Praise the Lord and Pass the Porn

(By American Zen's Mike Flannigan, on loan from Ari and ripping a page out of the Rude Pundit's playbook.)

What America needs is more war porn like the lead picture. We gave it a game effort. We knocked down Afghanistan, laid her down like a horny wallflower at the end of a singles' dance and have pumped that scrawny, scaggy, skanky bitch for going on nine years now.

In the beginning, we thought it was going to be Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma'm. That it would be a nice little one month stand like our other great conquests during Operation Desert Storm and that other deep, conspicuous notch on the bedpost, Grenada. Alarmed but somewhat compliant, Afghanistan spread her thighs for us and we almost achieved instant orgasm. We cornered our prey in a tight little hole in Tora Bora, scattered the Taliban into the foothills...

...then lost our glorious red, white and blue tumescence. Where, O where is Bob Dole and Rush with their Viagra? The harder we try, the harder we pump, the more and more flaccid we get. Then we began sloppily fucking Afghanistan with someone else's dick, a bigger, longer, blacker dick and there would be no more talk of withdrawal with dishonor. No siree, we were going to stay in that dry, profitless cunt after all the time, energy and money we spent on this nine year-long date. "Trust me, bitch," we keep yelling, "we're gonna lower the boom. Now shut the fuck up and play Bolero or something by John Philip Souza! And you better tell me you love me!"

But even the big, black dick, lubricant, war porn and all, continues to accordion in and out, sometimes flopping on impatient Afghanistan's inner thigh. She's now already on her fifth cigarette and second hash pipe, staring at the ceiling and is already seeing other guys, especially those Taliban studs who are showing more respect for Afghanistan's needs and signaling more willingness for compromise than her old erectile dysfunctional date.

So Stan the Man McChrystal stands in the corner of this sad little love nest and mutters under his breath, "This dog ain't gonna hunt, not with these limp dicks from DC calling the shots." But the guy in the other corners overhears him and repeats this to the poor deflated bastard still heaving and laboring on the creaky bed.

Well, next thing you know, Stan is thrown out of the flophouse and replaced with a nerd with a track record for erectile dysfunction of his own. It doesn't matter that Trojan doesn't make rubbers small enough to fit him and that we stand a good chance of getting it lost in that huge bleeding chasm that is Afghanistan's snatch. At this point, trying to get off both literally and figuratively is like throwing a dandelion stem down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo. The nerd, this academic whose closest brush to war prior to Iraq was reading Tom Clancy, says we can lower the boom and take care of business.

Davey insists that we ought to fuck Afghanistan long and leisurely but tenderly and lovingly, insisting on a "graceful exit" that may or may not include protection from other rapists, car fare and a Kleenex or two. It doesn't really matter how much money we spend on this date or that we're draining our resources if not our balls into this disinterested bitch that's long since given up waiting for that hot, gooey spray.

Never mind that Afghanistan has proven to be the place where erections and long date rapes go to die or that the Rohypnol has long since worn off. The Russkie learned that back in the 80's. Genghis Khan learned it and so did that faggot Alexander the Great who wasn't so great in bed, after all. But we think we have the mightiest penis on earth and that, by God and Pfizer Almighty, we will squirt where others had withdrawn with dishonor!

But the guy owning that big Hawaiian blacksnake, the one who took over for the last fool who was content to just nibble the clit and labia a little bit, still hasn't learned that the COIN he's spent on this decade-long date won't buy him that elusive orgasm no matter how long he tries, no matter how many times he stops, rests and tries to restore some blood flow in that tired old cock.

Barry, will, too, wind up slithering off the bed, drenched in blood, sweat and tears, angrily zipping up his trousers and will be on his way to that bar where the Russkie and the ghosts of the other limp dicks await him.