Now that the decider has decided that a bigger, bloodier nut cluster is better than no nut cluster at all, it's time everybody in America gets behind a victory plan against whoever we're fighting in Iraq. Forget all this namby-pamby wrangling over whether we should add twenty thousand, thirty thousand, or fifty thousand new shrapnel magnets or whether they get to be killed for another three months or three years or right up to the Rapture. Let's get seriously serious.
We're all going to fight in Iraq. You, me, Arianna, Cher, Newt, the guy who sells pens at the airport, Jenna and Barbara, Mary-Kate and Ashley, Siegfried and Roy, Top Gun and Beardie and baby Endless-therapi; every one of us. Don't worry about locking the door, stopping the mail, or canceling the papers -- we're taking the burglars too.
So get some good walking shoes, pick out two or three of your favorite guns, cram a bag full of SPF a billion, and line up at the airport. You and three hundred million of your closest friends are leavin' on a jet plane, probably next Tuesday so we get one last war-on-Christmas dinner under our belts. Boxing Day 2006, we are horribly bloodying the cradle of civilization like it's never been horribly bloodied before, fighting them over there so we don't... you know the drill.
We can achieve victory only through total commitment, absolute resolve, unshakable will, and other meaningless-but-tough-sounding words. Because "victory" is another meaningless-but-tough-sounding word. It would be a lot more daunting (and we'd need more than just our piddling 300 million) if we added any meaningful X factors to the "victory" party. Victory over X group of baddies, for example. Victory that puts X undemocratically elected stooge at the top of the pile. Victory that makes the country sustainable by X measures, that guarantees X rights, or that keeps X number of people from becoming ex-people.
One might even be tempted to think that we have enough dough, influence, and death-bringer missiles to convince the local Arabic- and Farsi-speaking power centers to help -- or to at least to stop anti-helping. But that would mean talking, and talking always leaves open the possibility of embarrassment (I always worry about saying "theirselves" in front of editors), and embarrassment is so psychologically crippling it could take hours of therapy at Walter Reed to get our red-faced leaders back in the pink.
One also might be tempted to think -- especially if one were me -- that we could save a lot of bother if we cut out the sham "government contract" process and just wrote hundred-billion-dollar checks to Halliburton, CACI, and a few other key players in the chaos-for-commerce business on the condition that they stopped providing services.
All that complicated brain-churning, of course, is surrender talk, like you'd hear coming out of the French capital: Chateau Nosefart. Or NPR ("National Parisian Radio"). Or the doddering old pansies in the Baker-Hamilton Commission (many of whom, you should know, are secretly French -- and gay). Or those foolish, foolish generals, whose well-documented visits to France make their anti-getting-everybody-killed positions extremely dismissible. (You know "general" is a French word, don't you? It means "wimp.")
We don't need thinking; we need VICTORY. And the only way to get there is to drop your presidents and grab your socks, because it's war! Gather the forces! Harness the horses! Huddle into the Humvees and let's play us some suspicious roadside rubble roulette!
Once we sacrifice enough Americans to kill, say, two thirds of the natives and subjugate the rest, THEN they'll know what freedom is.
Because with one final SURGE of bodies, this war is totally winnable. Three hundred million should just about cover it.