Because today is one heck of a day to do so. A huge thank you to everybody who has worked so hard, who has sacrificed so much, to get to this point. And, of course, a very very special thank you to a so far unknown SEAL who will never, ever have to buy another drink in his whole damn life. He may also very well become the first normal male to actually grow tired of freely offered sex.
And, credit where credit is due, thank you to Ogabe for issuing the order instead of taking cover behind a JAG-ass lawyer puke and for keeping our enemies, the Pakis, out of the loop until the fucking pig was as dead as a rusty nail in a rotting fence. A thank you to him, too, for remembering to credit the ones who started the ball rolling and kept it rolling, not to mention the ones carrying to the end zone. We could have done with a little less of his usual abuse of the first person singular but hey, at least he remembered the ones who actually mattered in his speech.
No, I don’t give a fuck if it’s going to “help him” in the polls. He did the right thing for once, and he deserves to be acknowledged for it. If you feel that you have to criticize even the correct decisions, opinions and actions of your opponent because he is, well, your opponent, then you’re no better than the hypocritical leftist shits that we had to listen to for 8 interminable years, pissing on Bush no matter what he did because he was, well, Bush!
You punish bad behavior, but you have to remember to reward good behavior too or you’re just a prick, and we have no shortage of those.
And no, I don’t “question the timing”, because the timing, if we assume bad intentions behind it, is utterly fucked up. A year and a half from now, given how things have been going up until now, nobody’s going to give a shit who got to utter the words “Osama is one dead piece of pig shit.”
I also have to admit that, provided that all of this is actually true and I am assuming that for now until I see really compelling evidence to the contrary, I was wrong about Osama has-been having been dead for all of these years. And I’m glad to be wrong. Because his dying as a cave wall smear as a result of a random bombing run is nowhere near as satisfying as knowing that he faced his last moments on earth staring into the eyes of an American about to pull the trigger.
You can run, motherfucking pisslamist shitbag, but you’ll only die tired. And afraid. The thought alone of him being popped at the hands of an American, up close and personal, gives me the kind of wood that Viagra commercials tell me that I should seek medical help for.
Which brings me to my last point: I won’t name names, they and you know who they are, but I just don’t understand the pundits on our side babbling about how our celebrations are somehow unseemly, how we shouldn’t celebrate the putting down of a feral beast.
I mean, I do know why they’re saying so, they waste no words pointing it out over and over again in their misbegotten bleats. They are, once again, talking about how we need to show that “we’re better than they are.” I don’t get it.
Perhaps it’s because I already know that we’re better than those koranimals are. I don’t have an obsessive-compulsive need to “prove” it, because it has never been a real question to me.
But I still understand it, on some level. Back when I was a kid, back in school, I was the same way. I always had to score higher than everybody else on every bloody test there was to prove how much better than my classmates I was. And I did. I rarely ever finished second on anything. Yet I continued behaving in the same way. Always making a point of “proving” that I was really, really good at what I did. Until I realized that I wasn’t trying to prove anything to them, I was trying to prove it to myself because I wasn’t all that sure that I was good enough.
I realized that I was, in fact, deeply insecure about my “goodness” and that that was the real motivator behind my obsessive-compulsive need to “prove” myself and make a jolly big stage production out of it in the process so everybody knew just how wonderful I was.
More importantly, I also realized that my constant striving to not only be good at what I did but to make sure that everybody knew about it made me an insufferable prick. My friends already knew that I was good at scholastic pursuits and I didn’t really need to rub their faces in it with my constant “look at me, I’m GOOD!” attitude. They were bloody right to be pissed off and annoyed rather than impressed.
So I cut it off and, lo and behold, my grades didn’t drop, because it was never my competence that was in question. It was my perverse, pathological need to constantly prove it that was fucking everything up. Instead, freed of my sick need to assert my “better than you”-ness that was never in question to begin with, I found time to lead by example, to become a person that you didn’t want to puke on and, most importantly, to share what G-d had seen fit to give to me with others. In return, I learned a lot about stuff that I didn’t know about from the friends that I made once I quit being a tee-totaling arsehole.
I like to think that others benefited from that too, but I know that I did. Because it taught me that you don’t have to be a self-righteous prick dislocating your shoulders trying to “prove” what you are because everybody already knows. And if they don’t know, it’s because you aren’t what you think you are.
You don’t have to wear a sign around your neck telling everybody what a good person you are for them to know. And if you feel that you have to, then it’s only because you’re not sure that you are a good person to begin with and that’s your problem, a problem that is not solved by trying to be a self-righteous, pious prick.
So if you’re one of those feeling insecure about a need to celebrate the death one of the most inhumane, animal monsters in history because you think that doing so will make you look “bad”, then you might want to start thinking about what the real reason behind that feeling is.
I, for one, am sure that pretty much nobody felt particularly bad about wanting to have a glass of champagne back on April 30, 1945, when the civilized world learned that Adolf Shitler had shot himself.