Chicken Run

The next generation of tough guys has their little conclave in a Moonie-owned hotel across the street from Arlington National Cemetery, where they can gaze nervously at the ever-growing field of crosses, polish each others' knobs and practice their excuses:

In conversations with at least twenty College Republicans about the war in Iraq, I listened as they lip-synched discredited cant about "fighting them over there so we don't have to fight them over here." Many of the young GOP cadres I met described the so-called "war on terror" as nothing less than the cause of their time.

Yet when I asked these College Repulicans why they were not participating in this historical cause, they immediately went into contortions. Asthma. Bad knees from playing catcher in high school. "Medical reasons." "It's not for me."

104th Asthma Battalion preparing to raid the mini-bar, before heading down to the hotel bar to scope some lucky hens.

These clowns might be even worse than the Late Night Shots jerkoffs, if only because mutual aggrandizement from a group of intellectually and emotionally stunted weasels is a tad more off-putting than over-privileged weasels engaged in a collective quest for booze and pussy. (Though, to be fair, there's bound to be some overlap between the two groups.)


The Battalion arrives, a bit short of breath, but ready for the main event. The over/under on how many women they have to harass with "I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I bet I can make your bed rock" before one of them gets lucky is in the double digits, even if the number of the eventual conquest's teeth (or IQ points) isn't. At least then the battalioneers can say they've jumped on a grenade. One thing's for sure -- in this platoon, everyone's a wingman.


In case of recruiter, remember the drill, and run like a motherplucker.