Oil at the bottom

I’m nauseated by the traitorous bands of self-righteous protest pansies and peace posses who have surfaced amid the Iraq debate. On the brink of global unrest, our fighting forces are about to demonstrate to the world why fist-fucking violates decency laws. Semper fi, you filthy bastards. The only reason half of L.A. is able to sit on its collective ass all day nursing coffee Slurpees while I fix toilets is that America already rules the world. The only reason bubble-headed Hollywood pill poppers are able to complete a yoga session without having their chakras suicide-bombed by some terrorist scumbag is because the United States has been doing shit right for two and a quarter centuries. Amen.

While many see Iraq as nothing more than a wasteland of mud huts and concertina wire, I see a posh desert oasis in the embryonic stage. In five years’ time, I hope to be sitting poolside while Sean Penn serves me mai-tais and Martin Sheen adjusts my chaise longue and rubs Coppertone on my back. Of course, I’d prefer Jessica Lange, but she’ll be too busy doing my laundry.

War is not the answer. It is the question. Yes is the answer. And to all of the Islamic extremists planning the Big One, you can run your jihad up my fucking ass. I’ll leave the light on for you.

—Everett “Jack” Falconer

Santa Monica