mayhap ye member that wunderfull chidrens book bout the kid name of peter pan who refused to grow up. twuz his claim that ifn ye bleeve jes rite n thank the rite thangs, n sprankle a lil pixie dust on yerself, then ye kin fly.
fer sum reason, that putts me in mind of how our own child that refuses to grow up, w pan, splains over n over agin how thangs is a'goin grate over in iraq. whut we are a'doin is speadin freedum n democrussy. twuz meant to be: we go in, do nuthin but good, n cum out with a democrussy in the middle of the middle east n the luv of people everwhar.
but that dint happen, so ...
we wuz tole the insurgentsy wuz in its last throes, witch miz bd splaind thatn to me this mornin by sayin thay aint no insurgentsy no more but a civil war.
so the insurgentsy wuz, if you will, in its last throes. only thang wuz how the civil war wuz lined up n reddy to take center stage.
but it caint be! tiz time fer us to fly home agin, no? let them iraqis make thar own cuntry. make em stand up sos we kind stand down n brang our troops home.
but how do ye fly? heres
how peter pan dun it:
It looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the floor and then from the beds, but they always went down instead of up.
"I say, how do you do it?" asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a practical boy.
"You just think lovely wonderful thoughts," Peter explained, "and they lift you up in the air."
He showed them again.
"You're so nippy at it," John said, "couldn't you do it very slowly once?"
Peter did it both slowly and quickly. "I've got it now, Wendy!" cried John, but soon he found he had not. Not one of them could fly an inch, though even Michael was in words of two syllables, and Peter did not know A from Z.
Of course Peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly unless the fairy dust has been blown on him. Fortunately, as we have mentioned, one of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some on each of them, with the most superb results.
corse, tiz the medias fault that we caint git home. to fly, ye gut to be able to thank good thoughts bout happy times. ye gut to bleeve in that thar pixie dust dogma thats bein preached by our add mininstrayshun.
thanks to the media reportin ever lil bombin n rape n killin of innocents n whut not, even ifn mr bush has give us moren a nuff tax cut n neocon pixie dust, seems lack we jes caint git ourself to thank them good thoughts.
n that keeps our soljers n marines frum findin thar way home:
"You must be nice to him," Wendy impressed on her brothers. "What could we do if he were to leave us!"
"We could go back," Michael said.
"How could we ever find our way back without him?"
"Well, then, we could go on," said John.
"That is the awful thing, John. We should have to go on, for we don't know how to stop."
This was true, Peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.
John said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do was to go straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they must come back to their own window.
have we dun lost our way? is it a civil war? no, no, it caint be. jes thank good thoughts.
are ye feelin inny liter yet? are ye floatin? feelin lite hedded?
heres sumthin to hep ye out. dont read even one of these evil media stories:
did ye look tuther way? kin ye keep on a'doon it no matter whut kinda media 'news' the left wing media tries to throe at ye?
member now. dont thank nuthin but good thoughts, chrischun thoughts lack bout the easter bunny n santa claus n all them other grate christchun heroes.
are ye flyin yet? floatin? feelin lite hedded?
(note: please dont try to fly frum inny place higher than standin on the ground. it could be danjerus!)
(ifn ye wonta make a comment, ye gut to click on 'link' below.)
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