Dogs of War

“O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, –
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue –
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter’d with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.”

- William Shakespeare

Antony speaks in Julius Caesar (Act III, Sc. I)

Somewhere in the night a fire burns out of control in the wilderness. Firefighters rush to do battle with the blaze before what appears to be merely a weenie roast turns into a major conflagration. Nearby campers are found with charred marshmallow sticks in their hands and sticky lips smeared with Stay-Puf gooeyness, but swear they’re only taking advantage of the wind and the heat.

The fire jumpers’ battalion chief thinks lightning may have started this Act of God as his men dig in for a long, hard fight. A Park Ranger gallops into the fray to save the day, but few seem to notice that the brim of his hat is singed and upon his hip is slung a smoking gun. He’s wearing flint spurs while riding a steel horse – things that make you go, “Hmmm.”

Largest show of force since the 2003 invasion of Iraq

The U.S. Navy floated a larger flotilla of two aircraft carrier strike groups into the Persian Gulf on Tuesday to conduct maneuvers. The exercises come swift upon the heels of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards’ capture of 15 British sailors from the H.M.S. Cornwall. Convenient? Certainly. Odd? Only if you’re easily impressed with pissing contests.

As long as there are boys, there will be toys that go boom and “reasons” to throw rocks. I am not a pacifist nor a pessimist, but a realist. Read history. The world will always be filled with enough fucktards to warrant keeping a big stick handy, but I prefer to walk softly about the jungle on padded feet, leaving no tracks.

What disturbs me is that the present American political machine, which may or may not be subservient to the military-industrial complex, enjoys whipping it out on the playground like some third-grade recess geek who wasn’t picked for dodge ball for the umpty-leventh time.

“C’mon, Dick, pick me, pick me,” whined George as the tubby, bespectacled bully before him bounced the ball off the asphalt with complete control.

“Yer a loser, ya little momma’s boy,” smirked the playground terror, smacking the ball off George’s sunken chest and then his forehead. “You can’t be on my team ‘less you measure up. Meet me behind the monkey bars.”

As both teams whispered amongst themselves, watching the Mutt & Jeff inspirations for the “No Child Left Behind Act” of 2001 saunter and swagger out of view, the unlikely schoolyard pair stood side by side, hiding their prepubescent curiosity from the rest of the class. Fingers parted soiled Fruit of the Looms as the truth limply loomed before them.

“Damn,” muttered Dick, “That explains your test scores.”

“Huh?” George quipped as he zipped back up.

“Exactly,” smirked Li’l Dick, turning and putting an arm around his new best friend. “I’m gonna make you Captain of our team, Li’l Buddy.”

“Gee,” George sighed, not knowing how to react after being rejected so many times before. “Whatever you say, Dick.”

I am not blaming the Dogs of War. You cannot train a beast to attack, then kick it when it snarls and growls, tugging at its leash, and bites the neighbor’s child. I blame the vicious pet’s vicious owner. Since boys will be boys and the toys have gone nookyuler, the collatoral damage of their childish games has increased exponentially in scope. War is only a game to those who’ve never played it.

It is amazing, to me, that the majority of media and the public conveniently forget how American foreign policy – in all of its Third-World chess play gambits – has been caught with its pants down too many times to remember as Washington butt-fucks some banana republic or camel jockey dictator placed in power by its own greasy hand. If it wasn’t so incredibly painful to millions of people worldwide, it would truly be laughable and deserve a long-running Broadway musical written in its honor.

The pious self-aggrandizement on both sides of the Great American-Iranian Pissing Contest of 2007 – as they polish and flash their swords and shields – is a marvel only unto man’s incessant stupidity and primal need to puff out their schoolyard chests and kill something. I don’t believe a culture can be considered civilized as long as it prepares for and makes war. America and the world would be wise to remember that it was we who built and dropped the atomic bomb, yet some consider us civilized. I’m thinking that Iran doesn’t need this reminder.

If Iran, North Korea or Lichtenstein feel afraid and want their own nookyuler weapon, then that is their right for survival. If America appears threatening to the rest of the world, then it has no right to bitch about its neighbors’ alarmed stockpiling of rocks. Our actions since World War I would imply a waffling need to be either the world’s savior or Satan. Sometimes, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Actually, I think either hand works well for jerking you off.

Will this ever change? Not until the people wake up and demand accountability. As long as the meek sheep are asleep, the wolves will continue fattening themselves amidst their folds, hiding in the shadows from the slivers of moonlight that occasionally slip through the clouds to illuminate nefarious nocturnal pleasures. Why blame a wolf for being a wolf? Why blame a sheep for being a sheep? Stupid is as stupid does, right Mr. Gump?

The wolves are minding the mindless sheep while the foxes are guarding the hen house and the good shepherd hasn’t returned, yet, the last time I checked. Sadly, once these dramas begin unfolding, the idiot box cannot be unplugged so easily. They are not off-off-Broadway plays that will fizzle and die under the weight of their own bad writing, directing and performance. Methinks the audience must become involved and throw some rotten tomatoes.

There is the time-space continuum, and physics or mystics like to speak of different dimensions, but the dementia we all live in on planet Earth seems to include physical violence and untold suffering. Until I see signs of some massive shift of consciousness that may bear the fruit of a Utopian peace or Heaven on Earth, then I will continue to trust in god, but tether my camel.

Likewise, I will walk softly and carry a big stick, for it is my personal right to defend myself. I have a strong will to live and doubt that I can pull an enlightened Obi-wan Kenobi should you attempt to Darth Vader my hairy Wookie butt with your light saber. While it is spiritually noble to wax philosophic, during times of peace over a cup of coffee, if you’re swinging a sword towards my head, I may reflexively rip your nuts off and go nookyuler on any fucktard within reach.

When the shit starts hitting the fan, I may forget to simply unplug it or step out of the way. Do not test my strategic response system. I won’t throw rocks at you, if you don’t throw rocks at me. However, if you’re smiling at me while piling up rocks, don’t be surprised if I flash my overbite in return as I fletch some hastily gathered arrows and flex my pecs while stringing my bow. Pay no attention to those concrete silo doors in my wheat field.

You’re not in Kansas, anymore, Dorothy – and the brainless scarecrow is President.

My nickname is Kat. Since 1991 in Hotlanta, Georgia, I’ve used this radio name as my nome de plume. It was taken from Frederick Forsythe’s book “The Dogs of War.” Cat Shannon, in the book, was an Irish mercenary. I liked his personality and the poetry of his name. For many reasons I decided to use that name, changing the “C” to a “K” so as not to be completely plagiaristic, though I would like to consider it my way of honoring the character and not stealing from it.

In my heart, I am a mercenary and I understand the dogs of war. I served in the U.S.A.F. from 1978 – 1982 as an Intelligence Operations specialist. The Shah of Iran’s son also trained on my base, at that time. I remember the deep concerns over the Shah’s ouster from power and the tension behind the scenes regarding Khomeini. Would we go to war? If you don’t know the whole history between America, Iran and the Middle East, then you’ll have to do the research, yourself. It’s all over the ‘net.

America’s hands are not clean and its foreign policy blows camel cock. Hmmm, let’s see, the run-up to the whole Iraq debacle was a sham. Faulty intelligence, faulty planning and the American Sheeple asleep at the wheel, believing everything Washington sold them, has brought us to where we are, today, in the Persian Gulf – and the gulf keeps widening.

I don’t understand why the political powers bother talking like schoolyard bullies in the media. Shut the fuck up and just keep putting spies in each other’s country. Find out who has what, where it’s located and how much it will take to blow it up. Then, if anyone throws a rock, drop a 10-megaton warhead on ‘em. It seemed to get Japan’s attention in World War II. Now, they send us great electronic shit. Wii! Who knows, after George nukes Iran, we might get free tapestries for life.

The concept of a civil war is absolutely ludicrous. There is nothing civil about war. When you decide to “Cry ‘Havoc’ and let loose the dogs of war,” then prepare to unleash unholy hell on your declared enemies and annihilate them. Raze their country to the ground. If the children look like they’re going to grow up to be terrorists and remember what you did to their parents, grandparents, siblings and childhood friends – kill them, too. Otherwise, you’re soft and only creating more problems for the future. Genocide, shmenocide.

Stop being a bunch of self-righteous, pseudo-enlightened pussies who try to make war on the cheap without actually killing the enemy and its war-making capabilities. Hmmm. Could the Powers That Be merely want to prolong the horror of war for sheer profits’ sake or are they utterly inept in their prosecution of such abominable violence? Washington only understands one kind of prophet.

Verily I say unto you, this profit is quite welcome in its own country. If people must die, well that’s just collateral damage and it must be God or Allah’s will depending upon which side of civilization’s cradle you happen to be standing as you rocket.

This is mankind playing at being civil as they make war. It only prolongs the misery, the suffering, the carnage and chaos. I do not want war nor do I want to live with or among those who do. However, if you thrust your war upon me, I will fight to win. The Earth is a global village, now, so my desire to move out of this den of warmongers becomes moot, for their long and small arms can reach anywhere. I’ll just stay put and protest until my Free Speech costs me my life.

I do not agree with America’s fight in Iraq, but if you’re going to be there – fight to win. Then, get the fuck out, go home and build up your pile of rocks, again. ‘Cause you may have missed one of your enemy’s children – the one with a good memory – and your children’s children will have to fight his children, later.

The Palestinian and Israeli animosity has never been healed by any of our so-called help, so I don’t believe America has a clue. Now, Washington is beating the war drums with Iran and the dogs are snarling for their supper even though they haven’t finished lunch. Hmmm, are those chicken bones? That can’t be good.

Where’s your roadmap to peace, George, or while bouncing around your Texas ranch in your pickup truck did you become frustrated and toss it out the window? If the road to Crawford was lined with IEDs, the White House would throw everything it had at the peace process.

War is hell. War is a perpetual motion, money-making machine. War is futile. War is Big Business. War is evil. Washington is but one of the many evil doers who think peace is not nearly as profitable as war.

War should never be an option. Apparently, I came to the wrong fucking planet.

The Kat