The Highway.com
Commentaries of a 21st Century Heretic
Three years have now passed since we invaded Iraq, and my T.V. keeps telling me how three in ten people have changed their minds. In what appears to be less an anniversary of our accomplishment than an exercise in lamenting our failure, the "experts" now say we are trapped in the middle of a nation on the verge of civil war, and our chances of ever leaving with a shred of dignity dwindle by the moment. The trial of the "evil doer" is a farce . . . he knows it; the judge knows it; the people in Iraq know it . . . but we are still ashamed to admit that we make him look better every day with an Iraqi civilian body count well exceeding 35,000 (IBC.com). Even the evangelist dad who sought to avenge his dead son by going over there to kick some butt is having second thoughts (AOL news, 3-18-06). For the three who came to their senses, it is really hard for me not to say the words, "I told you so," but you should have listened three years ago before it ever happened.
At least you have finally realized you have been walking around with egg on your face (As the Bombs Fall 3-21-03 ). Here are a towel and my hand in peace. Maybe we can work together, fix the mess, and finally get our boys and gals home where they belong. For the remaining four, who still wander aimlessly blinded by the yolks in their eyes as they try to figure out why it didn’t work like it was supposed to I can only offer the following:
"You have only yourself to blame."
This was never about 9/11. This was never about "freeing oppressed people." This was never about weapons of mass destruction. This was never about faulty intelligence, nor was it about getting us cheap oil. This was never an evil plot. This was, is, and always will be about Operation Desert Storm, the war that never got to be a war.
Long before Osama Bin Laden (a Saudi Arabian terrorist operating from Afghanistan) masterminded the first failed attempt to drop two towers, we yearned to "finish the job" denied our weekend warriors. Vicariously, we came, we saw, we deployed . . . we waited. For thirty days we bombed then bombed some more as we watched an enemy lob it’s few remaining antiquated Scud missiles at Israel . . . a comical feeble political excuse of a reply. Our coalition was strong. We wanted Bagdad. We wanted Saddam’s head on a plate. We finally got to go in! We laughed as the "great Iraqi army" surrendered to CNN amidst the burning oil fields and pressed on. We were so close to glory . . . 325 miles . . . but a different Bush had the nerve to "pull out before we could . . ."
I still remember the barbs against him laden with sexual innuendo, the daily tracking of his "wimp factor," as if it was yesterday. Though he did exactly as he promised he would do (liberate Kuwait and assure Saddam would never be strong enough to invade another country again) the decision frustrated a nation eager for the glory of WWII denied us since Viet Nam. Ultimately it cost him a second term. We elected Bill Clinton president of the United States of America (twice) and laughed through the nineties while we watched "Hot Shots Part Deux."
Even after the van blew up underneath the Vista Hotel and a boat blew a hole in the USS Cole, we wanted to be Topper Harley (Charlie Sheen), who after being dumped by Ramada (Valeria Golina) at the last second, retreated to a monastery where the monks took a vow of celibacy "like their fathers and fathers before them." He got his second chance to go "over there" to kick Saddam’s (who sounded like Mel Blanc’s Sylvester) butt, play with his gadgets, and rescue our captured American pride. We wanted to be Harbinger (Miguel Ferrer), the soldier who had lost his nerve, thankful for being able to "kill again" restoring his "reason to live." We wanted to get the glory, escalate the body count to a new all time high, kill the energizer bunny and win back Ramada too. She would "fondle (us) in ways (we) can’t imagine," as we carved our way through the jungle (since when is there a tropical jungle in Iraq?) She would do it "for as long as (we)could possibly desire," after we stormed Saddam's theme park castle. The enemy would easily fall . . . killed by chicken, synchronized dive into water or splattered like a discharged paint ball against a wall, and we would prevail.
We even elected Tug Benson (Lloyd Bridges/ George W. Bush) president . . . for real.
We did it twice . . . "Oy!"
We yearned for a lovable buffoon with skin of asbestos, tongue from a labrador retriever, who had the guts to go for it . . . completely unlike two presidents before. He would bring the war to Minnesota, "fly them here and teach them to skate," the genius of his plan. He would storm Mount Rushmore, View Master in hand, and fart in the ocean before finally dueling with the "Dark Lord" who had just fused with his dog.
It is almost scary to think that the last six years of U.S. history plays out like the campy, corny, B flick sequel that mirrored our almost sexual frustration at not being able to win a big one since Viet Nam. If I was a religious fanatic looking for signs everywhere, I would almost call it prophetic, but it was a movie, one of many that entertained us during a time we needed to feel good about ourselves, release some pent up frustration. I never would have thought, however, that it could ever become real. In living our wildest wartime fantasies, I neither thought we would try to remake this particular movie nor imagined we would neglect three very important things: we forgot to make it funny, we cast Saddam as himself, and we never gave the Iraqi people the script. Sadly, seven in ten of us did (four still do), and the only gratification we got was with an unwilling partner. For that we should feel bad. After all, in other circumstances it is simply called rape. As three years pass into history, we as a nation need to remember life never plays like the movies and leave the remakes to Hollywood. We need to stop living in the past, make an end to this mess we started, take our lumps and move on . . . a little wiser for a lesson hard learned. Let’s put down our popcorn, watch the credits roll, and finally bring our brave soldiers home.
