Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Hurts, don't it?

I don't care if it's in bad taste. (Pssst... I changed it)

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I truly feel for Mssrs. Woodruff and Vogt. And even moreso for their families. This doesn't poke fun at them, but at the bloodthirsty editors who use the suffering of others to sell papers. Unlike those syphallitic sons of whores, who will never understand, I've been there. Just like Woodruff and Vogt, who at least, went there. (Regardless of their motives.) Sure, their choice of time, place, and mode of transportation were poor, but I sometimes rode in the Iraqi Army vehicles on Patrol. It's hard to ask men to use equipment that you yourself refuse to use. Perhaps that's what they were going for on that patrol... more than a story; Iraqi street cred.

I bet his first story will be about the military medical system and the hundreds of men and women who saved his life. I'll also wager that his respect for those who face those dangers daily will increase exponentially. Finally, I'd gamble that there are those in that "profession" who wished it were them, for the publicity; and there are hundreds of newsies scrambling to Iraq to fill their shoes for precisely that reason.

I wouldn't let my dog shit on the WaPo. I know I was in it; I'll try to hide that fact from my children until after I die.

What next, a cartoon of a C-130 flying into the Wapo headquarters--"What secret mission from the Joint Chiefs?" C'mon, Tolles, you know you can't wait to compare us Soldiers to Terrorists. Now go wrap yourself up in the First Ammendment and suck your thumb to sleep--I hope you get into an accident on your way to work, and wake up a quadruple amputee, you son of a whore. If I ever meet you, you're due for a nine-fingered ass-whooping, and I will take great joy in breaking every last bone in your hands before shoving them up your ass.


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