By Chris Simunek
Sit back and relax, kids: The biggest reality-TV show ever produced is here. Crack a beer and watch with shock and awe as Uncle Sam opens an $80 billion can of whoop-ass on the cradle of civilization.
Operation Imperial Lust (O.I.L)
One and a half years after 9/11, America has finally lost its shit. If there are indeed five stages of grief, then I’d say we’ve dropped anchor somewhere between anger and denial.
In the weeks leading up to the Iraq war it seemed as though this nation was hurtling full-on into a state of syphilitic insanity. Donny Rumsfeld announced to the world that America could fight North Korea and Iraq simultaneously as easily as Yankee Doodle once stuck a feather in his hat and in the same breath called it macaroni. There were 250,000 troops stationed in the Persian Gulf waiting for the order to unleash a high-tech holocaust the likes of which the world has never seen, and for two weeks straight all anyone cared about was whether or not Michael Jackson slips the midnight sausage to pubescent boys.
At work I could scarcely contain my dread. Every morning I logged on to the Reuters and AP Websites, and my hands trembled with each double-clicked headline. Ninety-nine people burned to death at a Great White concert. Mr. Rogers died of stomach cancer. Stocks surged at the promise of war like blood to the tip of Uncle Sam’s pecker as he prepared to fuck the cradle of civilization.
The day they raised the terror alert to orange, I could feel the concussion from an imaginary dirty bomb detonating on Park Avenue. My hands trembled from psychosomatic radiation poisoning. The HIGH TIMES office is no place for a man to find himself trapped under 100 feet …
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Author: High Times / High Times
