Stop the Lies
Iowahawk Guest Commentary
by Jesse Macbeth
Iraq War Veterans Against Google
Breakfast Shift Associate, Wendys of Tacoma
Photo courtesy Sears Portrait Studios
As a decorated combat veteran of Bush's Iraq misadventure, I am all too familiar with the saying "the first casualty of war is truth." Because this administration sold us a war of empire on a double stack combo of lies, biggie sized them, and served them up with extra mustard. And I was there to see it, man.
My story starts in 2001. I was a sophomore at Mayfield High, a star athlete who was captain of the basketball, football, and track teams, and had singlehandly scored 200 home runs in one memorable wrestling meet against the Riverdale Archies. Obviously, this made me irresistable to girls, and I easily bagged the entire pom squad after winning my 4th straight state debate championship. No shit dude, I totally taped the whole thing, but I left it in the VCR and my stupid mom recorded it over with an episode of Wheel of Fortune.
While my incredible athletic and sexual prowess earned me accolades on the field and in the sack, it also earned me many enemies in the halls of Mayfield High. An upperclassmen named Dawson became enraged after learning I completely wanged his girlfriend Stacey, who went into a jealous fit after she found out I also wanged her totally hot mom. Then I learned a senior named Bueller had sworn his revenge on me because I smoked his Ferrari with my 600 horsepower VTEC Civic, which does 180 mph in the quarter, easy.
These lying liars went to the principal and started hurling lies. They accused me of drilling the mysterious hole in the girl's locker room. They accused me of showering in my underpants during PE, when they had no concrete evidence, and also maybe it was because of a medical condition. The accused me of lying, which was a complete lie, because in truth they were the real liars.
My Ranger School Class
It was then I realized how damaging lies can be, even when the fat Goth poetry club chicks still believe you. I was expelled and my name was banished from the school and state athletic record books, effectively ruining my chances at the NBA. I channeled my anger into my Civic, adding a bitchin' body kit from Pep Boys, nitrous, and a sweet 4" exhaust tip, but the cops busted me for 300 mph over the limit. Without a diploma or any way to pay the $500,000 speeding fine, the angry judge gave me the hard alternatives: jail, the Army, or male modeling school.
A week later I busting my hump in basic at Fort Kill, slogging through the mud and razor wire with live gun bullets swooshing over my head. The Texas heat was hotter and crispier than a Spicy Chicken DeLuxe, but I was oddly enjoying it. Sergeant Fury, the camp's shift manager, frequently praised my natural killer instincts and tidy uniform. I had already learned the Army's two main rules: A) kill or be killed, and B) employees must wash hands after using the latrine (for you civilians, "latrine" is the name we professional Army people call the toilet).
But Fury wasn't the only one who saw my potential as a killing machine. That day the Fort had a surprise visitor: Condoleezza Rice. She was in Texas to help Halliburton plan the Iraq invasion at Bush's nearby ranch, and had decided to check out the "fresh meat" at camp. As I waded through the muck, I heard her voice ring out - "him... him... oooo, definitely him." I looked up and saw Rice pointing at me, her eyes hungrily caressing my camos. She had personally selected me for Advanced SpecOps Ranger Superkiller training at King's Island Ohio, and a number of other 'duties' which you can read about in next month's Penthouse Forum.
After our tumultuous tryst Rice had a change of heart, and begged me to stay in Washington with her, to plan American empire and for more hot wanging. "No dice, babe," I said. "Oh playa, give mama a booty call from Baghdad," she pled.
Ranger training was intense. Here I was among the best of the best - elite soldiers like Wright, and Pyle, and Bailey, rock hard mofos who were colder than an extra large Strawberry Frosty. There were even a few chicks soldiers like Benjamin and GI Jane, who I also wanged. We received training in advanced killing methods like neck-snapping and hand-to-hand spatula fighting. Although I was already buff, the rigorous training and wanging bulked me up to 145 pounds of rock solid death-bot.
Landing in Iraq
One afternoon I was practicing my kung fu grip on my wingman, Maverick, when the Sarge gave us the call: "Pack up your stuff," he said ominously. "It's time to cap some hadjis." Three hours later we were parachuting into Fallujah, wondering what our secret mission would be. When I landed in the courtyard of the Iraqi Montessori school, I realized the horrible truth: "Operation Iraqi Freedom" was actually "Operation Iraqis - Fry Them."
It was too late to turn back now. I waded into the crowd of screaming moppets with both machine guns blazing, cutting down row after row of toddlers as the Sarge barked orders to keep killing - "hit the A button! hit the A button!!!". When I ran out of ammo I used my bayonet to kill some more until the blade broke off, and then I began bludgeoning the remaining toddlers with other toddlers and toddler parts. Finally I collapsed on the floor in a daze, completely out of health points.
The next six years in Iraq were a basically a daze for me, because you try to put that out of your mind to keep from poignantly going crazy. As I remember, there was more toddler killing, and I think I got stabbed or something by insurgents. I don't hold a grudge, because hey, if some occupier were shooting my toddlers I would probably start stabbing him too. Besides, the stabbing injuries earned me a trip back stateside and a shoebox full of Purple Hearts. I would show you them, but my stupid mom accidentally sold them at her garage sale last month.
The disturbing face of American empire
When I got back in the States, I thought I could put the entire Iraq incident behind me and get on with my life, but the Army denied my benefits to keep me quiet and had my Civic repossessed. I was haunted by visions of toddler-strewn battlefields. Then I was hassled at a coffee shop in Arizona, which wouldn't serve me because of my uniform, and called the police before I could call my lawyer after slipping on their dangerously slippery floor.
I was just about to give up hope when I met the IWVAG and got involved in the Anti-War movement. It was a personal catharsis. Finally, here was a group of Americans who were eager to listen to the truth about Iraq, the truth about the toddlers, the truth about the many wangings I have given to Demi Moore. Even though they haven't worn the uniform like me, these folks represent the true soul of real America patriotism - the bravery to unconditionally accept every horrid truth about America's genocidal bloodlust, and the balls to get a grant to fund a PBS documentary about it. Starring me!
