues. They were the typical Red State breed that represent all personnel in the US Military.
There was Private Cletus Huckleberry, he was raised in the cotton fields of West Virginia. His family of illiterate Appalachian mountain cotton pickers had lost their entire crop to the great Global Warming caused boll weevil scourge of 2005. This left Cletus with no job, no food, no skills, and a case of complete illiteracy. The Army was his only option.
"I ain't reckon on fancy book learnin'" said Cletus, which was his answer to any question that didn't involve the cooking and eating of something called a 'varmint.' I had simply asked him about the weather. I decided to ask him about something else.
"What are your plans for after the army?" I asked.
Cletus shrugged. "I guess I'll go home to Nutter's Crotch West Virginny and marry my cousin."
"Which one?" I asked, knowing he had dozens, all between the age of eleven and fourteen and all named Lurlene.
"Whatever one ain't preggers at the moment with another man's baby," said Cletus. "I hope it's one I ain't molested yet. I like surprises."
"Who cares about weddings!" screamed Corporal Kenny Killum at the top of his lungs. "There's a lot of killing to do! Maybe we can rape some people!"
"It's wrong to rape women," I said trying to be the voice of reason and civilization, like John Edwards.
"Who said anything about women?" asked Corp. Killum. "I'm from Texas! Yee-ha!"
"Stop the truck!" screamed Corporal Ted Token, he had joined the Army to escape the segregated African American slums of the South and be taught reading, writing and basic math. Instead he had been trained to be an ice cold killing machine.
"What's up Corporal Token?" I asked, tightening my flak vest around my broad manly chest, my pectoral muscles rippling in anticipation of combat. "Is it insurgents?"
"No," said Token as the truck screeched to a halt. "There's a woman who has third degree burns. Let's verbally abuse her and give her more emotional scars to go with her physical ones."
#
I could make out the reflection of my chiseled handsome face reflected in a puddle of Iraqi children's blood. We entered Al Kebab, there were no insurgents, so my unit slaughtered everyone they could find, shooting, stabbing, burning and some pretty vicious pointing at genitals.
"Look at me," said Kenny Killum, dancing and capering wearing a necklace of children's head. "I got me some jewelry!"
I sighed at the rabid inhumanity of my fellow soldiers. Here they were fighting insurgents and trying to promote democracy like the foul cowardly savages they were while the world ignored the real heroes of freedom. People who ran magazines that condemned the US government in wartime, reporters who published top secret war information, and Democratic members of congress who held weekly anti-war votes to undermine this horrible fascist war.
And then there's me.
The greatest hero of all time.
++++++
Scott Thomas Beauchamp is the Ernie Pyle of the 21st century.
2 comments:
I just want to rip off his head and vomit down his throat.
The soldiers I know are amazing men. It irks me and pains me to no end to hear this crap.
I want a copy of this book when it comes out. It reminds me of my military service in Bosnia.
You know, not all of those mass graves were made by the Serbs..no, sirree bob, we got us some killin' done ourselves....yuk yuk. In fact I think Scott Thomas was with me on those missions. I hope he mentions me,
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