This morning I find myself retreating from my dark place, shunning its allures and attempting to keep it from advancing past boundaries I set up so long ago. However, astride the passage of time rides deterioration, and a once-impenetrable barrier fortified by armaments of youth and vitality now yields areas along its length readily subject to siege by armies of invaders intent upon ultimate destruction.
My garrisons now cede regions previously impregnable and inviolable. Regularly, distrust and despair overcome my shrinking defenses, forming subversive cells deep within my infrastructure. Niggling presences create internal strife and doubt, sabotaging laughter and annihilating creativity—my ducks' backs sop up the poison, their feathers suddenly incapable of shedding the rising tide and floodwaters that threaten their very existence.
Where are you, Robin Williams? You’re overdue with my ration of satire and I fear you’ve been captured. Did they get you, too, George Carlin and Jon Stewart? Did you finally succumb to the shackles of the shekels, Bill Maher? My colonels have apparently abandoned their posts, falling victim to the allure while accepting the shiny baubles and concentrating only on the entrancing gold watch.
Generals Thompson, Pryor, Garcia, Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin and Brautigan have long since left the battlefield, and Vonnegut and King are missing in action. Their replacements, both poorly trained and improperly armed, lack the fire in their bellies to carry the cause to victory. My once-powerful army is now a sallow militia that must ultimately fall.
You win, George. I hope you take great pride in your victory. Your bombs and battles and surgical strikes might just as well have been aimed at America, because that’s where they’ve landed. You can’t defeat the Iraqis or Bin Laden, so you decided to take America hostage and force us to watch you stratify the world. It’s Us or Them, huh, George?
When Esteemed Consigliore Rove finally proclaims you King of the World, it’ll all just be a blip on the radar. However, I would offer you this advice as you spit on the White House lawn: What goes around comes around. So unless you’re really capable of quickly bringing about the Biblical Armageddon you so desperately seek, you may want to reserve a prayer in hopes that God has a sense of humor.