Sniff.....Sniff...Oh The Horrible Pain!

Bo,

We do live in challenged times, but I say we must adapt!

Personally I, like so many of our fellow countrymen (women?), would have much preferred if the poor, doomed ex-cleanser had been given the privilege of some serious couch time with Doctor Phil. Imagine the emotion! The feelings! Oh yes, I am almost gleeful just thinking of the possibilities!

Then, when it all becomes nearly too much we will have the privilege....yes Bo, the privilege of witnessing the great retribution from the Doc. Philtribution I call it! Boo Yah! In that outraged Texas drawl that only the good Doctor can summon for times like this he could berate the Mass Murderer - not just for his crimes - but more importantly for his POORLY LIVED LIFE. The man CHEATED ON HIS WIFE for God's sake! He didn't HUG HIS BOYS! These are his real crimes and the man is A MONSTER I TELL YOU!

Only then could the Mad Gasser really feel remorse. He'd cry, we'd cry and all of us would see that it was his fate. He didn't want to feed his subjects to the lions, he had to do it because (alas) Daddy didn't tuck him in at night. (Sniff, sniff)

Oh, Bo I weep with remorse! What have we done?! We've BECOME THE MONSTER! I can't go on with this horrible knowledge....for me life will now have no joy. Saddam, Saddam the ex-wind of Arab Greatness (as long as you didn't piss him off) didn't get the privileges typically reserved the giants of our world who go astray. Mel did, and he hates Jews too! Is poor Saddam so different? Just think, had he been born with access to better theater, he might have turned out so differently. "Die Kurd" would have just been another buddy movie. But he wasn't so lucky was he Bo?

So now what am I to do? Perhaps...just perhaps....Oprah will comfort me? I know she is busy with the orphanage and all, but I hurt and am in pain. Poor Saddam! Poor Me! We're one and the same; vile human rabble in need of serious TV couch time and scorn from well dressed and slightly bored housewives.

CAN'T YOU SEE THIS IS A CRY FOR HELP?!

X

P.S.

Gotta run! Rachel is making Gnochi with K-Fed. Scrumptious!

More Bombs, More Scotch, and More Patricia Deyton-Knox Please

Bo,

My good friend, I meant "bizarre" in only the best possible sense! Surely you must realize that I meant no offense but perhaps suffered from a need to do; as you point out, thinking can get in a man's way.

I must confess, life in these Bushian times is so depressing for a man such as myself. We have far too much thinking going on and not much doing. More troops, less troops; Rumsfeld is in, Rumsfeld is out;We like the little Arab people, we hate the Arab people. Its enough to drive a man of action insane! There can be little doubt that when the festivities started we were rolling. Hell, we knew we had to do something so we just did it! We're the United Freaking States of America baby! Truly, we had the Afghany formula right; Screw with America and we bomb the shit out of your stinking little country. Why we can't seem to apply this same formula to the "insurgents" (read pissant little cowards) is far beyond my pay grade.

I've been in the D.C. situation room, I've sat in conference as some toady tried to determine if a proposed action would upset the "delicate balance". These people know nothing! They're always talking about "maintaining the balance", "the balance is so delicate", and "letting a little steam of to relieve the pressure". They never can seem to comprehend that when you're walking around with a bomb, usually the best thing to do is blow that mutha up where it's safe before it blows you up! Hell, that little toady? That bastard - right now - is trying so hard to determine the balance with such precision that he can't even see that the whole pile of shit is about to collapse on top on his sweaty little head.

Which, I guess, is a long way of saying I was projecting my professional frustration on my Fellows here at SAGE. Was I wrong to do so? Perhaps in tenor, yes. But can anyone say that my point was far from the mark? I think not. Great to see your post today, you might have a quibble with my message, but dammit Bo, you know how to come through when duty calls. I've always admired that about you.

Listen, I was thinking. That PDK chick is kinda hot when she gets a little of the old smoky elixer in her (I'm talking scotch son); you remember the night after the Seahawks won the NFC? Yes, hell of a party she threw - a most memorable night indeed. Perhaps she needs a couple hardy gents to take her to dinner and get the ole creative juices flowing.

Whaddya think, Bo?

X

A Call To Arms

In response to my fellow Fellows whining, I post a call to arms.

Personally I think the blog suffers from nothing other than commitment. Good Lord people it takes very little to pound out 300 words on virtually any subject there is and hit "post". We can scrap the project if you'd like and I'll reinvigorate the POH (I have a wonderful co-branding opportunity under way thanks to the prolific Mr. Smith), but this would register as something more than a moderate disappointment with me.

We've managed to assemble a stable of wildly creative (Cap'n Fritters? The Old Mule, Brookson, Patricia and that cute little guy.....I mean what the hell!) reasonably talented writers who lack one small item.

Guts! Perhaps this is because two of our founders are from an area of the country that built a monument to those with the gumption to leave, but I hate ascribe the blame to them and use the excuse solely for the opportunity to get in a stolen line from the Simpsons. The fact is that we simply need to put pen to paper and crank out the wild tales that I know we are capable of. But it's going to take a good 20 minutes a day people.

Lets face it, My Ann Coulter stuff was brilliant. Danger, guns, sex and one of America's most loathsome personalities all wrapped in to one squirm inducing tale. Hell, we even had murderous A-Rabs! Could I buy a comment to help the narrative along? Nope. Bo's Lincoln tale, while completely bizarre and not nearly as good as my effort (keep that to yourself) was terrific, yet we had trouble mounting the effort to support the guy! He even posted a picture of that drooling beast the little guy calls a companion!

The truth is, in the time it takes to type "I'm busy with work" or "I'm applying for grad school" a comment could be posted. In the time it takes to post two more excuses, some original writing can hit the web and continue our quest for an audience.

To quote the late, great John Blutarsky, "Did we quit when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?! No! Lets.....go! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

So there you have it folks. 353 words, 12 minutes, numerous grammatical errors but still sufficiently rousing to incite at least one of you to comment. The questions is do you have the guts?

X

Armed Motorage, Martha, and Litvinenko

Brookson,

A healthy dose of caffeine this morning eh, my good man. Excellent! It lifts the soul; and enlarges the mind. You are a coffee achiever!

Regarding your thoughts on armed motorage and just revenge: As you know I've often argued that only a select few - namely me and those I anoint - should be allowed to "pack heat". This way I would be able mete out justice with a quick and effective pop, pop from my 45. There is little doubt that crime would decline, civil discourse would increase, and I would be a lot less pissed off in general. All good things as your friend Martha likes to say.

By the way, I know our dear Martha will be catering your "Holiday Festivities For Those Who Celebrate" party there at the U and I would greatly appreciate it if you could do me a favor. As I think I mentioned to you, I paid her a visit at Bedford during all that unpleasantness. Really, it was the least I could do after I critiqued her Quiche (you must admit I was charitable when I described it as "eggy") at your "Vernal Equinox Party For Whatever Really Happened When That Guy Took an UnExpected Walk". I don't want to (and really can't) get into details, but I left a couple items of a personal nature behind (all those women with all that pent up desire!) and I believe she is going to leave them with you since, alas, we're yet again not speaking (All I said was the prison diet did her well - Soooo touchy!) Any way, if you could just keep them safe until my visit in the new year, I'd greatly appreciate it.

While I've taken a moment to stop in, I'm wondering, have you been following this polonium dust up (get it?) over in London? Most interesting don't you think? Sort of causes the mind to wander a bit towards thoughts of the old days when nothing was as it appeared. As you well know, if we want to find the answer we must not look where the magician is pointing.

Just who could possibly want to discredit the Ruskies at a time like this I wonder. Gosh, I can't think of a single person can you?

Dos vadanya!

X

What Fresh New Hell Is This?

To: My Dear Colleagues

From: X

Subject: The Matter Directly Preceding This Post

Is this what we are to become; A society formed to debate the limited merits of an English Poof and a Canadian Blowhard?! Please spare me and our legions of readers if you will.

Sullivan is most certainly one of the web's greatest fools. At some point in his career, the man apparently established a reputation for serious thought, but all evidence of whatever skill he once demonstrated seems to have escaped his command. Reading his blog one almost develops a sense of pity. Almost.

Oh! The poor fool, so blinded by his passion for gay marriage and what appears to me to be a projected hatred of aging father figures, he simply cannot see past the many false demons he has created and named as the enemies of conservatism! Of course this fable, constructed from a now years long series of lunatic rants, has a hero and his name is....... Andrew! But of course!

Yes we are blessed! The great and wonderful Andrew! The Beneficent Andrew! Our hero! And this is no ordinary hero either. No sireee bub Sir Andrew, much like a greater man he once idolized and listened to on the wireless dontcha know, Alistair Cooke, our Andy is steeped in a deep understanding of all things Americana. Just ask him! All things that happen to reside between Washington D.C. and the gay walks of P-town, that is. Oh yes, Andy does love the heartland, and he visits quite frequently; whenever a local state funded institution of higher learning decides it might be best to allow its students a moment to reoxygenate their beer sodden brains.

As for Steyn the best that can be said is that the man does maintain at least a minimum level of reasoning, and can still wield the pen with a certain lethality. Still, he's a friggin' Canuck and we all know that that stain simply will not wash off.

To hell with both of them I say! Let them burn their unsold books for warmth, and if desperation requires (and Steyn's morals prove sufficiently "flexible") they can cuddle when the wasted paper runs out!

Yours in Gentility,

X

The Blonde IV: A Crash on MD 70

For Those of you just joining, here are Parts I, II and III
****************************************************

“You better get us the hell out of this X!” she yelled.

I said nothing. My mind was filled with rage, but my training kept me in complete control. “No worries Annie” was all I said. I checked my weapon and opened the sun roof, ready for action.

Looking back I saw a late model Dodge Van in hot pursuit; two men of Middle Eastern descent hanging out of each side firing at us.

“Always the f**king Arabs”, I said to no one in particular.

“Just keep us in front of that van, and make us as small of a target as possible!” I yelled.

Annie was brilliant. As I stood up and began to return fire through the sun roof, she weaved in and out of traffic making it very difficult for the gunmen to get a bead on us. Not wanting to unnecessarily endanger any other civilians I was judicious in my shot selection, but did manage to take out the van’s windshield and, I think, wing the driver. Still, they remained in hot pursuit and in the heavy traffic the Beemer’s superior handling was only a marginal advantage……or so I thought.

Leveling my weapon I took a bead on the van’s driver and squeezed off a pair of shots just at the very same second as Annie swerved the Beemer across two lanes of traffic and powered us through an opening in the far right line.

“Dammit Annie! I had the f**ker dead to rites!” I yelled.

“What the hell do you want X?! You said get us out of here and that’s what I’m doing!”

I looked back and saw that while we had managed to gain a good half mile on the killers, all traffic behind us except for our pursuers had stopped; I guess the sight of a crazed gunman shooting at a van load of swarthy Middle Eastern types in the middle of the night will have that affect on people! The Arabs, while they now had nothing but road between their van and my car, really had no hope of catching us.

“You did it!” I yelled looking down at The Long Tall One. “Hell of a move Annie, hell of a move!”

“And yet I find myself oddly unfulfilled”, she yelled back. “We can’t let those bastards get away with this X! Hang On!”

The next thing I knew, Annie had thrown the Beemer into a wicked 180 degree turn. The lights of DC went a blur and having little to hang on to, I was nearly sent aloft through the roof of the car. Then, just as quickly as the car went into the skid, I felt the Beemer’s 19 inch Michelin Pilots grip the asphalt as Annie downshifted engaging the full potential of the V12 to propel us back towards the enemy.

To stunned to fully comprehend what The Long Tall One had just done I stood starring out of the top of the Beemer in awe of this woman. It was only Annie’s voice that brought me back to the task at hand.

“Here, take mine. You’re down to two shots by my count” I heard Annie yell.

Looking down at my stunning companion I said a silent prayer of thanks. Annie, with one hand on the wheel and another in her purse was removing a Glock 30; 9 in the mag and 1 in the chamber!

“I’ll get you the shot X, the rest is up to you!” she yelled.

I was captivated. In a situation where any other woman….hell, any other man, would have been happy to drive off to certain safety after a close brush with these killers, this woman…..this amazing woman was committed to exacting our share of justice on the turbaned fiends.

Oh and was she was a site! Her long blonde hair was blowing in the wind, the black, cocktail dress had worked itself midway up her slender thighs, and those eyes; those deep blue eyes revealed that here was a woman of conviction!

“Yes” I thought “Together, we will go to war.”

“Keep the car steady, drive straight at the bastards! Stay focused…it’s these cowards who are gonna blink…..wait until I pop the driver and then make your move to the right!” I ordered.

“Roger that!” What a gal.

I returned my focus to the van which was now 100 feet away and closing. I could see the driver on one side murderously steering the van towards my beautiful companion and me. There was also bearded man hanging out of the passenger side widow firing what looked like an HK MP5K; impressive fire power – we were lucky to have made it this far.

As I leveled the Glock I saw fire blaze out of the HK’s muzzle and felt the heat of a round that flew past my head. I was trained for moments like these and my attention could not be shaken. Everything around me seemed to be of another world. It was just me, my Glock and two men in a van who had come an awfully long way to die. Somewhere in the distance I heard the Beemer’s windshield shatter as it was hit by several rounds.

“F**kers!” I heard a voice yell, and felt the car accelerate. “She’s ok!” I thought.

Oblivious to everything but my target, I squeezed the trigger as the gap between our vehicles narrowed to no more than 40 feet. I didn’t have to see the driver’s head erupt in a crimson explosion – I knew I had him sited – but it felt sure felt good. As instructed, Annie deftly pulled the car to the right, we went around the van and I got a good look at the passenger’s “Oh Sh*t” face as we flew by! “See ya, Ali Babba” I thought.

“Get us outta here now Annie!” I yelled.

The Long Tall One, who didn’t need to be told twice, spotted an exit ramp, threw the car into a perfect drift, downshifted and in a feat of driving that I didn’t think was possible got us onto the ramp in a perfectly executed 130 degree turn! As we went down the ramp, I looked up the highway just in time to see my Middle Eastern buddies’ van plow into a concrete embankment and explode into flames.

“I wonder if they get virgins when their mission fails” I found myself asking nobody in particular.

I hadn’t realized that I was still standing in the sun roof and felt Annie’s’ hand on my belt as she pulled me back down into the car. She was laughing.

“Virgins?!” She laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that our side always rewards its boys for a job well done!”

As I fell into my side of the car, Annie gave me a smile and I felt the Beemer’s acceleration press me into my seat. Her focus on the road ahead, Annie drove me to a destiny that I couldn’t have imagined a mere 8 hours earlier.

Next: Love and Rockets

X

The Blonde III

B*d and Jeanie’s figures were bathed in the light of their front porch lamp as we exited their drive in flurry of pea gravel and the roar of the Beemer’s V-12.

“Hey, are you sure you can handle the power of this machine?” I asked fully aware of the challenge I was issuing to the Long Tall one.

“Handle it?” She returned, “I’ve hand my hands on more power than this before. Daddy used to race his Porsche in Connecticut when I was growing up. Once I was old enough, he would let me spin around the oval during practice and nobody could catch me!”

She said this with out boast or pride, but simply as a fact, and I had no reason to doubt her. I was in awe. Here was a woman of great intellectual power, who drank her scotch neat, enjoyed a fine cigar, and drove with an aggressive edge that said she was meant to own the road.

“I wonder if she can handle a gun”, I found myself thinking. Little was I to know that this question was soon to prove prescient.

Only once before in my life had I found myself so immediately taken. It was back in the early ‘80s; the cold war had come close to a full shooting conflict several times and I was on the front line. I was on assignment in Düsseldorf, Ronald Reagan had just become President and hope was once again in the air. After years of gutless leadership, capped by the feckless cowardice that defined the Carter administration, we were once again on the move against the commies and my life had a renewed purpose.

I was in deep cover during those years. My mission: to uncover the source of funding for a network of Soviet and East German agents who had penetrated the west’s intelligence network. It was a good time for me. My cover was as a wealthy industrialist who was unencumbered by the usual ideological constraints. It was a ploy that played to the commies’ worst images of “evil capitalists”, and it was extremely effective. In their view, I raped the proletariat for my own enrichment and in my spare time I indulged my vulgar interest in the rich man’s hobby – road racing. I made quite a splash on the European circuit, both as a financier, and as an accomplished driver. Ironically, I still hold several series records under my cover identity.

It was on the circuit that I met Annette Meuwissen. A beautiful blonde from Düsseldorf, she drove for team BMW in the women’s trial. Never had I experienced such beauty, such passion and of course such competence. Annette dominated the series while she drove.

We met in ’81 and immediately fell into a passionate affair. Our shared love of driving; our passionate indulgence of Europe’s culinary treasures, and yes, our aggressive love making, defined a period of my life that I treasure to this day. Life is cruel though, and such love, while it burns hot cannot be sustained, and we soon parted ways leaving me with a hole in my soul that was impossible to fill.

Or so I thought!

Suddenly I found myself in the passenger seat of my powerful BMW in thrall with a new, exciting, challenging woman. Such desire I felt! “Could it be love?” I wondered. Surely it was too early to say, and yet, there was that sense that this was a special woman!

We zipped out of B*d and Jeanie’s and before I knew what was happening Annie was powering the Beemer up the entrance ramp of highway 70. Traffic was heavy, but she expertly guided my sleek machine through traffic and into the left lane bound for the lights of DC.

“So where are we headed?” I asked, fully knowing the answer

“Back to my place” replied Annie. “And if you’re good, maybe I’ll invite you up before I send you on your way. I have some 40 year old Bowmore from Daddy’s collection that I might just be willing to share with you.”

“You do seem to have an appreciation for the finer things in life”

“And yet here I am with you!” She said with a wink

I gazed into those deep blue eyes, and I leaned over to kiss her.

I saw it before I heard any sound. In a moment that is carved into my memory, a crimson streak cut across Annie’s forehead. The world began to move in slow motion as drops of blood formed.

“Oh” Annie said quite matter of factly

Of course I knew immediately what had happened. She'd been hit!

In the next moment my world began to spin out of control. Suddenly the back window of my Beemer exploded in a hail of broken glass and the sound of automatic gunfire was in the air! In that instant I knew that the game had taken a drastic, unexpected change and I was going to have to rely on this extraordinary woman for my life.

“What the hell is this X?!” Annie exclaimed looking towards the back of the car where the window had been moments earlier.

“This, my dear Annie, is game time.” I calmly said.

She turned her eyes back to me, and not to be denied by whoever was shooting at us, I leaned in and kissed her. Our kiss, our first kiss, wasn’t long though, since two more shots almost immediately embedded themselves in the trunk of the car.

I released her from my embrace and looked into her eyes. “Time to put Daddy’s driving lessons to good use” I yelled as the sound of more gunfire filled the Maryland night.

“My God!” I thought, “Where did these guys come from?”

Not needing additional instructions, Annie hit the gas and I reached between her legs to remove my Smith and Wesson 500 from its holster under the driver’s seat.

Next: A Crash On MD 70