Bush To Attack Iran

     I was drinking a late coffee last night with Marley at a little diner that’s not on the FBI’s watch list. Let’s just say it’s located in DC.
     “How can you drink coffee this late, Marley?” I said, wondering at his capacity.
     “I got to stay alert, even when I sleep.” He looked over his shoulder.
     “But how do you sleep? How can you sleep with all that coffee?”
     He shrugged. “Well, I take my cue from the boss. No matter what happens, he sleeps very well. He doesn’t let stuff bother him.”
     “You mean like Iraq and global warming and the economy?”
     “Sure, but that’s all history to him. He doesn’t even let the new things get to him.”
     My ears perked up.
     “Man,” Marley said, “that’s creepy when your ears do that.”
     “Sorry. I thought maybe you knew something about something.”
     He looked over his other shoulder.
     “Yeah, well, I do, but you can’t tell anybody.”
     “Okay, but can I maybe hint at it?”
     “Of course. This is Washington. You can say you got it from a highly placed government source.”
     “But you’re a janitor.”
     He wasn’t offended. He was a janitor and a very good one and he knew it. “Yeah, but I work on the top floor of the White House.”
     “That’s fair,” I allowed. “So what’s the news?”
     “George is going to attack Iran.”
     I felt a little let down. Marley’s information is usually very good. “Marley, everybody knows that. He’s put two carrier groups into the Gulf and is trumping up phony evidence.”
     “You don’t get it. Those things are feints. The real attack is going to be totally unexpected. Even the CIA doesn’t know about the real thing.” He looked over his other other shoulder.
     “Yeah, well,” I said knowingly. “And you know what’s going to happen?”
     “I’m the janitor. Janitors know everything. We hear stuff. We see stuff. We know what’s in the wastebaskets. We have our ways, you know.”
     “Okay. How did you find out?”
     “I noticed that the boss ordered a sword. Genuine Samurai sword, from Japan, made by a little swordmaker on Okinawa.”
     “How’d you find out?”
     “It’s in the budget. You’ve read the budget, haven’t you?”
     I bowed my head. No one reads the budget, except Marley.
     “He put in an item for $75,000.”
     I whistled. “Seventy-five grand for a sword. Taxpayers won’t like that.”
     “No, the sword was three thousand. The rest was shipping and handling.”
     “Ah. Halliburton.”
     “You got it.”
     “Okay, but what’s a sword got to do with Iran?”
     Marley looked at me as if I were in fourth grade.
     “You know that George has an image problem, and that he’s not feeling too good about himself because of all the stuff that’s coming out about his incompetence and arrogance and suchlike?”
     “Sure. It’s all over the news. Even Fox mentioned it at 2 a.m. Friday.”
     “That’s what the sword is all about.”
     “Getting on TV?”
     “No. Fixing his self-image. What better way than with a big macho Samurai sword? I saw him one night practicing with it, swinging it around, making weird noises like in those martial arts movies.”
     I tried to visualize the scene in my mind. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
     “He damn near cut off his foot,” Marley said, grimacing.
     Not pretty at all. I said, “Okay, so now he feels better about himself now that he’s pretending he’s a Samurai. What’s that got to do with Iran?”
     “Simple. While everybody is watching the aircraft carriers and keeping an eye on Darth Cheney, George is going to fly into Iran at night, find that fellow I’m a jeannie dad, and challenge him to a duel. If George wins, Iran will give up trying to be a modern country and will leave Iraq alone.”
     “And if George loses?”
     “He’ll nuke Tehran.”


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