Wargasm

Inspired by watching Fox News cover the Iraq war in the early days of the conflict

The warplay begins. The general waxes about the bravery of our troops, expressing indignant outrage that the enemy is not following our rules of war. Have they no respect for the rules of war, he cries? They refuse to confront us on the battlefield, instead choosing to hide and deceive. They are dishonorable thugs, animals, savages who have no respect for international law. Why won’t they come out into the open, march in formation, and stand at attention while we slaughter them? That would be the honorable thing to do, wouldn’t it?

The freshly scrubbed commentator nods vigorously, as his eyes narrow and his tightly clenched face becomes flushed. Why don’t those protesters get a job, he says, or volunteer at a senior center? And how much is it costing to keep those police busy arresting them? Wouldn’t that money be better spent to feed the homeless?

Let’s talk about the weapons, they say – those precision-guided bombs, the hellfire missiles, the graceful helicopters of death. A marvel of technological progress. A testament to American superiority. Delivering divine vengeance to those who defy God’s will. For America, you see, is the Lord’s messenger.

(the poem continues on the next page....)

I am watching from my living room, feeling warmth flow from the television screen. It bathes me in reassurance, stroking me, telling me that everything is going to be better, that our cause is just, that suffering will be eliminated. The hungry will be fed. The poor will have work. Oppression will cease. Flowers will bloom. Let go, and believe in the cause.

And for a moment, I almost let go, seduced by the warjob.

The field reporter announces another victory through jerky imagery from somewhere deep inside enemy territory. We are pounding their positions, he says, to stop these cowards from murdering our soldiers. Back to the studio, he says. And in the studio, the commentator raises his eyebrow and shouts at the camera, celebrating this good news from the front. His breathing becomes heavy. As he finishes another ode to our glorious warriors and their holy crusade, I can hear a muffled moan and see a slight jerk in his neck. I realize that he is having a wargasm. As his ecstasy reaches a frenzied peak, the image cuts to tanks firing, bombs bursting, and planes launching. The release of ordinance is extended and impressive. It concludes with a shot of a man in uniform, resting silently next to the American flag, holding a small baby in his arms.

I am left shocked and awed by this episode of wargy. I can only feel darkness, death and disconnect. Perhaps I am just suffering from a case of wartime dysfunction. Treatment with patriotic viagra may be necessary.

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