Monday I am the commander of Isaf forces in Afghanistan, and I am a dignified Special Forces warrior monk. My body is my temple, war is my holy creed. I am at my happiest in my tent, with my aides, where we all eat sand and hit each other in the faces with rifle butts, for fun.
But today I gotta go the city, to speak with a politician from France. It’s f***ing gay.
“Yo, sir,” says one of my aides. “You wanna know more about this French bitch?” Hell no. These civilians are all the same. Especially the Euros. They just don’t understand the enemy we’re facing out here. Fact is, these blue-skinned bastards put up a hell of a fight, and blowing up their holy tree just made ’em come at us all the harder. Some of ’em were riding dragons. I shit you not one bit.
“He’s got issues,” sighs my aide. “They all do. Reckon you’re outta touch, gone loco, too fixated on your own myth, livin’ like some general guy outta some Hollywood movie.
It’s BS.” “Civilian assholes,” I snort. “Wouldn’t even know Unobtanium if they choked on it.” “Um, what?” says my aide.
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Tuesday Back in the tent. “Yo, General?” says another aide. “We got the President on the satellite phone. Sounds like he gotta hard-on ’bout somethin’. You wanna take it?”
“Tell him I’m out,” I say, idly scratching my crotch with a bayonet.
“The dumbass.” The aide nods meaningfully towards a corner of the tent. There’s some journalist dude sitting there, who we granted all kinda special access. Forgot all about him.
“And you can quote me on that,” I say. “Where you from again?” Grazia, he says. It’s a British gossip weekly. Apparently I’ve a good chance of getting on the cover. It’s down to either me or Piers Morgan’s wedding.
“Not bad,” I say. “You gettin’ much?” “Not really,” says the journalist. Just me and my boys savagely ridiculing the US Ambassador, the Vice-President, the President, the British, the French, the Canadians, Hamid Karzai, Queen Elizabeth II, Pope Benedict XVI, Muslims, vegetarians, English football, ginger hair and anybody who wears spectacles. “Huh,” I say. “Well, sorry to waste your time.”
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Wednesday Turns out I gotta go back to Earth to see the wimps in the White House. Apparently the Prez is peeved by some profile I did in a magazine. But which magazine? My aides aren’t sure. Coulda been National Enquirer, coulda been Oprah. “Bridal Weekly was pretty racy,” says one. Hell. I just ain’t ready to go. The people here are teaching me so much.
Did you know that they have a tail coming out of their heads which they use to control their horses?
“Seriously?” says an aide. “Under their . . . like . . . turbans?”
Thursday Here I am, face to face with the Commander-in-Chief in the Oval Office. He’s not happy.
“Goddammit General!” he shouts, leaning forward across his desk. “This is unacceptable! Nobody doubts your abilities as a soldier, but high command requires other disciplines! Diplomacy! Tact! Respect for the civilian authorities! And right now I’m just not sure these are attributes you possess!”
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This isn’t going well. I ask if I might make a single point in my defence. President Obama says it had better be good. “With respect, sir,” I say, “you’re a retard.”
Friday So that’s that. I’m finished. I’m being relieved in my command by General David Petraeus. He’s a hell of a soldier, and the sort of guy you’d always want on your side. Provided he could get the stick out of his ass in time to hit people with it. And you can quote me on that.
We’re debriefing, before he flies out. “You gotta appreciate,” I’m saying. “We’re doing good stuff out there. Did you know we have enemy bodies, artificially grown in a lab, which our operators can control via a combination of computers and telekinetic psychic ability?”
General Petraeus says he didn’t know that, no.
“Trust me,” I say. “You do not want to go off base any other way. It’s a jungle out there.
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The General is confused. Says he thought it was more kinda sandy.
*according to Hugo Rifkind