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I Am Conflicted…

Let me get it out of the way up front that I hate ragheads, and I am all for their disintegration by whatever means necessary, whenever anyone gets the urge. I look at it as fumigation. Fuck their ‘culture’, fuck their ‘religion’, and fuck their women and little babies. They have nothing I want, they are dangerous, and trying to search through the box to find the one or two that won’t explode or bite your ass off is just not worth the trouble.

Reading this morning that Arafart is “Not concerned…” about Sharon’s threat to end his life gave me a Warm Fuzzy…you go stand in front of that window, Yasshole…let me know how that works out for ya.

So, we clear? Ragheads…Dead…All for it…Me.

Good.

So why does it bother me that I’m not more bothered by the murders and mutilation of four non-military thrill-seekers who shouldn’t have been there in the first place?

I could be wrong. Those four ‘civilian contractors’ could have very easily been working for the CIA or whoever, and if so, then it’s truly tragic. BUT, if they were just the money-grubbing, mid-life crisis thrillseekers they appear to be, then fukkem. I do not want one Marine to get so much as a hangnail rushing into a hornet’s nest to scrape up their remains.

What the Marines did, in my estimation, is show wise, wily restraint. I commend them for it. I would be very happy to have that sort of leadership at the top of my chain of command. A realistic assessment, and a realistic response. Good job.

That being said, it’s “olly olly oxen free!” time, now. We’ve hidden our eyes, and counted to one hundred, and now we are It, and it is time to come out and tag those little bastards.

I recommend M-1’s, supported by Bradley’s, followed closely by dismounted Infantry. At night. Clouds of Hellfire equipped Predator drones overhead providing close air support. As the raghead bodies pile up, the Infantry should drag them out and place them under the tank treads to be ground into Allah-Burgers…throw piglets into the mix, and move on. Let their women see what you are doing, let them run away, let them spread the tale throughout the city, watch the men come forward to surrender, hands raised, cut them down with coaxial machine-gun fire…grind them up, and cut through the city like The Reaper.

Let tales be told of this night, whispered by horrified mothers to future Iraqi children. Let them quake when they see an American soldier, piss in fear at the rumble of an American tank tread, flinch when a birds shadow falls over them, then laugh in embarrassment to each other, relieved that it wasn’t death from above.

Or else…

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