Republican Humor and Conservative Satire

Liberal Troops Whine To Rumsfeld
by: Colonel Morton T. Morton (U.S. Army ret.)
Senior War Correspondent For RepublicanPress.com

(Camp Buehring, Kuwait)
Today was to be the day that Donald Rumsfeld would stand before us to answer questions from the troops in Iraq! Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld is a compassionate conservative with morals and values, who knows how to lead the military forces with integrity. Needless to say, this old Colonel was giddy like a school girl that just had her tits fondled by the high school quarterback underneath the football stadium bleachers! I could hardly control myself and my emotions ran wild, like a school girl's imagination as she lay spread eagle on her bed while each member of the football team eagerly awaited their turn with her!

"Secretary Rumsfeld is my kind of man - a man's man - with morals, values, and the steely determination to see that we fight his wars!" I boldly proclaimed to Colonel Pooner.

Colonel Pooner's lips pursed together, his left eye drew a faint squint, and I knew that something profound was about to erupt from his lips. Yes, I knew that look. That look could only mean that he, the viceroy of verbiage, the duke of dandies, the earl of epiphany, the oracle of orators, had something of value to say that would resonate in the soul of those lucky enough to hear.

"I tell you he's a man's man, a manly man with manly ways! Secretary Rumsfeld is my kind of man, blood and guts! Damn, I'm so excited I can hardly control my throbbing manhood! I feel like a well hung Ethiopian in a room of hot, whoring Pigmy women!" Colonel Pooner said as stared at me with that look of his. He then scratched his cods with his manly, hairy left hand, farted twice, and then he touched himself again.

Our big, un-armored, Halliburton Oldsmobile rolled swiftly down the roads of Baghdad as Colonel Pooner and I were driven to Camp Buehring to see Secretary Rumsfeld. A bullet came flying through the windshield and clipped our driver, Corporal Kinky, above his left eye brow. The bullet then turned aft ward and struck yours truly right above my left testicle. Corporal Kinky let out a death curdling scream as his blood soon soaked the front seat of our Halliburton Olds 98. I, myself, barely acknowledged the projectile as it entered into my person; for I am an old Republican warrior, who has fought in many a battle and I have been stabbed, shot, beaten, rammed, gutted, pissed on, raped, and had untold numbers of foreign objects forced into my anus by my captors and my own men. Needless to say, I didn't yell out as the hot projectile pierced my person. No, I didn't even flinch; for I have no feeling in my left leg, and I lost my left testicle years ago to a sadistic Vietcong prostitute in 'Nam when I refused to pay her for services rendered.

As Corporal Kinky regained control of our auto, Colonel Pooner handed him a handkerchief and said, "Stop your damn, I'm-a-pussy screaming! Take it like a man! Take it like a true-blue, compassionate, conservative warrior!" Then Colonel Pooner took out his knife and proceeded to dig the remains of the projectile from whence my left cod used to reside. I could tell that Colonel Pooner was envious of my wound as he probed around inside where my left cod used to be. I knew that the thought of me getting another Purple-Hearts was eating away at him. But, like the true-blue friend that he is, Colonel Pooner didn't let his jealousy interrupt his search for the projectile that resided in the place where my left cod used to make its home.

When we arrived, we took our seat up front, and watched as Secretary Rumsfeld came out onto the stage and the pep-rally began. He told us all to discount the naysayers, and the critics of this war. He urged us to "win the test of wills" with the insurgents. Then he gave that pompous look that only he can give-you know that look where he glares with his beady eyes and shrugs his boney-ass shoulders upward, like he just cut a manly fart.

We all stood to our feet clapping our hands and yelling, "Bring'em On!" "Mission Accomplished!" "Rum-stud!" "Dead or Alive!" "To hell with Saddam!" "Freedom is messy!" and we stomped our feet. But, all good things and all good pep-rallies must come to an end, and this one surely did.

A "liberal" trooper ended the great pep-rally with a question to the Secretary about armor for the vehicles, and why the soldiers had to "rummage" around in "scrap yards" to "up armor" their vehicles. I could see the face of the Secretary becoming sullen and his bottom jaw dropped. Secretary Rumsfeld mouth was all agape, his look was a look of surprise, pissed-off, and down right befuddled.

"Damn, I think the Secretary shit his pants," I said in a whisper.

"Son-of-a-bitching liberal commie bullshit!" Colonel Pooner replied as he took down the soldier's name and rank. "Doesn't that so-called soldier know that we are here to fight and not ask questions?" He added.

"Yeah, did they ask questions about their vehicles after Pearl Harbor? It takes time to get the right equipment - it took time back then, and hell it takes time now! Dammit! We were attacked on 9-11! Doesn't that so-called solider know that?" I asked.

The rest of these weekend warrior guardsmen who call themselves soldiers clapped and yelled in support of the so-called soldier that had the audacity to question Secretary Rumsfeld. The Secretary stood his ground and asked for the question to be repeated, and I'll be damn . . .the so-called soldier asked it once more.

"You go to war with the Army you have and not with the Army you want! We're doing all we can, and this is a long hard slog! People do crazy things when they are free. It's not our fault, 9-11 changed everything . . . blah-blah-yada-yada-yada. . .It's John Kerry's fault! It's Bill Clinton's Fault! This just shows that we are winning this war. . . . .We've trained over 2,000,000 Iraqis! I know exactly where the WMD are at! " Secretary Rumsfeld said as he squirmed.

We left that meeting somewhat upbeat and somewhat sad. We are at war and we can't have people questioning our leadership, and this left a bad taste in our mouths. Yes, just like a whore who just preformed oral servitude and now tries desperately to rid her mouth of the taste of love, so to were we.

"Damn, that so-called soldier, or I should say, that liberal so-called solider, just pissed on our fire! I feel like a well hung midget in a room of giant women with giant cooters, and nothing I can say or do will ease the longing!" Colonel Pooner said as we rummaged through a scrap heap in search of 'up armor.'

"Yeah, ours is to not to reason why, but only to do and to die!" I said as I carefully held the metal plate up to our Halliburton Olds.

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