Imagine a beer spokes-model with an attraction-to-disaster IQ of 180 has a really dedicated energy he expends on inventing a purpose for being his very own fiefdom leader, multi tasking as the gang master of a glamorous staff of peace-nicks manning the decks at suicide hotline in central Bagdad.
Say he works out the answer to middle East peace on the back of a coaster
is a sado-alcoholic who keeps a naggin of whiskey hidden in the toilet cylinder of the bunker where the red button rests
and his radiantly soft, supple and youthful looking skin, glows perfectly flawless at the stroke of a powder brush, beautifully crafted to blend and match those top flaws with a sheer cover of corrective cosmetic camouflage.
Think instead of being careful, he's care free with an effortlessly simple economic fitness regime, to keep family and national finances balanced behind the complexion of democracy
moisturized with tinted concealer, remotely applied when directing insurgency busting exercises on the Irish highway into green zone
like a play station gamer cleaning up with actively soft soaping outlooks that suck up grease by sleight of hand, in an easy, no nonsense neo-con swindle no one believes in but him
Halliburton shareholders, soldiers of fortune corporate stock holders, private security companies who profit from war, and those who like their god angry, righteous, out to remove the menacing threat of terror that can make kids watching Mickey Mouse Club switch off through fear,
stop rich kids on the road to decadence from getting personal valets for thirteenth birthdays because their parents are too scared of who the help might be
and quiet the question demanding an answer for the thousands who die over discredited documents, dismissed and forgotten by politicians who got it wrong from the word go
and who three years later with no end in sight and a world losing all faith in their words still insist they did things because - just like John Edgar Hoover and Joe Ray McCarthy - they love America.
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