Last Night I Had a Dream
I am on a riverbank on a bright hot day in Iraq. Small arms fire is hissing all around us and is soon followed by the shuddering whumph of incoming mortar rounds landing in our vicinity. I am with a group of people, some of whom are in uniform. And, absurdly, because this is a dream, I hear President Bystander in the background giving the Washington Happy Talk about, and I am not consciously making this up, economic explosion in Iraq. Meanwhile real explosions from the business end of Soviet era RPGs are making our lives, uh, interesting. We are told to get to the humvees for immediate evac’. Fine talc (from the Persian and Arabic talq, yeah I wiki’d it motherfuckahz, so?) sand thrown up into the air from the explosions settles on us as ash from a hundred little volcanoes as we make our retreat.
I am in the right rear seat of the lead humvee. Sitting next to me is James Carville. Sitting next to him is Senator Sam Brownback. In the front seat between two uniformed gentlemen is Senator Hillary Clinton. I turn to Carville on my left and his eyes are pale grey, wisps of white hair rest haphazardly on his skull like a halo. So I turn to Carville and say, ‘This is an utter and complete cataclysmic fiasco.’ Or words to that effect.
And Senator Clinton turns around from the front seat and says, “Shut up.”
I respond by nodding toward Carville and saying, “Bet you don’t tell him to shut up.” Carville and Brownback are silent and stoic as if in shock or some deep reverie.
Senator Clinton continues to glare at me as I begin to get emotional, “I am one of those 30 percent of the electorate that would eat broken glass for you.” I am, by now, weeping and in the midst of a soliloquy about American ideals and how even Brownback over there shares these notions that endow America and her people their nobility. But by now it’s ending, I sense that Carville and Brownback and Mrs. Clinton are sickened by my display. We ride on into the desert and an uncertain fate. I awake on the futon in the loft. Tired and ashamed.
Later in the morning I receive an email from a friend and he asks, “Is Hillary running?”
To which I now reply, “Is Colin Farrell stubbly”.
I am in the right rear seat of the lead humvee. Sitting next to me is James Carville. Sitting next to him is Senator Sam Brownback. In the front seat between two uniformed gentlemen is Senator Hillary Clinton. I turn to Carville on my left and his eyes are pale grey, wisps of white hair rest haphazardly on his skull like a halo. So I turn to Carville and say, ‘This is an utter and complete cataclysmic fiasco.’ Or words to that effect.
And Senator Clinton turns around from the front seat and says, “Shut up.”
I respond by nodding toward Carville and saying, “Bet you don’t tell him to shut up.” Carville and Brownback are silent and stoic as if in shock or some deep reverie.
Senator Clinton continues to glare at me as I begin to get emotional, “I am one of those 30 percent of the electorate that would eat broken glass for you.” I am, by now, weeping and in the midst of a soliloquy about American ideals and how even Brownback over there shares these notions that endow America and her people their nobility. But by now it’s ending, I sense that Carville and Brownback and Mrs. Clinton are sickened by my display. We ride on into the desert and an uncertain fate. I awake on the futon in the loft. Tired and ashamed.
Later in the morning I receive an email from a friend and he asks, “Is Hillary running?”
To which I now reply, “Is Colin Farrell stubbly”.
posted by The Vulgarian @ 10:18 PM
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