Beauchamp: “The year was 1972, and I was in country — hip-deep ‘in the shit,’ as we used to say… Little Debbie had just posed on an anti-aircraft battery and was mouthing agitprop for the North Vietnamese; the war was being fought to lose by armchair generals and politicians trying to hide from their own shadows; and morale inside the platoon was eroding faster than one of Nixon’s promises under the rush of a sizable domestic peace wave.
“So when, in the course of a routine village recon, Famous Amos — frustrated with the answers he was getting from a wall-eyed, clubfoot ‘village boy’ — took his rifle butt and cracked the kid’s skull completely open, spilling the boy’s brains into the dirt and rice covering the hut floor, none of us was really surprised: it was as if our humanity had been leeching out of us for months, soaking into the irrigation channels that carved the moldy countryside like so many surgical cuts — and when we tried to call on our reserves, we found that that tank, too, had been punctured, and was all but dry.
“So there we stood, quizzically almost, looking at the pulp and mash of human skull, and I couldn’t help but think that the kid’s sloughed brain looked like a saturated sponge dropped into a thick spread of sawdust, like some hillbilly waitress was fixing to clean up after a fight at a stateside country western bar.
“But the thought came and went quickly. We knew what we had to do, and we began the cleanup almost perfunctorily — dousing the kid and his dingy thatched room with gasoline, splintering the bamboo furniture to provide kindling for a long, controlled burn. Then, after taking the last couple drags on a joint we’d been passing around, I flicked the moist roach into a the mix of blood and brain and petrol, and we all crouched down outside, watching the flames lick the sky like the fiery barbed tongues of a thousand disinterested demons.
“After a while, somebody (can’t remember who) started to offer a prayer — but about half way through it, he stopped, and, after a pause, started to laugh. And laugh.
“And so did the rest of us.
“Pretending to piety and solemnity while watching a kid you’ve just murdered char like a top sirloin is no easy task, it turns out — so I suppose we all found it easier to soak in the absurdity, to laugh at what we’d become: self aware puppets who, unable to break free from our strings, had decided to embrace the plot of our horror show like stock characters from some lost Sartre play…
“War is hell, people. Necessary — but hell.
“– So. Who wants some Sandies...?”
At least he isn’t a gay Keebler elf.
I have been watching with a strange fascination as the efforts to impeach the credibility of Matt Sanchez have reached such a fever pitch on the Left that he has become the entire center of gravity to the STB story, even though his single contribution to the issue has already been corroborated by TNR’s own investigation.
Meanwhile, just as I predicted, it has become a known fact in the hive mind that the Iraq/Kuwait “detail” is the only inaccuracy in the anecdotes, the remainder having now been confirmed as accurate.
I propose an experiment. The PW community alone, or in collaboration with other like-minded blogs, could create a list of ten “known facts” from the Left-wing internet hive mind that are either factually false or open to interpretation. Then we could track these facts as they appear in political discourse, the MSM, public school lessons, university lectures, etc.
I dunno, Jeff. I thought it was going to end in S’Mores.
‘Nam visions that were lovingly baked…baked…into his memory until they were a golden brown and then gently packaged in a convenient, resealable bag.
Careful with the parody infidel, some seem to intimate that the tie goes to the runner.
“And don’t even think about asking that gay Pillsbury Doughboy to fact-check me. Not after as many times as he’s had his tummy tickled by complete strangers, on network TV no less.”
choices.
That’s right! I have twenty anonymous sources (journalists and journalist hopefuls all) who have told me over the phone that a story can never be disproven, ever. No matter the circumstances surrounding it, my prior comments, the prior comments of the story’s author, its obvious inaccuracies, the author’s obvious lack of qualification, the author’s prior biases, blatant nepotism, or the simple, obvious evidence at hand.
And as we all know, anonymous sources only spoken to by telephone after the story has all ready been published and proven untrue trump named sources who have placed their reputations on the line in making statements. That’s just journalism.
“I found myself marveling, in a detached way, at my own ability to cast aside the recent horror and, instead, concentrate on those little whores waiting for Famous, Red M & M and me in Da Nang. There was going to be some therapeutic sifting and Crisco coating, the fresh baked salve of the war hardened commercial baked goods character.”
Can’t. Stop. Laughing.
See, this kind of story just began with “Okay, now this is no shit…” we’d know what it was right away.
TW: con idnetified That’s the idea.
Am I a fruit pie? I have never thought of myself as glazed and crusty.
It’s the training, man, the training for the horrors that never come…it tears your soul free of you and sends it spiraling into the ozone like an angel on LSD, leaving you a hollowed out jack-o-lantern man with only the rage to keep you alive. Or maybe I’m just an asshole.
If instead of an anti-war soldier, Scott Beauchamp were a combat-coarsened Keebler Elf
Instead? Jeff, haven’t you seen the picture of this guy? Obviously, he’s both.
And a sparkling wordsmith to boot.
Cordially…
TW: high prose. Damed eerie, that Captcha. How does it KNOW?
I can’t get past the irony of an elf complaining about the loss of his humanity. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure he was a filthy toymaking elf before he got in-theater.
The Hollow Tree…shit, I’m still only in the Hollow Tree…
FRANKY GOES TO HOLLYWOOD
Another gray rainy August morning. I crushed my cigarette butt on the forehead of some passed out homeless guy, wiped the stale vomit off of my shirt with yesterday’s NYT front page as I tripped over the homeless guy’s wheelchair and stumbled off to my loft apartment uptown.
It had been a miserable couple of weeks trying to fact check that Beuchamp turd’s stories. Why did I listen to Elspeth and hire this guy to write some ‘soldier’s point of view’ articles?
She’d said between grunts as we went at it in the elevator I’d stopped between floors that “he had the right attitude†that he was the “right man†to give me the type of winter soldier stories I’d need to propel myself into the big time. Like Sy Hersh & Peter Arnett.
What did she know about men?
No, instead I had to make quick denials and lies to fend off the facts as they blew up in my face like a bouncing Betty in front of some luckless grunt, while I scurried around lifting every rock I could find to discover some veteran who would bless Beauchamp’s sophomoric witless screeds.
I was running out of time and out of luck when late last night I got a phone call from some mysterious voice who refused to give me her name but said that he could provide me with all of the confirmation I needed. She wanted to meet down at the Rusty Nail over a drink, that I would be obliged to buy ofcourse.
Nine turned into ten and I waited at the bar like I’d agreed to do, wearing my Dockers and Patagonia jacket.
A willowy blond dame sat down beside me and ordered a Chivas, neat. When the bartender brought it and looked at her for payment, she nodded in my direction.
“Franklin Foer I presume?â€Â
“What’s your name sweetheart?†As I threw a tenner at the bartender who walked away and didn’t bring me change.
“Mary, Mary Mapes.†I looked up from drink and saw the dark rimmed eyes under the wool cap. It was her alright, bigger than life. Her face had been plastered all over the media a couple of years back. She’d been involved in that TANG dustup that almost threw the 2004 election. A real heavy hitter in the circles I ran in.
“So what have you got?â€Â
“Some guy in Texas, says he was in the same unit as Beauchamp when all of this stuff happened. Says that he can verify every last detail.â€Â
“So what’s this guy’s name sweetheart?â€Â
“Not so fast big boy.†She nodded towards her empty glass.
I waved at the bartender and threw him another tenner as he filled her glass.
“So, who is this knight in shining armor?â€Â
“Killian, Jerry Killian. Says that he was sitting at the table with Beauchamp in the mess hall when this stuff all happened. He says that he was the shmuck driving the Bradley too.â€Â
“Ya don’t say?†My day was suddenly looking brighter.
“So where do I find this esteemed veteran?â€Â
“ In the alley beside the Baliol Brothers Pharmacy, just past the barracaded gorge & clutter, knock three times and tell ‘em necessity sent ya.â€Â
“Thanks sister.†I got up to leave…
“Wait! What about me?†Mary nodded towards her empty glass again.
“Sorry sister, I have an appointment with destiny.â€Â
…. to be continued
I propose an experiment. The PW community alone, or in collaboration with other like-minded blogs, could create a list of ten “known facts†from the Left-wing internet hive mind that are either factually false or open to interpretation.
Aldo,
Just to get started on your fine idea:
1) Bush claimed Iraq had something to do with 9/11
2) Saddam had nothing to do with terrorism.
3) The military is stretched too thin (like they really care).
4) Surveilling terrorists is “shredding the Constitution.
5) Gore really won Florida.
6) Halliburton controls everything Karl Rove doesn’t
7) Discomfort & embarrassment=torture. (So it really sucks to be a proglodyte, then)
8) The Kyoto Accord points the way to global salvation.
9) The “world’s sympathy” after 9/11 was meaningful and genuine, and thus terribly squandered.
10) There is no crises in Social Security, at least none that eliminating the income cap wouldn’t fix forevermore.
Cordially…
Jeff, that was genius. I read it while the opening scene of ‘Apocalypse Now” was running through my head. I swear I even heard Martin Sheens voice!
I seem to remember that you were doing some sort of screenplay. How’s that going?
Hell is other advertising mascots.
This post sounds suspiciously like a memoir. Wasn’t SEK around here a few nights ago bloviating about the genre and how similar Blowchunks’ writing was to the thousands of Vietnam era memoirs that SEK had read?
Why do they keep trying to conflate Iraq with Vietnam? We haven’t surrendered yet.
Sgt Fields: You talking about killing? Hmm? Y’all experts? Y’all know about killing? I’d like to hear about it, stoners. [takes the chronic and macadamia nut fudge brownie and downs it in one bite]
Are you eatin this shit so’s to escape from reality? Me, I don’t need this shit. I AM reality. There’s the way it ought to be, and there’s the way it is.
Oh Jeff. Your talent is wasted. Just think of the fame and fortune that could be yours if only you focused your mad skillz on this contest.
Then Reynolds and Johnson and Malkin and Moulitsas would have to link you. Right?
TW: valuation offender. Wow. How does it know?
“The Hollow Tree…shit, I’m still only in the Hollow Tree ”
…. all I wanted was a mission .. any mission ..and for my sins they brought me one . A real choice mission …. brought it up like room service those little bastards from Kellogs ……
Story sounds like the time I made Ispahan macarons and ate the entire batch in my kitchen in about five minutes flat. I’m still waiting to be brought up on charges…worst of all are the flashbacks, the pulp of lychee and rosecream and mash of raspberries splattered on the wall and up to and on the ceiling…
Look into my dead eyes, black, like a dolls eyes…
“Look into my dead eyes, black, like a dolls eyes… ”
…damned lifeless eyes
Rick:
11). The 20 Ohio electoral votes were stolen by suppression of black votes in Cleveland, in spite of the fact that Cleveland is controlled by Democrats.
12). Carbon dioxide causes global warming.
13). The UK nation health service is efficient.
14). The Canadian NHS is efficient.
15). Castro knows what he is talking about.
I can only find it in Google cache, and can’t figure out how to link to it, so I am just going to cut and paste this entire Witheld classic:
“1. Oh, all mad about this, dingers? I guess struck a nerve huh? (That’s how you know your doing something right is when the dingers get mad about it. Its a good way to tell if your doing good.)
2. Even if he was fake or whatever, the fact realty-based people could belive it, is still because what he said COULD OF been true! Its testiment to that’s how bad it is (Abu Graib, ect). (Ted Rall has taught me this lesson of life.)
3. It’s a little fishy to me how fast is this happening, all the “proofs†of lying or whatever. Almost tlike the dingers was lying in wait to ambush us this story. Okay. Now I’m thinking… That’s right. (Karl Rove.) Just got his finger prints all over it (the way he operates).
Posted by Witheld
on 05/23 at 02:53 PM
Oh, I forgot.
4. What is big deal? No one on the relaty-based Left even cared about this guy, he would of never even heard of him if you windingers didn’t make such a big deal (same as Ward Churchill).
Posted by Witheld
on 05/23 at 02:55 PM”
It was originally about Jesse MacBeth, but true greatness only gets better with age.
would of
Hallmark.
Col. Beauchamp: We left the village after we had inoculated the dogs against canine parvo,heartworms and distemper and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn’t see so we made fun of his crappy English and did funny imitations of him awhile before we went back there and our Bradley driver had run over every little mangey dog. There they were in a pile. A pile of little flat muts. And I remember… I… I… I cried. I wept like a keebler elf. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget. And then I realized… like I was shot… like I was shot with a diamond… a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God… the genius of that. The genius. The will to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized we were stronger than the jihadis. Because we could stand that we were not monsters. We were men… trained cadres. Men who fought with our hearts, who had families, who had children, who were filled with love… but we had the strength… the strength… to do that. If we had ten more divisions of our kind our troubles here would be over very quickly.
tw: exhibit further … ya Scott.. go on..
a diamond bullet right through my forehead.
Bada BING! like ispahans all over my nice Dana Buchman suit.
I don’t think you can vaccinate against heartworm. There’s a metaphor in that.
The horror…the horror…
TW: recurrent danger
The devolution of the Imitation soldier
ABSOLUTE MORAL AUTHORITY. Good Day, Sir.
Questions? That you would question me is laughable, chickenhawks! How absurd to be questioned! Good Day!
I do not see where any part of this story is proved false.
I do not see where ALL of this story is proved false
We all know things like that go on.
What’s really important for people to know is that this is what it really would be like, if only I had experienced it.
Ok thanks, for bringing down a soldier and a respected magazine, this means the war is won and terror is over. Happy Days are here again. Congratulations on your amazing victory.
Wait a minute, you planned this didn’t you, to hide the diamonds to the forehead!
You set us up! PLANT PLANT PLANT
F*ck you, and your f*g shiny uniforms!
What are they gonna say about him? What are they gonna say? That he was a kind elf? That he was a wise elf? That he had Wheatables? That he had E.L. Fudge? Bullshit man!
Nabisco presents,
Apocalypse Elf!
“Are you an assassin?”
“I’m a soldier.”
” You’re neither. You’re an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill.”
“Candygram”
Hmmmm.
@ Jeff G.
Hilarious man! Absolutely original!
You know,I’ve been trying to remember where I saw Private for Life ST Beauchamp before. It finally hit me.
Remember Phoebe Buffet’s kinda slow brother on Friends? The one she carried the triplets for?
If I’m gonna get my balls blown off for a word, my word is cookies.
This story is gonna crumble in a hurry. But everyone will want to pick up the pieces.
Gunnery Sgt Keebler: Private Beauchamp, I’ll bet you’re the kind of guy that would pack a guy’s fudge filling and not even have the goddam common courtesy to give him a reach-around. I’ll be watching you.
tw: territory beyond.. hahaha no shit.
Snap ! Get it the Fuck together !
Crackle ! Stand down from that pipe !
Pop ! Stop that ! You’ll go blind!!
Gunnery Sergeant Keebler: Forty-two twelve, basic military journalism. You gotta be shitting me! You think you’re Mickey Spillane? You think you’re some kind of fucking writeR?
What does the cook at Da Nang have flashbacks about? Does he wake up in the middle of the night, screaming “PANCAKES!”? — Blake Clark
Gunnery SGT Keebler: HOLY JESUS! WHAT IS THAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT PVT ELF!?!
PVT Elf: A wheat thin sir!
GSGT Keebler: Are you allowed ot eat health food, maggot?
PVT Elf: Sir no sir!
GSGT Keebler: and why not, PVT Elf?
PVT Elf: Because I’m too thin sir!
GSGT Keebler: BECAUSE YOU ARE A DISGUSTING VEGAN, PVT PYLE!
So Will Ferrell will play Beauchamp in the movie? Sounds about right.
I was thinking of someone like Jim Carrey…except annoying.
“Well, Prince, so Mrs. Fields and Krispy Kreme are now just family estates of the Keeblers. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Aspartame- I really believe he is Asparatame- I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you- sit down and tell me all the news.”
It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Sushka Rogaliky Kolachki, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Madeleine Prianik Medoviy. With these words she greeted Prince Kiefle Khvorost, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Sushka Rogaliky had been dizzy for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from le choc d’insuline; le choc d’insuline being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.
The heat passed reluctantly from the oven, and the retiring steam revealed an army stretched out on the non-stick sheet, resting. As the dough changed from white to brown, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the frosting, which was congealing from long troughs of liquid chocolate toward proper coating consistency. Cider, amber-tinted in the shadow of its cup, purled at the army’s feet; and at night, when the frosting had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam of cinnamon candies set in the low brows of gingerbread men.
Keep your ‘lectric eye on me, babe
Press your ray-gun to my head…
It all comes down to the same thing, really –
Are you prepared to waste that cute six-year-old with the Ruskie grenade in his shorts, rather than die?
And if not, why not?
Time’s up…
SB: dignities cattle
FRANKY GOES TO HOLLYWOOD II
It was dank and foggy as I knocked on the door. A man’s voice from behind the door asked, “who’s there?”
“Frank Foer”, I replied.
I heard the dead-bolts being pulled back and suddenly the door flew open. I stepped into a dark smoke filled bar room. The door slammed shut behind me.
“I’m looking for Jerry. Jerry Killian.”
“Been expectin ya, he’s back there.” The bartender pointed to a bead curtained passageway into a smaller backroom where I could hear the sound of billiard balls hitting.
“Well, look at the head on that! Franky Foer hisself, haw haw.”
“You Killian?”
“In the flesh, boy, in the flesh.”
“So I hear you were with Beauchamp when the shit came down, that true? Cause I’m looking for someone who can back him up if you know what I mean?”
“Haw, haw, yep sure do boy. I sure do. But what can ya do for me?”
I grabbed him by the collar.
“Look, my goose is in the soup and if I don’t find some corroboration and quick, it’ll be cooked! Wait, you look pretty old & fat to be in the army or just discharged?”
“I wuz a cee-vilian contractor boy. That army’s stretched so thin my daddy’s drivin a truck between Fallujah & Ramadi for Halliburton.”
“You sure about that?”
“Hell yes boy, what do you think I am?”
“Hm, the narrative’s sound. Good enough for me.”
“So like I said, what can ya do fur me?” Killian nodded towards his empty glass and I called the bartender as I reached for another ten-spot.
As Killian sat there, sipping his Bombay gin and the bartender walked away with another ten spot and no change on the horizon. I sat transfixed as Killian began to tell me his tale.
Killian said that he’d worked for the CIA, but that was just a cover for his real gig with the DOD’s Office of Special Operations. He was really working directly for the Cheyney/Rumsfeld/Halliburton/Neocon cabal. After he’d set the explosives in the world trade center and made it look like terrorists had flown jets into them, he had parachuted into Afghanistan with a special forces A team but was really doing covert surveying for the Halliburton oil line that was going to go in after they’d eliminated those pesky Talibansters.
Talk about explosive story!
Killian told me about how he had continued to use his army contractor gig to cover his real work. His work consisted of engineering the new Iraqi oil line that would flow east through Iran (as soon as he and the neocon crew got rid of those pesky rug merchants running the country) and flow into Halliburton’s new Afghanistan line through it to the sea for shipment back to the USA.
He’d hooked up with Agent Beauchamp in FOB Falcon and when they weren’t killing innocent Iraqi civilians or laughing at wounded soldiers and contractors, they were doing shots of flaming mescal and amyl nitrate poppers. Killian told me about how his unit was a virtual mongol horde with he and Beauchamp acting as demented Ghengis Khans sitting atop there speeding Bradleys as they wildly careened down the Baghdad streets shooting dogs, kids and anything that moved. Gun in one hand, bottle in the other. Gawd war was hell.
“Holy sheep shit old man, that’s one hell of a story! But how do I know it’s true?â€Â
“Think about it boy, could I make something like that up?â€Â
I sat there in a cold sweat biting my knuckles in deep thought. There was no way a story so implausible, so preposterous could be fiction. Not when it fit the ‘narrative’ to a tee! To hell with those little chickenhawk bloggers. There was no way that this story could be rocked by their pesky little facts. Not when the over arching story hugged the progressive narrative like stink on shit. No I had the scoop of the year, hell the century and I knew it! This was no time for fact-checking hesitancy.
“Thanks old man,†I said as I got up and made my way to the door.
“Hey feller, what about me?†he said and nodded towards his drink.
“No time old man, I’ve got the scoop of the century to write down†and with that I headed out the door.
As I left, I heard another old man, face obscured sitting in the corner laughing. “Courage,†he said as I ran out the door.
I gotta fever and the only prescription is… more COWBELL FRANKY !
Hey.. What the fuck? That was supposed to be strikeout Cowbell.. You screwed up my lines and this is LIVE.. Told you we should have used my lines from Deer Hunter..
This is my oven. There are many like it but this one is mine. My oven is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my oven is useless. Without my oven I am useless. I must keep my oven’s temperature true. I must bake better than my enemy, who is trying to sell more cookies than me. I must bake my cookies before he bakes his. I will. Before God I swear this creed: my oven and myself are defenders of the hollow tree, we are the masters of my enemy, we are the bakers of tasty treats. So be it, until there is no enemy, but diets. Amen.
BECAUSE OF THE TASTYKAKE PIE!
Thanks Rick. We could get another ten just out of Wilson/Plame alone.
Hey I am just an ass, but I have to live with this pompous lying bastard Beauchamp. Plus Beauchamp likes to hang out with soldiers who are probably better suited for the Navy, if you know what I mean. . . they stare at me like ravenous wolves. I told Ace I would rather be his ass (no danger of gay men staring at me there), but then I thought about the Ace of Spades Lifestyle and the endless corn chips, chilli, bean burritos, and hot peppers that would pass through me and I said–well maybe I do not want that either. I guess my only hope is to donate myself to science and hope for a good transplant.
BTW-Confederate Yankee got confirmation of what I have been telling you all along–the story is bull shit. http://confederateyankee.mu.nu/archives/235889.php In fact, it gets better and better. Confederate Yankee reports that not only did the New Republic get the location wrong, but it also confirmed this with the Army and failed to report that in its follow up story. Imagine that. http://confederateyankee.mu.nu/archives/236011.php
That’s interesting. The editors of TNR are intent on a strategy of duplicity and misdirection. I remember someone saying…
I’m not feeling the honor and the seriousness. And maybe someone should be a little more forthright about just how in bed with TNR they are.
I have confirmation from thirty seven journalists, they semaphored me from the deck of a fast moving ship headed to some place where they cannot be reached, that I am in fact a serious guy of the most serious sort.
Seriously.
Hey Franklin. . . kiss me!
“The Institute for Genomic Research.”
Shouldn’t that be ‘The Institute for Gnomic Research’?
Am I a monster?
Knowing yourself may lead to continuous navel-gazing, or it can be used as a stepping-stone to improvement, a fixed point in the universe to set your lever against. Your choice; everyones’ choice.
That’s just the only thing I know about gnomicness is all – the “know thyself” thing. My brain isn’t really wired for philosophy, even though I reach for it sometimes, but mostly it’s in the shallow end of the pool where I do my best work. Know thyself.
It’s OK happyfeet. Bumper sticker philosophy is just as valid as bumper sticker reportage. So you’re covered. Just ask TNR.
TW: genuine dissent Well, not in the case of Scotty. It’s manufactured.
I think it comes down to the question “Now what?” Now that you know yourself are you going to slip into despair, or smugness, or are you going to say “I can do better than that” and try to do so? I don’t say that to be a jerk, just because I think the statement ‘know thyself’ is just the starting point in a man or woman’s journey. It is impossible to get to any destination if you do not know where you are stepping off from.
Now I think I’ll just shut the heck up and try to learn something.
And never forget that conflicts of interest and nepotism are only a problem for mere mortals. Journalists evolved past that eons ago, back when our ancestors crawled out of the primordial muck and learned to speak out of both sides of our mouths.
Evidently my theory of natural selection falls short here.
Filthy Scandies!??…oh sandies, sure, I’ll take one
Know myself? I can find my self with two hands, but unfortunately I do not have hands.
Sandies? What! No Snickerdoodles?
Sapphire bullets…bullets of pure love.
I knew a guy who cracked under the pressure of fraternity pledge training. He moved into the attic of the frat house, made himself a bunker of empty suitcases, and lived solely on Hostess Sno Balls.
The horror. The horror.
Someone thinks this is not so much satire as wishful thinking.
Someone needs to have his head examined, I think.
TW: insecure state
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