Monday I am the commander of Isaf forces in Afghanistan, and I am a dignified Special Forces warrior monk. My body is my temple, war is my holy creed. I am at my happiest in my tent, with my aides, where we all eat sand and hit each other in the faces with rifle butts, for fun.
But today I gotta go the city, to speak with a politician from France. It’s f***ing gay.
“Yo, sir,” says one of my aides. “You wanna know more about this French bitch?” Hell no. These civilians are all the same. Especially the Euros. They just don’t understand the enemy we’re facing out here. Fact is, these blue-skinned bastards put up a hell of a fight, and blowing up their holy tree just made ’em come at us all the harder. Some of ’em were riding dragons. I shit you not one bit.
“He’s got issues,” sighs my aide. “They all do. Reckon you’re outta touch, gone loco, too fixated on your own myth, livin’ like some general guy outta some Hollywood movie.
It’s BS.” “Civilian assholes,” I snort. “Wouldn’t even know Unobtanium if they choked on it.” “Um, what?” says my aide.
Tuesday Back in the tent. “Yo, General?” says another aide. “We got the President on the satellite phone. Sounds like he gotta hard-on ’bout somethin’. You wanna take it?”
“Tell him I’m out,” I say, idly scratching my crotch with a bayonet.
“The dumbass.” The aide nods meaningfully towards a corner of the tent. There’s some journalist dude sitting there, who we granted all kinda special access. Forgot all about him.
“And you can quote me on that,” I say. “Where you from again?” Grazia, he says. It’s a British gossip weekly. Apparently I’ve a good chance of getting on the cover. It’s down to either me or Piers Morgan’s wedding.
“Not bad,” I say. “You gettin’ much?” “Not really,” says the journalist. Just me and my boys savagely ridiculing the US Ambassador, the Vice-President, the President, the British, the French, the Canadians, Hamid Karzai, Queen Elizabeth II, Pope Benedict XVI, Muslims, vegetarians, English football, ginger hair and anybody who wears spectacles. “Huh,” I say. “Well, sorry to waste your time.”
Source:The Times
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