A LAST BOOTY CALL IN KABUL
Please welcome a new Landing Spot author, Tom Darby!
A Last Booty Call in Kabul
By Tom Darby
“We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or where will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for war seem to know who did it or where to look for them.
This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed--for anyone, and certainly not for a baffled little creep like George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it off.”
― Hunter S. Thompson
And now the debacle of Afghanistan lies at our feet. We are assailed at all sides with headlines that proclaim this is a “foreign policy disaster”, a “national tragedy”, or my favorite, “America’s humiliation”. It is all of those, yet it is none of those.
Afghanistan, in and of itself, is not the foreign policy disaster. Afghanistan is the culmination of an ongoing foreign policy clusterfuck that was spawned as far back as 1943, when in the depths of the second world war FDR served as midwife to the birth of Aramco. Once that conflict had ended the winds that filled the sails of American foreign policy, specifically policy in the Middle East, were expelled from the asses of a nascent global oil industry. Global banking got in on the act, huffing the flatulence of the oil cartels and then expelling their own toxic winds into the mix. Policy was no longer predicated upon the best interests of John and Jane Q. Public, the American citizen. These are people who understand that for the right price anyone can be bought. Why spill that treasure where the price of admission is high? Whores are cheap and plentiful in Washington DC.
A national tragedy? For whom? The Afghans? How would they even know? These are a savage people who cultivate heroin for international criminal cartels. They collect their chump change while the cartels acquire mad stacks. The Caliphate that is the geopolitical embodiment of Islam, the religion of peace, where their women a chained like chattel and they mutilate their daughters’ genitals before they’ve even had their first menstrual cycle. The end of American involvement in Afghanistan is not their tragedy. The tragedy for them is that such a place even exists.
There are ample personal tragedies here. The personal tragedy of each and every US Service member who gave life and limbs to this farce, and their families. All sold on the notion that they were doing it for their country, while their lives were frittered away piecemeal in a conflict whose puppet masters neither planned for nor desired any ultimate victory. Their only interest was in keeping the war going. Not only was there big money to be made, wars provide excellent cover for laundering that money into the coffers of their silent partners. The defense contractor is small potatoes; they’re only working on commission.
The only tragedy that these puppet masters inherit is that they will need to find a new sandbox to shit in. That, and the fact that they will now have to suck up to Red China for their cut of the heroin trade, if they can get a sniff at all. So many of them are bought with Chicom money already, including the current imposter in chief, that they may not even notice the change.
An American humiliation? This is false. America is made up of it’s people, the vast number of whom have zero skin in this game. We’ve had little or no say in the conduct of this debacle from it’s inception. This is the bastard child of a rape perpetrated on both the Afghan and American people. It is the humiliation of a cabal of Thompson’s baffled little creeps; the privileged elites, all too high on their own fumes to ever accept blame for the evils they have wrought. Frankly, it looks good on them.
What of those left behind? Fifty-two hostages in Iran, over forty years ago, were the result of a tone deaf State Department and an overall ineptitude in leadership. Today in Afghanistan the best numbers which may be surmised are many score greater than fifty-two. This administration’s Tehran Crisis is on a scale that defies mere incompetence. Put more bluntly, fuck ups this gigantic do not happen without some serious prior planning. That must be the planning that ass kissing ferret Milley was referring to recently. These poor souls will pray for the terror and indignations suffered at the hands of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard, for they are mere pikers when compared to the bloodthirsty pricks that make up the Taliban. There is still the element of tone deafness present today. A pointy headed, Ivy League cult has been in denial from the start. They and their cohorts in the Pentagon, the State Department, and the intelligence services have managed to convince themselves that America has allies in this part of the world. Like fools who whistle whilst passing graveyards, they ignore the truth that there are no white hats here. All of your choices are bad: it is only a question of degree.
Every western empire in modern history has, despite all better judgment, insisted on sticking their collective dicks into the beehive that is Afghanistan. Opium, and it’s derivative heroin; precious minerals; their prized textiles, all of these have in their turn been offered as the motivation for this crazed behavior. These all must be cover for a greater secret, a treasure buried more deeply than these trivial commodities. Like Frank Herbert’s Dune, the desert planet of Arrakis, it must possess solely and singularly in the universe something so priceless as the spice melange as to invite such a measure of Imperial intrigue.
If I haven’t already, I am certain to piss off a lot of people with what I have to say next. When one honestly examines the history of that godforsaken pile of rock there is no exception to be found in how the tale ends for the outsider. Despite this each new comer has stepped to the plate, confident that they would be the ones to finally tame the beast. This has led me to consider a disturbing possibility and to examine this question through the lens of natural science. Could it be the pussy? I’ve never been impressed with the few peeks behind the veil, but hell! Who knows what they have wrapped up underneath all that shit? And if it is indeed something on a par with melange, well, you wouldn’t be parading it about. Would you? It’s only a theory, and I will readily admit that I have nothing concrete to support it. Nevertheless, I’ve yet to hear anything better to explain this bizarre obsession with futility.
Some great force will yet come to smash Afghanistan into dust. It may not be of an earthly origin, in which case it should bode ill for us all. Just know this: you have missed your last, best chance for that last booty call in Kabul.
