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July 27, 2007

A Modest Proposal: The Scott Thomas Beachamp Story

In the undying literary tradition of such masterwerks as Brett Barboursville and the Case of the Hairy Egyptian:

It was a dark and stormy night, jet black as the plush leather seats of the Mazda RX8 that gripped Delilah's trembling thighs like an overzealous car salesman on a slow afternoon, the inky void relieved only by the eerily grinning face of the Bose radio dial... as her sandaled toe caressed the clutch gently to the floor and she experienced what she could only describe thereinafter as a low polar moment of yaw inertia, she was confidently aware that the pre-loaded multilink design in back would minimize any lag in rear suspension response as she headed into a steep curve and she suddenly knew she would never go back to Brett...it was over.

The RatherGate Conspiracy,

The clock struck midnight as I, Dan Rather, veteran newshound and scourge of the BushReich, toiled away at my desk deep in the CBS command center. Fiddling absently with the radio dial, I searched for the frequency, fuming silently over my inability to nail GWB on the Bush AWOL story.

How quickly brainwashed viewers from those pathetic flyover states had forgotten the disenfranchisement of over a million blacks in Florida and the disgraceful debacle that was to follow. Of course I had predicted the rise of the Bush dynasty, but did they listen? Morons...letting this trumped up, so-called "War on Terror" distract them from the real issue. "Doesn't anyone read the NY Times anymore?", I thought. The news business is not for the faint of heart: if it weren't for Krugman, I'd go mad.

As always, it was up to me to carry on the fight: to make sure that draft-dodging, selected-not-elected AWOL Yalie b*stard didn't darken the doors of the Oval Office for four more years. It was time to stop the Bush Dynasty in its tracks.

As I poured over my top-secret files a tendril of cold air snaked in through the window, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I heard a soft tap-tap-tapping on my office door.

"Who could it be at this hour?", I wondered.

Night of the Living Constitution (ok, so that one sort of fizzled...)

It was in park, and Stormy Night might have escaped her fate that evening, had she only lingered inside her brand-new shiny red Mazda RX8 roadster a few moments longer. But Fate can be cruel, and the curvaceous and busty young Cato intern was in a hurry to get out of the rain and inside the Library of Congress to meet her secret admirer. All day she’d been wondering who had sent the mysterious email she’d received during lunch:

“Stormy: I’ve been watching you for so long. I must make you mine…meet me at midnight at the Library of Congress.”

As she tip-toed up the steps in her delicate high-heeled sandals, she had the eerie feeling she was being watched....

and The Joe Wilson Chronicles (never did get that one written up - I promise to do that in the next few weeks):

Karl Rove leaned in slightly, savoring the butterfly kiss of Delilah's hand reaching across the jet black interior of the Mazda RX8; not the kind of treacly sweet butterfly kiss you see little girls give their Daddies but more the sweat-drenched, not-for-prime-time hot butterfly-on-butterfly action you see on the Nature channel late at night when your wife is out of town and the blinds are closed, her buttery soft digits momentarily caressing the gearshift as she retrieved her Moto Q from the glove compartment; "Brett honey?", she purred, almost as soon as her french-manicured fingers had ceased tripping across the keys as artfully as an exotic dancer from the Camelot in Teddy Kennedy's lap, "Those horrid Wilsons...you heard, I suppose...this changes everything!"...

...we propose this year's storyblogging subject: The Scott Thomas Beauchamp Story. Since the editorial staff is pressed for time, we shall take as our starting point this excellent literary effort:

Its a shame the common folk don’t realize when we’re in the Sandbox we’re being handed “vitamins” on a daily basis, but they aren’t the regular Flintstones, they’re being used to get us all amped up to go on killing sprees and wipe out entire villages of Sand-wops…

We crept through the oil fields on a raid the other night, probably into neighboring Saudi Arabia, and burned an entire village to the ground. Their sand huts were set ablaze and we used sling-shots with special darts, made from the spit of the man-bear-pig, to finish off the survivors. The poor bastards never stood a chance.

As we were air lifted out the gunner on the ‘chopper was just firing indiscriminately at a bunch of brown-people tending their sand-patties. I asked him how he could tell the enemy and he just laughs maniacally, I guess the vitamin hadn’t worn off yet, and starts screaming they’re all terrorists. “If they run they’re a terrorist, if they don’t run they’re a well trained terrorist.” He had written “Sand-wops Iced Since ‘03″ beside the door and was actually keeping score. The pilot said they’ve had to re-skin the inside of the ‘chopper twice when he ran out of places to mark kills, so they didn’t have a total count on hand, but their last estimate was over six-hundred-thousand.

Its those “vitamins” that get our blood lust up and we just can’t help but killing. Hell our CO, Major Payne, is all the time saying that “killin’ is his business and business is good“. I’m not sure what’s become of us, but it isn’t natural and damned sure isn’t humane.

Do your worst, peoples... heh.

UPDATE: The editorial staff would like to stipulate one thing.

There are unfortunate aspects to this story that we do not wish to harp on. As far as we are concerned, Pvt. Thomas' fiancee/wife, the former Elspeth Reeve, is off limits for the purposes of this story. We do not know, and do not care to speculate, on her role in bringing Pvt. Beauchamp to the attention of TNR. It may have been no role at all, though contra John Podhoretz, we do not believe it is off limits to merely ask questions about whether the relationship had anything to do with their choice of Beauchamp as an author or their subsequent defense of his work. However, we do not wish to take part in any piling on at her expense.

Let's keep this fairly clean and not engage in anything that brings discredit on us.

Update II: The Princess was finding the story a little hard to follow (she is tired) so she put together this in-progress summary....which...(crap) still needs fixing.

Give her a minute.


Update III: Cut your wrist
let it bleed onto the paper
in unique soulpatterns
of mindthoughts. ...

Update IV: And another one! Luxuriously hirstute perfection...

Posted by Cassandra at July 27, 2007 08:39 AM

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And the editorial staff thinks that everyone needs to stop speculating and let Franklin Foer and the Army complete their investigations. We will say no more on this subject.

Posted by Cassandra at 03:31 PM

I suppose these newest efforts are permisible on the basis of a fine distinction; in any event you seem to have recovered your typical good spirits, which is great.

Posted by: socialism_is_error at July 27, 2007 09:31 AM

I'm not commenting on it, SIE.

This is fun.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 09:34 AM

To clarify, I think there is a difference between asking questions (I believe I said that what needed to happen now was for Foer and the Army to investigate to outstanding questions would be answered) and endlessly speculating about what happened, which is something we are not going to solve.

I guess I don't see how storyblogging violates what I said yesterday, but whatever.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 09:39 AM

Now stop that!

You continue in this vein and I'll fear you *haven't* recovered. ;};};} Clear?

Posted by: socialism_is_error at July 27, 2007 09:43 AM

"Dang!", though Pvt. Beauchamp as he hit the "Send" button and launched his latest dispatch to Franklin Foer.

Reading over the third installment of his work, he felt a special sense of pride:

"...we used sling-shots with special darts, made from the spit of the man-bear-pig...", that's the kind of in-your-face, authentic combat detail only those of us who have windsurfed atop the eye of the tiger can dish up. He can't get this kind of stuff just anywheres, you know.

It's gritty. Just keepin' it real for the folks at home....

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 09:45 AM

Yes, it was gritty. Sand was by nature gritty, and he had sand grit about everywhere – up his nose, in his eyes. When he tried to brush the grit off his eyes, he had a sort of low-cost dermabrasion, as the sand grit scoured the top two layers of skin off his face.

Pvt. Beauchamp reflected on the circumstances that had brought grit and sand into his life. He knew a guy who knew guys in the Sandbox, and one of them had sent a jar of the stuff to him in Germany. But the bugger didn’t know how to pack a glass jar full of sand, and Pvt. Beauchamp had absentmindedly set the box on an upper bookshelf by the window with the high-speed fan when he got it, meaning to open it later. When he finally got around to it, he lifted the box from the bookshelf, the bottom fell out of it and from the broken jar, gritty sand spilled out and was blown everywhere by the window fan – on his head and face, in his mouth, over his uniform, and on to the floor.

If he had not taken that creative writing course, this event would have just been a major sweeping and mopping job. But the seed of an idea began to sprout, the sort of thing that could sprout well in sand. This could be his big break! A story began to form in his fevered imagination…

Posted by: MathMom at July 27, 2007 11:12 AM

Posted by: MathMom at July 27, 2007 09:46 AM

He can't get this kind of stuff just anywheres, you know.

Which is why he was so glad he had majored in creative writing. It meant that he could give the story that special touch, that je ne se quois
that would make it stand out and have people take notice.

Basking in the afterglow of hitting the send button, he let his mind start to wander on what his next career move should be...to replace that
sorry piece of has been comic A Whitney Brown at Air America, or go on to dizzier heights and get hefty speaker's fees for telling his war experiences to left colleges...

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 11:00 AM

but for now, duty called.

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 11:01 AM


He picked up the phone, and his knees went weak as the sultry, satin tones of Duty Honor began to breathe sweet nothings into his shell-like ear....

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 11:07 AM

"Scott, you big, throbbing hunk of manliness. I hear there's a position open at University of Colorado. It's tailor made for someone with your unique talents. The only question is, when can you be there?"

"Oh, and be sure to dress appropriately. You know what they say: clothes make the myth... err... the man."

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 11:12 AM

Damn, I'm good...

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 11:25 AM

Yes, that you are.

Posted by: MathMom at July 27, 2007 11:35 AM

Duty Honor was a Country girl, the only child of Jim Bob and Peggy Sue Country. Though she was raised in a staunch Republican Fundamentalist snake-handling family in the buckle of the Bible-belt, she had heard that sometimes girls are allowed to go to college. As a teenager, she would go to the library and sneak into the Reference section, where she would furtively pull college catalogs from the shelf, and cover them with the latest copy of Highlights for Children or Boy’s Life, reading them from cover to cover. When she found the catalog for UC Berkeley, she knew she had found her new home.

Posted by: MathMom at July 27, 2007 11:48 AM

And so, she dutifully went to UC Berkeley, joining their ROTC progam before the Left scuttled it into San Francisco Bay. Her years at Berkeley were unremarkable save for that B plus she got in journalism...'One more low grade like that and you will end up running embeds in Iraq.' her advisor told her.

She didn't care; after all, she was Duty Honor!

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 11:58 AM

Now, sixteen years after graduation, she still suffered from her inability to leverage her JROTC and journalism activities to prevent Gulf War 1. But, maybe, she had found the Choosen One. The One who could bring Gulf War II to a retreat. He was continually being busted in rank by incompetent leaders who might eventually get fragged by 30 something NCOs in a forward operating base, who clearly couldn't see his genius(I did mention they were incompetant, right). He just needed an environment where he could bloom.

But would he say, "Yes" to her offer.

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 12:33 PM

Duty replaced the telephone received in its cradle gently, her perfectly french-manicured fingernails trailing along its inky black length for just a moment absently as she snidely pondered the conversation she'd just ended with the useful idiot...err... heroic truth teller on the other end of the line.

Though she knew in theory she ought to support the brave, murdering troops who get stuck in Irak though inattention to their studies in school, she found it all unbearably tedious. After all, most of these pretentious fellows couldn't even spell! And how bright could they be anyway? If they had any sense they'd have never joined the military. But this one was different. There was something special about him....

The most important decision a man makes every day is who he is going to kill, and that kind of DayTimer item is way too important to be left up to a half-witted Chimp who nearly choked to death on a pretzel. Concentrating intently now, she opened up her appointment book and looked at the name circled in bright red ink...

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 12:41 PM

Hey! get me rewrite! :)

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 12:43 PM

...Goden Country, her cousin. She was to meet him for lunch in an hour.

This would not be pleasant.

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 01:09 PM

No, it would not be pleasant. After all, when one comes from the same Redneck of the redstate woods, family ties could be a bit...embarassing.

And he was so handsome! Lantern jawed, a real brawny man (I can't do the html link thingy to the brawny man stuff, help!). But since he was not her brother, she had to keep him at arm's length.

Sighing, she met him at the pastry and sandwich shoppe where Joe Wilsom bought all his yellowcake.

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 01:43 PM


Linking thingy is done this way:

<a href = "Webadress">Text you want seen Here</a>

Example: <a href = "http://www.villainouscompany.com/vcblog/">Here is a link to VC</a>


Here is a link to VC

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 01:51 PM

"Mmmmmm....", Goden thought to himself, mashing the last few delicious crumbs around his plate with the tines of his fork, ".... yellow cake...".

This was the best he'd had since just before that fateful trip to Niger back in 2003. All those frequent flyer miles burned up on a fruitless search for a clue, only to have that blowhard Joe Wilson steal his thunder with that ridiculous puff piece about What He Didn't Find in Africa.

Dude couldn't find his arse if it was a hole in the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed motion just an instant before Duty slid into the booth beside him, her perfume intoxicating in the close atmosphere of the sandwich shoppe. He's ordered a double order of Tiramisu to share.

No one would call *him* insensitive.

[waaaay inside... heh]

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 03:00 PM

They've taken the Brawny man and Brawny Academy ads down, Cricket.

The world mourns.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 03:09 PM

NNNnnnnooooooooooooooooo!!! Goden's cover has been blown. Duty was not happy when she found out, as she was counting on his Rugged Induhvidualism to take out STB. Another cover would have to be found, and pronto. She ran through the list of possibles: Valerie Plame?
Nah. Shaving and waxing would hurt.
Ward Churchill? Hmmm. Maybe. Dan Rather?
Another possible and he could get closer to the source. But she still felt insecure enough that she decided to turn the sticky issue of another legend for Goden over to the Villainous Company
Knaves, a trendy, cutting edge group of cyber miscreants.

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 03:45 PM

Oh Jeez. Please go here for how to do links


Posted by: Ymarsakar at July 27, 2007 04:13 PM

Pvt. Beauchamp clicked off his bluetooth and sat down in his wing-backed Naugahyde desk chair (he knew how many Nauga's had to die to make it, but he didn't care). His cat, Mr. Bigglesworth joining him. As he sat there, stroking the cat's white fur, he became increasingly pensive as he played back Duty's words over and over in his mind: "Absolute Moral Authority".

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 04:34 PM

As the middle-eastern sun set into the middle- western west, Cheney leaned out of the open helicopter door and surveyed the dusty, sun blistered landscape below. Although he could detect life on the ground, the slowness of its movement clearly irritated him.
"Dammit all," Cheney barked throught the intercom, "Can't you get these people to run any faster? I didn't fly ten thousand miles on the public's nickel just to shoot at ducks in a pond! I want to bag me some of them AQ's on this trip."
"Will do, sir!" came the response from the flight deck. "I've got some Mohican's down on the ground that can flush out the game."
"Well, okay. Just tell them that I don't shoot no dogs or kittens or the four legged variety, but I'm partial to lawyers."

"Yes SIR!"

Posted by: spd_rdr at July 27, 2007 05:13 PM

Duty burst out of the door of the pastry and sandwich shop as the chopper slowly came into view. Pulling her Glock from its hiding place, nestled in her ample cleavage, she stepped neatly into the shelter of the Oscar Meier WeinerMobile parked just outside the Shoppe.

Leaning cautiously around the still warm tip of the Weiner, she drew a bead on the distant figure leaning out of the open door of the chopper and prepared to squeeze the trigger. All her years of training at the Tupak Shakur Skool of Ballistic Artistry had prepared her for just such a moment as this...

"Be one with the bullet", she thought to herself silently, (since talking to yourself with a gun in your hand while crouched behind a Giant Plastic Weiner was pretty much a guaranteed one-way ticket to the funny farm, even in suburban Maryland where such things aren't really all that out of the ordinary).


She pulled the trigger.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 05:55 PM


The weedy looking man jumped out suddenly from behind the Giant Plastic Weiner, grabbed the still smoking gun from her hand, and wrestled her to the ground.

Breathing heavily as he noticed that her ample cleavage was all up in his face, he stuttered, "You can't kill Dick Cheney... or at least not right now. He was about to kill a lawyer!"


"Why... aren't you A.Whitney What'sHisNoodle from SaturdayNiteLive?", Duty stammered?

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 05:59 PM

Just then, an enormous bundle of ... something came hurdling down from the sky and landed next to them on the ground with a resounding...


"Bagged him", said Duty. "Damn, I'm good."

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 06:01 PM

KJ, who had been trying to keep a low profile and ignore the rest of the world, felt his shoulder explode fiery pain as the bullet passed through his deltoid. As he recovered from the initial shock, he sighed in relief as it was only a flesh wound.

He ventured quickly to take a peak outside to see who had shot him. He could hardly believe it when he saw what appeared to be something falling out of a helicopter. He quickly bandaged up his arm and discretly move in for a closer look.

Peeking out from behind a Mazda RX-7 he could clearly see the face of "The Man", Cheney's right hand man: The Thumb of Oppresion.

But that could mean only one thing, despite his years of devoted service to The Man, he had become dispensable

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 06:26 PM

And being dispensable means only one thing to a lawyer: You are either fired or fired upon, according to the ATLA.

Duty saw what had to be done, if she had the nerve, cojones, stomach and head for it.

"Yes, yes I am A Whitney Brown. One of many," the man with the air of a basset hound intoned.
"I am here because of a plot. A plot so vast and a conspiracy so entangled it will take ten years and seven books to tell it. People will line up for days to get a glimpse of even ONE detail..."

Duty had had enough. She whacked A Whitney Brown upside the head with the glock. He dropped like a stone. Air America's troubles were not even peripheral to this, but she had to stop Scott from broadcasting.

Posted by: Cricket at July 27, 2007 06:50 PM

Oh, and that should be RX8 not RX7.

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 07:00 PM

Does that mean I get to go back to being 47 again? :p

Posted by: Cassandra at July 27, 2007 07:09 PM

She whacked A Whitney Brown upside the head with the glock.


Posted by: Al Gore at July 27, 2007 07:10 PM

If my Grandmother still gets to be 21, then I see no reason why you can't be 47.

Posted by: Yu-ain Gonnano at July 27, 2007 07:15 PM

I am going to be wearing a ridiculous grin for a good long while. Thanks!

PS There is something very, very wrong with y'all.
Just sayin'.

Posted by: Colin MacDougall at July 27, 2007 10:53 PM

I meant for Duty to stop Scott from publishing.
I was thinking Air America would sort of implode eventually, unless they can find another charity to take them in, or take in.

But I digress. Colin, if you click on the Brent Barboursville saga, you will find dizzying, spellbinding action. We had it all in there, to include commercial breaks, character adjustments
and Bill Clinton. I think we even put the kitchen sink in there at one point. Hope you stick around.

'She had to stop Scott from publishing.'

Posted by: Cricket at July 28, 2007 12:24 AM

And as the cosmic vibes of Air America were being heard around Student Unions far and wide, well at least at UC Berkley campus and in the markets in Havana, Goden's former brother, Queenen Country was busy phishing for donations in the YMCA's online bank account.

Liquidity... now stop that! Liquidity being the growing challenge for the perpetuation of TRUTH seemed to lead to the unavoidable matter of market share (shakedowns in WC-CJ's case) and so conspired with The Fates to bring Al Frankin, William Cold-cash Jefferson and Queenen together at the same instant, in the same online account, for the same reasons. It just was not fair. There ought to be a law, a rule, hey, a doctrine!

But just as our financial acquisitions expert was on the cusp of hacking immortality, clutching her laptop in her sweaty (overly large and rough from moonlighting in roofing construction) hands, Queenen fell from her 5" spiked heels into the sand at White Water on to a young fellow with a more than passing resemblance to Truman Capote. He did not miss a beat in his movements, so often repeated as to be second nature. Click, ssss, click, ssss, click, sssss... pressing one square Glock 9x9x19 round after another into the waiting magazine.

Gazing into his eyes, finding it hard to ignore his pursed lips and the haughty way that he cocked his head back, Queenen found her ample Corning enhanced bosom heaving with anticipation.

The young man ignored her, choosing instead to remain focused on his mission in the sand... Imagining how many sand-wops the black-ops operators acting on the lemon-juice scribed on flash-papers orders directly from Uber-Fuerer code named Dove-Hunter had forced down that frightening 40 foot water-slide.

[Don't Touch that Mouse! We'll be right back]

Posted by: Darth Shredder at July 28, 2007 03:20 AM

Punk :p I just spit out my morning coffee...

You have no idea how much I've missed your comments.

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 05:48 AM

Yes, his imagination was indeed powerful. He knew that he should only his power for the greater good, the Absolute Moral Authority. He also knew that to achieve this Immortal status
he would have to lop off a few heads in cold blood, metaphorically speaking.

Duty checked the heaving of her bosoms.
If her bosoms heaved any more she would either faint or get a black eye and she needed to have a clear brain and her eye on the target.

She watched his insane tapping at the keyboard.
How could he write so well so fast? He was almost as good as she was.

Posted by: Cricket at July 28, 2007 08:07 AM


A gentle tap tap tap at the door brought Scott out of his flashback daydream semi-slumber. Scott was having difficulty choosing metaphors, perhaps an interuption wouldn't hurt.

"Come in" he bellowed. The twillight followed in a sultry raven haired girl with more curves than a map of Saskatchewan who had the sweet smell of grass clippings. "Hello, ju can call me Lu Lu, I am known in Mesopotamia as the Desert Lawn Chica ju know."

"Why have you chosen this moment to enter my tent door and my life you enchanting lawn chica?" Scott could barely get the words out so powerful was this womans power of enchantment.
" I jus wan to see if ju would like for me to be taking care of jour lawn no? Dis would give you more time to be writing and ju would be having the most beautiful lawns this side of the Tigris rivers".

"Oh" was all Scott could say, so taken was he with her enchantments.

"Jour name is Beachamp yes? I am not familiar with jour work and I read...how you say, bodaciously".

"I write under a pseudonym" Scott said but Lu Lu just looked confused, beautiful but confused. "You know like Mark Twain".

"Oh, that was you? I have been to be reading jour work then" Lu Lu said as they both laughed like at the end of a Scooby Doo cartoon.

In a sexy low sultry voice Lu Lu queried Scott a final time "so, may I be taking care of your lawn now?" Lu Lu was nervous about the answer, she had not been this nervous since she quit the chewing of the Skoal products.

Posted by: Pile On® at July 28, 2007 10:33 AM

Good helk. I thought to make Duty's Grandmother the lawn/sand chica. I am so glad she is no longer dipping snuff. That lithp wath really hard to thpell.

Back to our story:

Duty's eyes narrowed: LuLu the Lawn Lady could be an asset or a liability. But this was the kind of thing Duty excelled at. It recalling her classes on The Way Of The Warrior and how to stop time while fighting inside The Matrix, she remembered a truism that helped her get to the top: Control+alt+delete.

If she could suspend time by having Scott drool all over LuLu, she could rush in, hack his computer and retrieve the email, delete his files, wipe his hard drive and his brain all at the same time.

Posted by: Cricket at July 28, 2007 10:46 AM

I leave Planet Earth for a few freaking hours...

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 01:18 PM

...there was a pregnant pause while Pvt. Beauchamp, man of action, pondered whether to allow this curvaceous desert lawn chica into his life. In between running over dogs on the streets of Baghdad and dancing madly with pieces of rotting child flesh under his helmet, there had been so little time for fun lately. But then as they say, war makes monsters of everyone it touches...

Why even try to resist?

"Oh, Scott"...

LuLu's lustrous eyelashes fluttered against her tear-stained cheeks like dying butterflies desperate to escape the BushReich's disastrous environmental policies.

"Eef jou would only allow me to harvest thee lush blades of your mindthoughts, how happy we could be..."

He felt himself wavering.

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 02:38 PM

Suddenly, out of the western sky, he saw her, coming through the sand, cleavage bursting from her coral jacket, cankles rubbing together in her chukka boots.

"Stop," she cried. "I was misled. I am here to take you home. I will debrief you in my compound in Chappaqua."

Posted by: Sloan at July 28, 2007 02:46 PM

And they say I am mad...

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 02:51 PM

Looking longingly from the luscious landscape of LuLu's luminously langorous limbs to Hillary's ... legs, Scott felt his mouth go dry. This was the Moment of Truthiness.

Was he a man, or a mouse?

What was really important in life, anyway - his progressyve principles, or a tawdry roll in the hay with some Jewish-Chinese-Mexican-American lawn chica?

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 02:56 PM

...confused, Scott's eyes darted nervously back and forth from Hillary's heaving cleavage to LuLu's gently quivering bustline. What to do, what to do?

As the sands of love ran through his hourglass leaving him feeling Young and Restless, he realized he only had One Life to Live: we humans must make the best we can of the Days of Our Lives, he thought to himself, otherwise our nights will be filled with nothing but Dark Shadows.

"Wow", he thought to himself, this is starting to remind me of a soap opera...

He shook the thought off and moved on.

Posted by: Cass at July 28, 2007 02:58 PM

This is what happens when we are all writing at the same time. Perhaps these could be rearranged to make more sense.

Posted by: Pile On® at July 28, 2007 03:00 PM

Will do :)

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 03:19 PM

Actually I was about to have Scott push Hillary to the curb so your part would make sense in a minute.

I just got a phone call and the briefcase I ordered showed up, so I got interrupted.

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 03:21 PM

You mean this makes sense? :)

Posted by: MathMom at July 28, 2007 03:42 PM

Silence, peasant!

Posted by: Al Gore at July 28, 2007 03:56 PM

Call for iowahawk!

Posted by: socialism_is_error at July 28, 2007 05:36 PM

Giving Hillary a violent shove, he pushed her into the office paper shredder, quickly pushing his government issued ear protection into LuLu's shell-like ears to muffle her agonized screams.

"LuLu", he said, staring soulfully into her eyes as he savored her tempting mindthoughts, "if you want it, the lawn job is yours... all yours".

Posted by: Cass at July 28, 2007 05:52 PM

Lu Lu wondered why she had ever been nervous about gaining Scott's approval. This writer of the words was but flan in her hands, a dessert product with physical properies of both solids and liquids that given some time and encouragement takes the shape of its container. Lu Lu chose the container and this man took its shape. Like so many men had before.

"Lu Lu" Scott said, "if you do a really good job on the lawn and it impresses the Commanding Officer perhaps you can be the groundkeeper for a graveyard we are working on. It is going to be massive. A massive graveyard".

"I always do the work finest writer person", she said with an air of confidence that only a world class Lawn Chica could ever know or understand.

"I need to go purchase some monofilament for my weed whacker" she said as she sashayed out of the tent.

Posted by: Pile On® at July 28, 2007 05:56 PM

Lu Lu knelt down behind the reeds, the "thrum-thrum-thrum" of the of the helicopter that deposited her here fading into the dark and distant night. She flipped her night-vision goggles down over her blood-shot coal-black eyes, their own almond shape made even more inviting by the heavy lacquered eye shadow applied in subtle shades of army olive drab. Almost as if on purpose, LuLu raised a hand signal to her her team and one-by-one they fired-up their M-58 gas-fed hydro-carbon-pumping weed whackers. Dawn was still along ways away, but there was still much to do. Come the morrow, the reeds, and all their inhabitants, would be just a bad memory.

Posted by: spd rdr at July 28, 2007 06:58 PM

You people are doing this on purpose just because I drove to Virginia today instead of mowing my lawn, aren't you???

I hate you :p

/back to our story...


From the freshly-whacked weeds rose a commanding figure... a figure from the past... a figure no one expected to see.

Brett Barboursville: the man who just wouldn't die, no matter how many lousy writers deployed how many highly regrettable run-on sentences against him in how many implausible stories penned in haste and repented... well, never really. The thing was, the man just wouldn't stay dead.

In one hand he had a cigar. In the other, a box of Colonel Sanders' best: the works. A 12 piece Original Recipe chicken feast, cole slaw, baked beans, biscuits, and those yummy little chicken nuggets with the bones already conveeeeeeniently taken out of them.

He even remembered to bring the napkins and sporks. The man was incredible.

Just then, Pvt. Beauchamp strolled into view.

Posted by: Cass at July 28, 2007 07:47 PM

"Have a seat, son", Brett said nonchalantly.

Momentarily nonplussed by Brett's almost otherworldly dashing good looks, not to mention the slight wafting of pastry flour in his wavy brown hair, he complied. "Duty Honor sent me", he said.

"This will be a working lunch, and there's no time to waste so let's get moving. The Boss is worried. He's tried everything he can think of to end this war - constantly threatening to cut funding or set deadlines, telling our enemies that we're already beaten, insulting our Generals, calling our strategy a failure before it can even be implemented - but they just won't give up.

It's almost like they think he's irrelevant or something."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. If he can't beat down our troops from the outside, we'll have try the flip side of our former policy. The upside of the down side is that we can defeat our own side from the inside. We need you, Scott. Join me, and feel the power of the dark side."

Scott's mind raced. All his life he'd secretly known he was destined for greatness. This was the confirmation he'd been waiting for. No more trash details, no more being busted back to Private, no more disrespect. As he struggled to contain his excitement, he heard a reed snap.

"Quick! police the area! I'm on trash detail - if my CO catches me eating while I'm supposed to be picking up trash, I'm fried!"

Beauchamp grabbed the last boneless wing and started to throw it in his trash bag, but he was kind of hungry. Suddenly he thought, "My helmet!" He hurriedly put it on top of his head in the space between his helmet liner and his head.

Brett stuffed the KFC bag in his rucksack as the CO strutted into view. At the last minute he spit surreptitiously into the reeds.

"Beauchamp! Are you goofing off again? I thought I told you to police this area!" The CO started poking around in the reeds.

"Damn! What's this? A BONE???"

Posted by: Lou Reed at July 28, 2007 08:21 PM

"I've got to out to dinner with my family, " Private Beauchamp revealed, on his web site. "So I won't be available to, you know....talk."
He addded "Gee, I hope that they have the tuna tonight." And then: "I really like the tuna."

George Bush, on the other hand, HATES tuna.

Posted by: spd rdr at July 28, 2007 08:32 PM

With pursed lips and that haughty head cocked to one side Pvt Beauchamp wandered past Brett Barboursville, so engrossed was he in the character development of Putrid Smith and Richard Hiccup, the main characters in his latest manuscript, In Cold Mud. Beauchamp began to mutter aloud, “Hiccup was bragging continuously about how he was going to splatter the walls with hair, how he was going to massacre the Country family.

At the Country residence, late that night – after cutting the telephone line – Hiccup and Smith confronted the family – one by one – and each was tied up, with some pains made to make them comfortable. The Country son, 15-year-old Indian, was tied up and laid on a sofa in the basement, where his father was also tied up. Farnwide Country and 16-year-old daughter Desolate’ were tied up in separate beds. Hill Country was taken to the basement and tied up, but Smith placed a cardboard pallet under his head.

The seminal event leading to murder, according to Beauchamp, was when Putrid Smith walked into 16-year-old Desolate’ Country’s room, and found Hiccup trying to have sex with the girl. Alas, she would not bleat to his satisfaction and given the approach of the fourth hour, feared he might have to call his doctor.

Meanwhile just as Lu Lu was back at her flat showering off the remnants of Sherwin Williams makeup, sweat, grass-clippings and the aroma of Beauchamp’s spoor – that of a wild imagination native to the geographic region of Opportunistic-no-Loadium –in walked Ricky!

Ru Ruuuceeee, I’m home!

Posted by: Neil Ander-Thal at July 28, 2007 08:43 PM

Dear God... I've lost control of you two :p

If I ever *had* control...

Posted by: Harry Reid at July 28, 2007 08:51 PM

Suddenly, a shot rang out.

Posted by: Cricket at July 28, 2007 09:31 PM

Watching from the cover of the tall reeds, Duty Honor Country ducked in case the bullet with her name on it had been fired. She was becoming concerned. This Beauchamp guy seemed a little…what was the correct word…opportunistic? Delusional? Like a lying sack of excrement? When you have an assignment like hers, you didn’t want it to come flying apart at the seams. She cringed, thinking of one of her other assignments, involving Moping Mary Mapes, but she pushed the thought out of her mind. After all, President Kennedy had his Bay of Pigs, too.

Well. She heard Pvt. Beauchamp muttering to himself, then saw him do that jut-jawed thing that already made her skin crawl. He had a way with words, though, you had to admit that. But as to his grasp of reality? It was less Truman Capote than it was Buzz Lightyear.

Posted by: MathMom at July 28, 2007 09:52 PM

Pvt. Beauchamp was cursing to himself. Every single time he went to the latrine, he had to check for explosive devices. Ever since he had announced that he wanted to be an officer fragged by his NCOs, it seemed that he had been practicing more and more on how to identify
and disarm IEDs. He did it on patrol, when he was in camp and when he went to the field PX.

This time it was a fake; a noisemaker, really.
He jumped and stained his DCUs...with his coffee.
Duty was trying so hard not to laugh. She'd been able to tape the whole thing through her NVGs. This would be worth some laughs back at
the DoD.

Posted by: Cricket at July 28, 2007 10:46 PM

Capt. Lu Lu hesitated for the first time in her military career. Just suppose her crack squad of weed-whackers were not up to the task? Just supose that Osama bin Laden himself were among the snakes encountered in this first-ever global assault on reed whacking? Could her hearty band of illegal immigrants save the day?

Her mind raced back to the day that she was called in into the office of the Chief Groundskeeper....

"Captain, do you know why your here?" he barked authoritively.

"NO SIR! NOT A CLUE, SIR!" came her instant text-messaged reply.

"Uh, Captain..."

"Sorry, Sir! I just love my new I-Phone! Sir!"

The brief tittering from the dimmly lit corners of the room stank of CIA hubris, and the Chief wasted no time in reassuring Captain Lu Lu that those, as he put it, "a$$holes" would have nothing to do with the team she was about to put together. She was completely on her own, the General stated, and that the Army and administration would deny the operation completely...unless she suceeded.

Captain Lu Lu let the General's words sink in for a minute or less. "My nails," she thought, "there goes $75 bucks in a hurry."

She snapped to attention: "What is it that you require, Sir?"

"I need you scour the suburbs for the best cadre of misfit weedwhackers ever put in combat. I mean real killers. Weedwhackers without souls. Weedwhackers that will lay down their lives, not merely for victory against the enemy, but for green cards and a lifetime membership to Sam's Club. This is a suicide mission, Captain, make no mistake. But those who survive will never forget their contribution to the American way of life, even if they never get to legally appreciate all of it's charms. Can you do it, Captain?"

Lu Lu steeled herself against making a rash answer, and reached deep down to her very soul to uncover her inner-most desires....Brett...Brett. To the astonishment of the assembled, she then smacked herself in the face and said, " Only if I get to choose my own crew." She knew that Pedro would bat cleanup.

Posted by: spd rdr at July 29, 2007 04:11 PM

And there you have it; the Iraqi Army outsourcing their lawn care to Mexico.

Posted by: SnarkyOne at July 29, 2007 08:24 PM


I am dying to do something with this, but I am just too tired. I will pick it up in the morning. I promise.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 29, 2007 10:31 PM

Storm Troopers

It was a dark and stormy Baghdad night. There is a section of this city we wise-cracking infantrymen refer to as "Fruitcake Heights," because of all the human entrails constantly falling from rooftops. At least they think they're human. They don't taste like chicken, I'll tell you what.

My tactical battalion group had just finished dog-slicing detail in the outpost perimeter, when one of the guys, who had a reputation as something of a crank-yanker, took off his ACU pants, revealing his tan underwear. We thought it was only mildly amusing, until he told us to look closer, to reveal that his underwear was not made of cloth, but hundreds of Iraqi heart valves, stitched together. It was nice needlework, even had a Y-front fly.

... read the whole thing

Posted by: Scott Thomas Gleeson at July 30, 2007 01:09 PM

Finally back in his room after an exhausting day of running over stray dogs... err... wasting the Muj...err... policing the reeds, Pvt Beauchamp settled in at his keyboard. As his mind drifted back to the humiliating encounter with the CO and the chicken bone earlier that day, he flexed his fingers like Liberace before a Steinway and began to type:

...eventually, we reached the bones. All children's bones: tiny cracked tibias and shoulder blades. We found pieces of hands and fingers. We found skull fragments. No one cared to speculate what, exactly, had happened here, but it was clearly a Saddam-era dumping ground of some sort.

Yeah! That would show that stuffy SOB! Write what you know, they always say! Heh...

One private, infamous as a joker and troublemaker, found the top part of a human skull, which was almost perfectly preserved. It even had chunks of hair, which were stiff and matted down with dirt. He squealed as he placed it on his head like a crown. It was a perfect fit. As he marched around with the skull on his head, people dropped shovels and sandbags, folding in half with laughter. No one thought to tell him to stop. No one was disgusted. Me included.

The private wore the skull for the rest of the day and night. Even on a mission, he put his helmet over the skull. He observed that he was grateful his hair had just been cut--since it would make it easier to pick out the pieces of rotting flesh that were digging into his head.

Funny? Of course not. But many of my friends were laughing anyway. That is how war works: It degrades every part of you, and your sense of humor is no exception.

Incredible what war would make some people do, wasn't it, he thought to himself as he contemplated the furor this would cause...

Posted by: Franklin Foer at July 30, 2007 01:52 PM

From his hiding place in the reeds outside FOB Falcon, Brett Barboursville sighed in satisfaction and closed his laptop.

"Just like clockwork", he said to himself (mostly because he was alone at the time -- after all, this was not suburban Maryland where heavily armed people conduct one-way conversations with themselves all the time and no one thinks anything of it).

Posted by: Franklin Foer at July 30, 2007 01:57 PM

Dawn rolled over Baghdad like a 5-ton Bradley over a starving Weinmeraner, slicing the blood red sky violently in half. Pvt. Beauchamp stumbled out of bed blearily and down to the latrine. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a group of soldiers pulling the legs off giant sand spiders and weaving them into giant, itchy sweatbands. Funny, back home no one ever wove spiders' legs into sweatbands, but this was war.

War changes people, makes monsters of them. It was a mark of his uniqueness that he could still recognize that, still remember a time when spiders were for watching they traced their delicate webs from flower to flower. He was tired. But then that was a legacy of war too.

He had never needed sleep before the war.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 30, 2007 04:37 PM

"He had never needed sleep before the war."

The End.

Posted by: spd rdr at July 30, 2007 08:07 PM

Undercover Ambassador: First Meeting
by "Joe O'Hair"

"This coffee tastes like crap!" I said, and scowled. I wrote down MEETING on the top of the page in my notebook. Then I wrote BAD COFFEE underneath.

"Florida does the best she can, Joe," Princess Valiant said. "She comes from a deprived background."

"Kept down by the man," I empathized. "Fight the power."

"Fight the power!" she murmured. "Poor downtrodden minority."

"Downtrodden like gravel under the man's boot", I agreed. I sipped the bad coffee again. "Still tastes like... Hey guys, I'm glad you're here."

Two desk spooks sat down at the conference table. They glared at me with inscrutable expressions. One was her boss. He looked like a low level spook boss. The other was just another desk spook. Neither one had as good hair as mine.

Her boss said, "So you're Valiant's husband."

"Yeah, I'm a lucky man, maaaaan," I replied suavely.

She gave me one of those dreamy looks that convinced me to marry her in the first place. She said, "and an ex-ambassador with experience in Niger."

"I guess you know what we need. Right, Joe?" he asked.

"We need to find out if Saddam bought any Uranium in Niger." I responded. "I heard Darth and Der Fuhrer are trying to lay a framejob on him."

"Yeah those dillweeds," he said. "They think we aren't doing our jobs, and we have to cover our asses or we'll have to go back into covert work. And I like coming to work at Langley everyday."

I wrote DILLWEEDS in my notebook.

"Me too," agreed the other spook.

"Me three," said Princess Valiant.

"Me four," said the boss spook. He snorted with laughter.

I laughed. And they laughed. We all laughed. Man we laughed, slapping our knees, bumping foreheads on the table, crying tears of bemused amusement. I laughed, leaning back in my chair until I lost balance and fell backwards on the floor.


More at my site.

Posted by: Wolf Pangloss at July 30, 2007 09:54 PM

Just like that, its over? He falls asleep, THE END? If Brett B. can come back from the dead, I think Scott will reawaken.

I envision a LOTR type quest with Jeremy Irons in it.

Now, was the lawn chice weedwhacking or reidwhacking? I got confused before I fell asleep...

Posted by: Cricket at July 31, 2007 01:02 AM

I loved that Cap'n Lulu the lawn chiquita. I thought the story was leading towards legions of "weed wackers" wink wink with 3 foot strands of 10nm thick carbon monofilament at 20,000 rpm going after the reed men and leaving a bloody mess behind.

"Whirrrrrrrrrrrr" is the new sound of terror.

Posted by: Wolf Pangloss at July 31, 2007 01:40 AM

Just like that, its over? He falls asleep, THE END?

Apparently spd had a long day yesterday.

Posted by: Cassandra at July 31, 2007 07:05 AM

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