Monday, June 13, 2005

Even I could tell Iraq would be a quagmire, and I lick my own ass

by Barney the White House dog

Woof woof, comrades!

I’m not one to bite the hand that feeds me. Especially when that hand could have me drinking out of Koran-filled toilets at Gitmo. But I’ve been quiet about this Iraq business for too long. I’ve sat in too many NSC meetings, listening to Rumsfeld and Cheney humping the facts about WMD and terrorism ties. Even I could see that this was a spaying trip disguised as a morning walk.

I tried warning President Bush, back when he was discussing the invasion plans with the Brits. The numbers were all wrong—we were gravely misunderestimating how many troops we needed. I yipped and barked and hopped around the room.

“By jove,” Tony Blair said, “I believe your hound is trying to tell us something.” He’s a smart man, that Tony Blair, and his leg is on my top-five celebrity hump list.

“Colin,” said President Bush, “You’re not doing anything. Can you take Barney for a walk?”

I rolled on the ground and ran in circles, even pointing at the CIA report on the table. “Powell, get that motherfucking mutt out of here,” Cheney growled. “And get me some more Mountain Dew!”

Christ, I hate that douche bag.

Anyway, I’m going to explain why Iraq is a quagmire in terms even Don Rumsfeld can grasp, when he’s not fantasizing about Greco-Roman wrestling with Douglas Feith. (I’m saving that bit for my forthcoming Regan Books memoir, Doggie Style.)

Let’s say I’m the president of the United States of Dogdom. All of my supporters are dogs. Iraq, meanwhile, is full of cats. I don’t like cats. I don’t like the way they look or the way they smell. I don’t understand their culture, with all the grooming and scratching and sleeping. But in Iraq, the elite Persian Cats are abusing the hell out of all the other cats, torturing tomcats, female cats, even little kitties. Despite my hatred of cats, I am moved by their plight. After all, we’re all animals. (Except for those fucking hairless cats, I think they’re aliens.) I make an executive decision to get a few hundred thousand dogs together and go over there and to clean the cat box.

The first problem is that cats hate dogs almost as much as we hate them. They’re jealous of us because we’re bigger, stronger, and have that whole “man’s best friend” label. We get taken for walks. We get to gnaw on T-bones. They get left home alone during vacations and maybe get a saucer of expired skim milk. There’s a lot of jealousy and misunderstanding.

There’s also a little more too the story than me being a good doggie. You see, there are plenty of other places where cats are abusing other cats. Like those commie Siamese bastards running North Korea, or those murderous wildcats in the Sudan. But in Iraq, the cats are sitting on huge reserves of bacon. We love the bacon. We need the bacon. We get one whiff and we’re barking. OH GOD, WHERE’S THE BACON? I KNOW YOU HAVE IT, SHOW ME THE BACON! BACON BACON BACON!!!

The cats know that we are slaves to the bacon. They know that we don’t get along. When my canine allies and I show up, offering to “liberate you from those repressive Persian pussies,” they hiss and say no way, you’re here for our bacon!

Bacon? We lie. We didn’t know you had any bacon. No, no, no, we’re just here to help.

Yes you are, they say. Look at you, you’re panting and drooling for it.

Damn our involuntary reactions! Okay, okay, we confess. We are interested in your bacon. But that’s not the only reason we’re here. Now if you’ll just let us in....

But the minute I put one paw in their territory, some alley cat scrapes me across the nose. How’s that for gratitude? Before I can compose myself, I grab the offender in my jaws and shake him a bit. Being a dog, you forget your own strength sometimes. I don’t mean to hurt the cat, just teach it a lesson about using its claws. But then the fucker gets pissed that I’m gnawing on him, and he goes crazy, giving me the four-way Cat Scratch Fever. Now I’m in a rage, and I shake him like he’s in a blender. Until I notice he isn’t shaking anymore. Oops.

See, the other cats say, that’s what dogs do. They’re here to kill us and take our bacon.

“But he started it...” I protest. Before I can finish, each one of me and my mutts have four felines on us. We fight them off, as the cats are no match for us head-to-head. But cats are masters of stealth. Just when we think we have them down for the count, BOOM, they hit us in the back with a flaming hairball.

We can’t win. We bark and chomp and chase to no avail. For every cat we kill, a new litter sprouts up. It gets to the point where we don’t even want the bacon anymore, we just want to get out of there and find a nice hydrant to piss on. Eventually, we have no choice but to turn around, kick some dirt on the mess, and get back home.

So what’s my solution? How should I know? I’m just a dog. But unless you want this kind of thing to happen again, you better grab those responsible by the neck and rub their noses in it. It’s the only way they’ll learn.


Grendel said...

Great stuff, B. Love the title especially.

Brando said...

Danke, Grendel. Sometimes the angels just whisper them in my ear.