George Bush And Donald Rumsfeld Prefer Iraqi Chaos to Iraqi Democracy – Part One

It was light brown and had scurried to the edge of the plush carpet, a carpet that followed the contours of the Oval Office leaving an exposed border of oak flooring about two feet wide. President George W. Bush had been keeping his eye on the cockroach for the past two minutes, watching it move from one of the Presidential desk legs, then stopping for a brief moment to sniff Bush’s black leather shoe, and then moving on to the edge of the carpet where it stopped, it’s antennae searching out before it gathering information. Go forward? Pull back? President George W. Bush thought that the cockroach was doing intelligence, getting the best information to make an intelligent decision. The cockroach had no idea that it was in such a special place, in a room where earth shattering decisions were made, in one of the most powerful places on earth. The cockroach did not care. Indeed, the cockroach probably would have preferred a damper venue.

Bush admired the sense of sobriety of the cockroach. The human world, the concerns of people and nations, were of no concern to the cockroach. The cockroach, Bush figured, had only two concerns: eat food and not be food. The basics of life. Once the basics of life were taken care of, then the cockroach, if he had the mind, could concern himself with higher aspirations. But that was the thing. The cockroach had no higher aspirations. It was just eat and not be eaten. Basics. Sustenance and security.

“Things are not doing well,” said Donald Rumsfeld, who had been sitting in the wood and upholstered chair in front of the Presidential desk, wondering what was distracting the President on the floor. They were alone, and it was their weekly early morning meeting. Usually several staff members were present, but Rumsfeld wanted this meeting to be private.

To Be Continued.

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Iraq Plus Katrina Equals No Legs And A Trailer In The Mud

Harold Horn had lost his legs. It was a roadside bomb south of Mosul in Iraq, and his legs were immediately blasted into a million bits of bone and blood and muscle. The mess made it appear to Harold’s fellow Marines that Harold was surely dead. But Harold raised his head and waved his arm asking for help before slipping into a coma. That was back in July of 2005. Harold’s family in New Orleans went to Walter Reed Hospital to stand vigil while the doctors patched Harold together in 32 separate operations to keep Harold alive. The doctors told Harriet, Harold’s mother, that Harold’s coma was a good thing because it permitted the doctors to operate and operate and operate more. Losing two legs, particularly Harold’s two big football legs, is not an easy thing to deal with, medically, that is. But the hard work paid off. On Christmas Eve, 2005, Harold awoke from his coma to discover himself in a hospital room with three other Marines. Each marine had lost some appendage, an arm, a leg, one had lost his lower jaw. Harold had lost two appendages, two legs. But he felt lucky. Harold thought the guy without his lower jaw was in really bad shape.

In the first week of August 2006, Harold left Walter Reed Hospital and flew by commercial jet with Harriet, his mother, back to New Orleans where Harriet was staying in a trailer with her husband, Jim. Harold learned for the first time that his home, the house he grew up in, was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, and that his mother and father had been living in a trailer for almost a year.

Harold was wheeled up to the trailer by Harriet. Harold’s father, Jim, was off trying to get some paid work down at one of the suburban retail stores.

“Mom, stop,” said Harold. Harriet stopped pushing the wheelchair.

“What is it, dear,” said Harriet.

“I just want to look at my new home,” said Harold.

“Oh, this is not your new home. We’re not staying here,” said Harriet.

“How am I going to get into the trailer? Those steps,” asked Harold.

“Oh, jeez. I didn’t think of that. I will go get George. He’s a big man who helps out. Stay here, Harold,” said Harriet as she shuffled off over the dirt to a distant trailer leaving Harold alone in his wheelchair on a dirt patch.

Harold noticed that the dirt was wet and that the wheels of his chair were sinking into the mud. He looked back up at the trailer, his new home. Harold Horn gave his two legs for a righteous cause, he thought. And God took away his parents home and gave them a trailer in the mud. Harold tried not to get angry. His father once told him to always act better than you feel. Harold felt angry, so he tried real hard to not let it reach the surface. He tried hard to look at the whole awful mess and turn it into a beautiful thing. A trailer in the mud. That can be beautiful, Harold thought.

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George Bush Examines New Orleans As He Hears About The Cost Of The Iraq War

President George Bush sat at a window seat of Air Force One as it flew over New Orleans. Next to him was Bill, one of the Assistant to the Joint Chief of Staff holding a stack of papers.

“The figure is now 289 billion, sir,” said Bill.

“The city doesn’t look that bad,” said Bush as he was glancing down at the city below.

“Yes, sir. Anyway, the way things are going, I think the Iraq mission will pass the 300 billion mark by late September,” said Bill.

“300 billion. Sounds like a good number. You want to join me after we land? I’m going to have lunch, get some gumbo. A little local color,” said Bush.

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I have to report back to the Army Chief of Management and Budget. He is concerned that you are not fully aware that we have spent close to 300 billion on Iraq, sir,” said Bill.

“Yeah, well, tell him I know it. Money well spent. I hear they got some of the gambling casinos up and running down in New Orleans. These southerners are very resourceful. I knew they would be up and running, getting their feet wet in the economy. No pun intended, there, Bill,” said Bush.

“Yes, sir. My boss wants you to know, or wants to make certain you know that the 300 billion is actual cash money that has been spent, sir. That it is not just appropriated for future spending. That money is actually spent,” said Bill.

“Yeah, yeah. Those damn Iraqis just gobble up money, don’t they. But look down there, Bill. Those people in New Orleans have not spent all the money we appropriated. Those people are on their own doing what Americans do best. They are resourceful and don’t ask for help. I am proud of them. We hardly have spent a dime down there, and those people got their casinos running already. And the Astrodome is open, I think. Almost, anyways,” aid Bush.

“Yes, sir. That’s good, sir,” said Bill.

“Yeah, it sure is, Bill. It sure is. Sure you don’t want some gumbo? It will be on me,” asked Bush.

“No, sir. I really have to get back to the Pentagon. We are budgeting for the next six months,” said Bill.

“Okie dokie, there, Bill. You do your thing. And I will do mine. I will do mine. Have a big New Orleans meal, that is” said President George W. Bush.

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The Presidents Of Venezuala And Iran Agree That President Bush Is Stupid

Hugo Chavez felt like he was on vacation. Since he had arrived in Tehran, he was greeted personally by several ministers, whisked away in a black Russian limo, and staying at the Hotel Azadi Grand at the corner of Chamran Road and Evin Road. The Government of Iran and reserved the top three floors of the fancy hotel for Hugo which had commanding views of the Tehran. This was a leafy part of the city, see Hugo saw lots of trees and white buildings. It was morning, and he was drinking a cup of hot and very black Venezuelan coffee while he stood in a white thick cotton bathrobe. The President of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, personally promised a little surprise from Venezuela, and when room service arrived, it contained a large pot of Hugo’s personally favorite home-grown coffee. As far as Hugo Chavez was concerned, Mahmoud was a gentlemen, a man who said what he believed, did not mince words, but nevertheless never forgot to be a good host.

Hugo had overslept. It was nearly 11 in the morning, Tehran time, and he was already two hours late for Mahmoud’s personal meeting. Hugo was not about to be rushed on his vacation, and had found it amusing that Mahmoud’s people called and said that the President of Iran would come to the Hotel Azadi Grand to meet with Hugo. It was suggested to meet in one of the hotel conference rooms, but Hugo would have none of it. Hugo wanted to meet in his hotel room and in his bathrobe with nothing underneath, drinking Venezuelan black coffee. To conduct important meetings in his bathrobe had become a personal tradition for Hugo. It made him feel powerful to be wielding power in the buff, or nearly in the buff.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened, which was a bit of a surprise to Hugo. The door was opened by an Iranian security official and in walked Mahmoud, who spoke Spanish fluently. Hugo was about to protest the minor invasion of privacy, but Mahmoud had a big smile and an out-stretched hand, followed by two young men who closed the door and stood like sentries. Hugo was the only one in a bathrobe, he felt the thick puffy cotton of the bathrobe tickle his naked body as he took Mahmoud’s hand and they both gave each other a strong solid handshake.

“Mr. President, my good friend from the West, I see you are quite casual. Do you wish to get dressed?” asked Mahmoud.

“No. No. I am going to go for a swim in your lovely hotel pool. May I have the pool to myself for laps?” asked Hugo.

“Of course. You are a swimmer?” asked Mahmoud.

“I do the breast stroke. Slow. It is very calming. Have a seat,” said Hugo.

Mahmoud sat in one of two large thickly upholstered white chairs facing the floor to ceiling window facing the city below. Hugo joined him in the other chair as he took a sip of his black coffee.

“Thanks for the Venezuelan coffee. You are a good man,” said Hugo.

“Ah, yes. The coffee. Your country makes two kinds of black gold. Oil and coffee,” said Mahmoud.

Jeez, what a nice guy. This Mahmoud had charm. Hugo never thought of it that way before. Of course, Venezuelan coffee was not necessarily known as a place where great coffee was grown. But Hugo was trying to change that with all the government assistance he had been giving to his coffee growers.

“Unlike Bush, you have a lot of charm and know how to be a gentleman,” said Hugo.

“Thank you, Mr. President. We try here in Iran to be good hosts and to speak with affection and good graces for everyone,” said Mahmoud.

“Bush is an idiot,” said Hugo.

“Well, I must tell you, Mr. President, that I did not have the same opinion. I thought Bush was a very shrewd and smart man. There was time that he used his power wisely. But I am no longer of that opinion. I have come to agree with you,” said Mahmoud.

“Oh, god, I knew Bush was an idiot the first time I saw him on CNN,” said Hugo.

“Think about it, Mr. President, Bush has the most powerful nation in the world and he cannot use any of his power. He has squandered his good will, his moral authority, he is tied up in knots in Iraq, and he has unleashed the voices of millions of Muslims and other oppressed peoples, making America and Israel the new axis of evil. It is astounding that this one man has single-handedly destroyed a great nation,” said Mahmoud.

“Yeah, and look how much power he has given to both of us,” said Hugo.

“Well, Mr. President, I would rather not characterize any power I may have as having been given to me by Bush. Iran has power because we assert what is right and ethical, not because a stupid man has given us power,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. But it is so much fun to poke fun at Bush. It plays so well, and you can do it all day long and the public lets you get away with it. In fact, the public loves it,” said Hugo Chavez as he finished his third cup of black coffee.

“And ever since Iraq, Bush has lost Europe and the rest of the Western world. He only has Israel. America is alone, lost and going bankrupt,” said Mahmoud.

“Yeah, because the Americans are paying three dollars for gasoline and giving the money to us. Boy, this is a very good time,” said Hugo.

“And the truth of the matter is that America and Israel are diminishing in stature because they are afraid to really use all their power. CNN has seen to that,” said Mahmoud.

“How’s that?” asked Hugo.

“Oh, come on, Mr. President. If Bush wanted to, he could flatten Iran and Venezuela into thermonuclear wastelands. It would of course disrupt the world’s economy and everyone’s lives would change. But America could do this and take back the world with victory, a messy victory, but victory nonetheless. You see, what Bush has forgotten, or is too stupid to understand, is that the world wants victors, not losers. If America had success in Iraq, everything would be different. If Israel had destroyed Hezbollah, everything would be different. It is victory that gives a nation power, not bluster and big talk. If you combine bluster and big talk and then not achieve victory, then you are a big loser. And that is what Bush is,” said Mahmoud.

Hugo Chavez had not remembered the President of Iran to be such a big talker. It was almost like Mahmoud ilked to hear himself speak, as if he were a university professor. Hugo had never much cared for the university elite of Caracas, and the slight lecturing mode of Mahmoud’s delivery was a bit irritating to Hugo. But he would let it pass.

“Yeah, well, whatever. I want that swim now. You think I can do my swim and we can continue this conversation over lunch?” asked Hugo.

Mahmoud stood. “Of course. I wish to let you know that the money Iran is investing in Venezuela we have decided will be a loan and not an equity investment. I trust this is OK with you,” said the President of Iran.

“Yeah. I guess. The terms, though. We need to discuss the terms” said Hugo as he remained sitting.

“But of course. But not us. We shall talk about bigger things. We let the discussion of terms be for people who work for us,” said Mahmoud as he walked to the door. “Enjoy your swim,” said Mahmoud as he left the hotel suite and the two Iranian security officials closed the door from behind leaving Hugo alone in his room in his white bathrobe holding an empty coffee cup.

This was a bad start to the day, thought Hugo. But his swim would make him feel better. He had lied to Mahmoud about the breast stroke. He really only did the puppy-dog stroke in the pool, much like a child. But after a swim and a shower, he would be ready to start enjoying this little trip to Tehran.

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Sheik Hassan Nasrallah Prepares To Declare Victory For CNN

The sun stated to rise over the eastern hills of Beirut, the beams cutting through the clouds of dust that hung in the air from the Israeli bombs that fell several buildings. Most of the automobiles on the streets in this southern neighborhood of Beirut were crushed under rubble. There were even fee appliances on the street, like refrigerators and stoves as well as furniture. On this strip, the center of the Beirut Shia community, there were sofas and upholstered chairs. An odd collection of pancake cars, kitchenware, living room furniture and an occasional bed. And everything was covered in light grey dust, the product of blown concrete and wallboard. In the center of this street were the remains of what was once a very large building, formerly fourteen stories tall and a block. It had been the offices of Hezbollah, as well as the Hezbollah health clinic and various charities. A pyramid of rubble, maybe four stories in height, formed a symbolic citadel in the center of the Hezbollah neighborhood.

Several armed Hezbollah officers were picking through the rubble, removing cinderblocks and twisted metal. When they created a large enough hole in the bottom of the pyramid, it became apparent that they were revealing a steel door that was unscathed by the pounding received by the building. The door opened, and the Hezbollah officers immediately snapped to attention and saluted with their right hands, a ritual that seems to have been adopted by all the military cultures around the world.

Sheik Hassan Nasrallah emerged from the steel door. Nasrallah was covered with dust, his hair was filthy from the lack of bathing in the last two weeks, and as he collected himself, adjusting his shirt and torn pants, he spit out a large wad of wet wallboard dust that he had sucked into his lungs as he hoisted himself up the six flights of stairs from the deep basement bunker below the building. Nasrallah rubbed his eyes and saw the Hezbollah officer holding the Hezbollah flag. There was another officer holding the Lebanese flag. The officers awaited instructions.

“Today we plant the Hezbollah flag on top of this building to show the world we have not only survived, but that we declare victory,” said Nasrallah.

“Yes, sir,” said the officer holding the Hezbollah flag.

“And when do we hoist the Lebanese flag?” asked the officer standing next to the soldier holding the Lebanon flag at an angle, letting the tip of the flag drag on the dust pavement.

“When the time is right. But that time is not now. Get the cameras and let the CNN reporters into the area so they can show the world that we declare victory. But get to the top of the this mess with the Hezbollah flag before CNN gets here, and put away the Lebanon flag. When CNN arrives, we shall plant the flag,” said Nasrallah.

The soldier holding the Lebanon flag ran down the street to hide it. And the officer with the Hezbollah flag started to climb the pyramid of rubble to get ready to plant the flag at the top.

“And get me cleaned up for CNN. I can’t claim victory looking like this,” said Nasrallah.

One of the Hezbollah officers thought that Sheik Hassan Nasrallah was a genius. Nasrallah always made it a point to appear filthy and bedraggled for his army, showing them that he was in the fight along with them. But for the world, he would clean up and show them that he came out of battle unscathed. The Sheik was a master of leadership. They had fought hard, thought the officer. And though his Shia neighborhood lied in ruins, though Lebanon’s ecopnomy was destroyed, though hundreds of civilians’ lives were killed and thousands misplaced, Hezbollah was declaring victory. As the officer stood among the Shia ghost village in southern Beirut, he felt pride . He was not sure what the victory was, but it did not matter, because he felt pride as he watched his fellow officer stumble up the rubble to plant the Hezbollah flag. Afterall, a flag is more important that food, running water, hospitals and schools. A flag meant you were a survivor. And to survive means pride. And to feel pride is really what it was all about.

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