Editorials
Civil War: Brother Against Brother
By Colonel Morton T. Morton, RPC War Correspondent
Aug 26, 2006 - 1:27:00 AM

(Baghdad, Iraq) The day in this land of sand, was hot.  The sweat rolled from my old, war weary forehead.  An aura of misery hung over every object like a veil.   My old, war weary face drooped as I made my way out of the scorching sun and into the shelter of our tiny, plywood and cinder block abode.

The sun, that mighty life giving orb, is at its radiated best here in this land of sand. "Oh sun, whence wilt thou go behind the clouds, so that we might enjoy the mercy granted by the shade of thy shadow?"  I asked out loud, as I walked into our abode, wiping the great drops of sweat from my old, war weary brow. It was then I noticed that I heard no repose from my friend and fellow warrior Colonel M. Pooner Dawgivich. This was indeed odd, I thought as I wiped my
brow once more, unleashed my belt, and pulled off my sweat soaked
trousers and equally soaked boxer shorts.

Colonel Pooner just sat there on his bed, with his old, bald, bulbous head in his old, wrinkled hands. As I wiped the sweat from my old war weary crotch I looked at my friend in his state of sadness. There is something amiss, I thought.

"I feel lower than a Kurd at an Arab feast." Colonel Pooner sobbed out, as he began to cry.  I was taken by his mournful display, but I kept wiping my sweat soaked crotch. I walked over to whence he sat, his mighty chest bare of any threads, his manly pot gut bulging above his boxer shorts, all these things caught my war torn eyes.

 "Hey, I know, lets you and me go down town past the green zone and bang some 'Raqi whores!"  I said, as I wiped my sweat soaked crotch with a towel. I was hoping that the thought of 'Raqi whore banging would get Colonel Pooner out of his doldrums. I even cocked my naked ass right leg and farted a manly, bed sheet ripping fart.  But, alas, even that didn't bring a smile to Colonel Pooner's face. His face stayed wrinkled like a well worn turd.

"I got this at mail call this morning." Colonel Pooner said between sobs and sweat. He handed me two letters as he reached down and adjusted his sagging one nut and adjusted his tiny purple headed warrior inside his boxers.

As I read each letter, I realized why Colonel Pooner was in such a morass. It seems, that Pooner's two illegitimate sons - one Sunni  and the other Shia - had shot one another in what is now being portrayed as "sectarian violence." Sure, these kids were just two of thirty-some-odd illegitimate kids that Pooner
has sired all over the world. But, like all good fathers, it bothered him deeply to know that brother was against brother. Or, in this case, half-brother against half-brother.

"Where did I go wrong, Morty? I mean, sure, I wasn't there when they were born, or when they first learned to jabber that 'Raqi lingo, or when they first walked, but I'm still their dad.
  I know, I know, maybe I should have been there, but what about my thirty-some-odd other kids? What about those bastards?  I mean, sure, I only knew their mothers during the first Gulf War.  And, sure, I did them both, and both become lucky enough to carry the Dawgivich name inside their swelling bellies. Sure, I sent them birthday cards on their birthdays, like I do all my thirty-odd-some kids that I have fathered, and I sent them each a Hersey's chocolate bar on their birthdays. Ok, maybe I didn't know their first names, Yabba-Dabba, Rajal Racko Wadie, or something like that. Hell, you know what I mean, Morty. Who, tell me who, can remember those crazy-ass Arab names?" Pooner sobbed as he asked these questions that weighed on his heart.

I marveled at my friend's fatherly love. This brave Republican warrior, this manly man, crying like a high school girl that just missed her period.  It was sad, heart wrenching and mournful.  

"Your remorse is the remorse of any good father." I replied, as I put my old arm around his knobby shoulder. I could feel something strirring inside me as my
arm held him tight. Yes, a feeling of something.......something odd....or strange.

  "Hell, then there is that damn Kurd son of mine. What the hell is his name? Halajala Bella Boogie, or some shit like that - I don't know - all I know is that he is a shit-for-brain Kurd!" Pooner cried out even louder, and he shook even more. He shook so hard, my manly man-tits began to bounce up and down, to and fro. I kind of liked that........I mean, it felt different.

"He's coming to see me. What do I say? What do I do? Hell, what the hell is that shit-for-brain Kurd son of mine's name?" Pooner asked, through tears, sobs and shakes.

"Pooner, you'll know what to say to him and them. You're too good of a father, Pooner.  You have morals and values.   I mean, there isn't a country in the world that you and I fought together in that you haven't sired a child, thereby
giving added joy to the women you have did. I admire you, sir. I salute you, sir!" I said as I saluted him with my right hand, all the while, he cried and shook, and my manly man tits bounced.

Colonel Pooner got up and walked outside. I followed him and watched as he yanked his boxers down and squatted. My eyes watched as he strained and grunted, finally a mighty, stinking pile of thick brown poop appeared in the sand.  Then, he emptied his bladder atop the stinking, brown pile.

"Damn I feel better!" he said.

"It's this war, Pooner. In this war, it's Arab against Arab, brother against brother." I said as tears came to my eyes due to the stench.

" I guess you are correct - maybe, hell I guess. Say, do you still want to go down Baghdad way and do some whores?" Pooner asked as we walked back inside. I nodded my head in the affirmative and we dressed.

"I know you don't understand my words." I begin to say to the whore that lay beneath Colonel Pooner. I held her hand as I spoke and as Pooner grinded atop her. "But, you are indeed a lucky lady. The luckiest lady in Iraq at this moment; for atop you is the great Colonel Pooner. The true fighting man of our time." I added.

Pooner heard my whispering words and he smiled. Yes, he smiled that smile of his as he picked up the pace in his grinding of her. I knew that smile of his - the smile of a warrior, the smile of a man that could fight any man and love any woman. He's back, I thought as I watched carefully.

"I'm thinking about your old lady, Morty." Pooner said out loud and then he winked with his right eye - his good eye, not his glass eye.

Suddenly, my blood began to boil, and a rage came over me. "Damn this war!"  I said quietly to myself as I tried my best to resist beating the hell out of my friend and fellow warrior.

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