Don’t Call Me a Turncoat
June 26, 2007 by The Colonel

Don’t call me a turncoat. God knows that if there’s anyone more patriotic than your very own Colonel Moses Blackwell, I’ll eat my hat. It’s a big hat, and it’d be hard to eat. I don’t intend to be eating it anytime soon. But are we, as a nation, losing to win?

It’s been over four years since we invaded the dusty little nation known as Iraq, and lately, it doesn’t really seem like we’re going to be going anywhere in the near future. Indeed, the scat has hit the fan, and that fan is twirling at such a pace, it’s likely we’ll all be able to dust off our jackets and make a killing in the fertilizer game. Which, as we know, funds the terrorists. Last time I checked, we were trying to beat them, so start a compost heap instead.

I digress. If the point of a war is winning, how do we define a win? Toppling the insurgency? Installing a democracy where, by all accounts, one isn’t really wanted? Getting our gas back to a reasonable price? You know, the kind of price that doesn’t require me to lop off another limb that I’ve left after my battles in the French Foreign Legion.

Call me old fashioned, but back in my day the point of a war was to win it. Not have troops on the ground for ten years. Not perform some half-assed skirmishes on a daily basis with a rag-tag group of young ne’er-do-wells trying to defend what they believe is right. This is not Star Wars. We are not the Empire. Although, come to think of it, Satan (Cheney, for those of you not in the know) is looking more and more like the Emperor to me.

Truth be told, I’m stretched a little thin. My mind is reeling from the constant thoughts of what to do next, and while our contacts here at Slantmouth assure me that this whole bloody mess is coming to a conclusion, I can’t help but think they’re lying to me.

Saddam was a bit of prick, so I’ll give them that. He had to go, but at what cost? I’m a little old to help the cause, and while that pact with Satan is certainly helping my longevity, I’m certain I didn’t intend to live out those extended days with the imposing threat of catching some crazy strain of gonorrhea from a really, really, dirty bomb.

If the mission of our government is to protect us, what good does this nonsense do? Put our troops in harm’s way, and make us so scared that we’re afraid to leave the house without a second pair of underpants.

Again, call me a turncoat if you’d like, but I’m tired. Tired of this war, tired of our government’s secrets and tired of having to bus tables at Applebee’s to afford a tank of gas.

You know, it’s almost as though we’ve been here before, only last time it was in a jungle, and though I’m no historian, I’m pretty sure we called it a draw. If we’re supposed to learn from history, if only so we’re not doomed to repeat it, how did this one slip past the radars of the brilliant men that lead this nation?

Call me a turncoat, but screw it. I’m moving to Finland.

~The Colonel