I wonder where all the anti-war demonstrators have gone, you know, all those saintly if a trifle ignorant-as-f**k people horrified by their predictions of hundreds of thousands of Iraqis dying to satisfy the despotic whims and power lust of that man Bush (who got it all terribly, terribly wrong, right? Wrong).
It is fun, I must say, demonising one's enemies, then subjecting them to cheap and childish abuse. Where is the joy in fighting multifaceted, complex enemies struggling with inner doubt and anxiety?
The 17th French statesman Cardinal Richelieu suffered thus: cloaked in scarlet, he ran the country with an iron fist, but wasn't sure at times if he was a nice guy, so he went to his confessor, a murky priest clad in grey, who assured him all was fine. That was the original eminence grise to Richelieu's eminence rouge.
Cardinal Richelieu was much maligned for stopping the French aristocracy prancing around fighting duels, ransacking France and having a good time. He lost the public relations battle. The aristocrats (some of them dubbed “les importants”) were beautiful and glitzy, even if they did crush some peasants, which must have seemed like turnips from a distance.
But Richelieu was a pen pusher: which is why he has gone down as the villain while those gigolos the three musketeers are seen as a bundle of fun. That's unless you are under-30, in which case you have no idea what “17th century” means.
So, where are the anti-war demonstrators gone then, come on, where are you vermin? They must be biding their time in their grimy bed-sits, twanging a guitar under a drooping poster of El Che, waiting for another G-8 meeting when they can go out and smash a McDonalds: why can't they just eat one?
The French of course have a choice now between McDonalds and humble pie. Yes, the French, those friends of “international legality” (yack, yack, yack) and of liberty, equality, fraternity, though not for the Iraqis, who preferred their Gauleiter and French imports (did you see the news picture of that man pushing Saddam's portrait against his crotch? Now THAT was history).
Chirac [a milky name, Blair being 'nasal', Berlusconi 'tortuous'], must be twiddling his thumbs now at his desk, waiting for his call to be put through to Washington. “Mais allez, zut, faites quelque chose Villepin“, he snaps at his foreign minister who hands the phone over to his deputy, Dr. Evil.
Unable to gain access to my long-time enemies: I have crushed them in my ever-vibrant and busy imagination. History followed my advice and earnest desire, and ignominiously swept away the Evil Empire, the mother ship of Iranian traitors and Bolshevik hooligans.
Next on my list is the waitress with Afro-hairstyle and attitude, who recently took my personal papers in a café as I sipped Coca Cola [a bubbly, refreshing drink that goes with the glamorous lifestyle of beautiful people].
I protested; she answered back: “You should have told me.” That's customer service in Barcelona (and Paris for all I know). Well I should have given her my famous Milton Friedman quote “Getya trailer-trash ass out my free-market face, hunnee.”).
Writing for this site, a meeting point for the community, is a perfect opportunity to promote concord and amity, exchange views and discuss issues in a serious and responsible manner:
I say, stuff the French. And when I heard the Turks wanted to join the European Union, I laughed and laughed until Giscard tapped me on the back and said this was no joke. Excuse me, exactly which Turks are Europeans, the ones with the big fat moustaches, eating dolmeh and riding donkeys? If the Turks are farangi, then what the hell are we?
That's the doorbell. I think it's my shrink, Barbara, come for her first session, which she said would be about seeing the world “as it really is”.