[ed. note - Our operative deep inside Google's supersecret Daily Kos dumpster cache has located the first draft of Zuniga's apology]
Why Have Thou Foresaken Me?
by Markos Zuniga
In the mincing fringe fever swamp of chickenhawk warblogs, there's been a frouferaw of wimpy pantybunching about my supposed indifference to the Mercenary deaths in Falluja a couple days ago. I allegedly am accused of writing some innocent offhanded diary comments, somewhere, that "I felt nothing" and "screw them".
"Boo hoo! Kos's hardhitting, truth-to-power commentary has offended our silly keyboard warrior sensitivities! We have the vapors! Give us Barabas!"
Perhaps my language was too harsh for the squealing fops of the blogosphere. But, in "reality," it was not true. And at the "same" time, true. Fact is, I did "feel" something. That's why I "was" so angry.
I was angry that five soldiers -- the real heroes in my mind -- were killed the same day and got far lower billing in the newscasts. They were typecast as second bananas, mere sidekicks, while the Bushbot networks gave all the juicy scenes to those drama queen mercenary hams and their over-the-top charred schtick.
I was angry that 51 of those real, American, in-my-mind heroes paid the ultimate price for Bush's folly in Iraq in March alone. I was angry that these mercenaries make more in a day than our brave men and women in uniform make in an entire month, plus group dental and discount membership at Costco. Or, at least, used to.
I was angry that the US is funding private henchmen armies, paying them $30,000 per soldier, per month, in subterranean volcanic islands, injecting Depleted Uranium and mind control chips in our brave soldiers' MREs. I was angry that these mercenaries would leave their wives and children behind to enter a war zone on their own violition. "Just where do you think you're going Mister Soldier of Fortune?" "Umm, I have some things to pick up at, er, Home Depot. See you next year, honey!"
So I struck back.
Boo Yah! You got served, mercenary biotches -- Kos style!
Unlike the vast majority of people in this country, I actually grew up in a war zone. When I was 8 years old I watched communist guerillas execute students accused of being government collaborators. Then they cruelly teased me when I tried to tag along, and played keep-away with their concussion grenades. "Go home to your mamasita, little camarone! Revolucion is for the big muchachos!"
And also, when I was 8 years old, I remember stepping over a dead body, warm blood flowing from a fresh wound, and still remember the strange feeling as it lazily squooshed up between my toes. Dodging bullets while at market. Everywhere I went, there seemed to be an incredible, visceral whiff of hate permeating the very air, the likes of which most of you sheltered losers will never understand. There's no way I could ever describe the ways this experience colors my worldview.
Back to Iraq. Our men and women in uniform are there under orders, trying to make the best of an impossible situation. They are merely the uneducated cow-dice in Bush's slaughterhouse Yahtze cup, too naively dumb to realize that those empty recruiter promises of junior college and free Humvees were just deathbait. The war is not their fault, and I will always defend their bovine honor and brave stupidity to the end of my days.
But the mercenary, them there is a whole 'nother different deal. They willingly enter a war zone, and do so because of the paycheck. It's all about the Benjamins, baby. I doubt they'd donate half their paycheck to the Red Cross, or Pacifica, or International ANSWER, or whatever. They're there because the money is DAMN good. Straight pimpin' with the Bush posse, spittin' Cristal on the indigenous bitches. They answer to no one except their CEO. They are dangerous, hence international efforts (however fruitless they may be) to ban their use.
So not only was I wrong to say I felt nothing over their deaths, I was lying. And not only that, I felt way too much, and was possibly jerking you around about that too, and whatever. Nobody deserves to die, yadda yadda yadda. But in the grand scheme of things, there are a lot of bigger tragedies going on in Iraq than some mercenary rib roast. That those tragedies are essentially ignored these days is, ultimately, the greatest tragedy of all, along with McCarthyite delinking.
This is why I must have the strength to go on, through the persecutions by InstaPontius Pilate, bearing the neocons' thorny crown, sold out by Judas Kerry, and denied three times by my very advertising roll.
Screw them, father, they know not what they do.