Marines are poised to put some serious hurt on the Iraqi dogs of Fallujah.
That is their mission…their reason to exist…why they are there.
When the planets align, when the ducks are in a row, when the chickens have come home to roost, somebody’s gonna get a spanking.
Film will not be seen at eleven. Bullets will fly…Iraqi’s will die…buzzards will fly.
Two weeks, max. Mark this post on your calendar for a revisit. You do not call the Exterminator to catch flies in their hands, take them outside, and let them go.
The goats are about to be separated from the sheep, and there won’t be enough of the goats left to put in shoeboxes, let alone those silly, flag-draped refridgerator crates the stupid ragheads use to parade the corpses of their dead.
Even now, grim-faced young American boys are cleaning and oiling their guns, and taking note of every face they see on FOX News and Al Jazeera that is dancing, stomping, and mutilating our dead.
I can’t wait.