By John Burtis
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Yep, Harry Reid, the four star commanding general of the supremely valiant Democrat Party has affirmed to the entire world that the war in Iraq is irretrievably lost. Er, at least that's what he said first, when he hollered, "The war in Iraq is lost," in the Left's great new oily bullpen, the floor of the US Senate.
But then, like any sterling Democrat Party leader, he began to back pedal almost as soon as he pronounced the Mid-Eastern bout over due to a TKO in the fifth, and by his third courageous retelling of this old Kerry story and his robotic limning of the Rosie O'Donnell approved, Nancy Pelosi written, and Honest John Murtha prescribed story line, the old boy sounded just like a Vichy French general or even worse, a Vichy politician.
You remember Vichy France. It was the oh so soft rump of an underbelly of what was left of a supine France after the vulpine Nazi's goose stepped their way, nattily attired all the while in seemingly clean uniforms, to the English Channel, through the Arc d'Triomphe, and over to the rail yards in Compiegne, where they had to use some dreadfully loud and highly disturbing dynamite to free the famous 1918 railcar needed to host the latest in a long line of French surrenders to the Teutons.
It wasn't an absolute cake walk, though, the panzer equipped Huns had to fight their way through waves of drunken French soldiers swigging from stolen bottles of cognac, short sweaty politicians in rumpled suits and pomaded hair waving wads of worthless francs, French generals lugging bulging suitcases and offering thumbs out for rides home, and pleading French female camp followers. And the latter, jettisoned by their retreating sponsors, would later have their heads shaved for throwing themselves, too willingly it appeared to some of the sterner elements of the beaten Gallic population, under the tender mercies of the fresh new German occupation forces, while throatily and often loudly moaning, "Merci."
Sadly, the Vichy French, until that remaining "free" sector of the French nation was finally occupied by the Germans in 1943, were able to further cover themselves in eternal military glory by helping the Nazi's round up their Jews, by assembling the trains to carry the captured families to the big detention center at Drancy after waving clean white handkerchiefs good-bye, by allowing their country to be stripped of natural resources, by willingly opening their museums and leaving their priceless artwork to be plundered by les Boches, by assisting in the emptying of their national treasury, and by funneling the names of troublemakers to a ready Klaus Barbie in Lyons and to his comrades in SS arms across the rest of the benighted country.
Nope, it wasn't all gravy for the Vichy sellouts, caitiffs, and traitors. But after you send that first few hundred thousand fellow citizens to the railheads for transportation to Auschwitz it becomes a much easier task. And the dearly departed left apartments, businesses, and possessions to be stolen, fenced, and hidden by the local populace - whatever was left, that is, by the greedy golden Nazi pheasants.
And now Harry Reid, in a ready and painfully adept pantomime of a Vichy politico, is offering open aid and assistance to our enemies again, and attempting to shoe horn the small islands of Iraqi democracy and its existing practitioners into Osama bin Laden's expansive pockets, all in a blatant attempt to curry favor with those trigger happy, knife wielding, beheading, and happy go lucky gauchos from al Qaeda. But unlike the Vichy French, who were throwing themselves prone before a conquering foreign army on their own territory, Harry is throwing away the fruits of a near victory to Muslim fascist gangrels on the other side of the world.
You can almost hear Monsieur Reid whisper his pathetic, "Merci," to the desk clerk at the Muslim Brotherhood's local Washington office over his expensive taxpayer funded telephone, as he rummages through his jam packed round file looking for his patented roadmap to defeat to fax over to them on their published 800 line. And it's exactly the same map that John Kerry, the decorated Vietnam veteran and vaunted Massachusetts anti-any war senator, has carried in his alligator briefcase for so many years in close company with his beloved cap and his secret charts of Cambodia.
But Monsieur Harry Reid will accept no immediate decorations, orders, or medals from al-Qaeda just yet, because the enemy victory is not assured, America has not hoisted the white flag over every ship at sea and every fort on land, and our already porous borders have not yet been completely opened to the tidal wave of murderers, terrorists, or cabbies destined for Minneapolis and St. Paul.
No, Harry hopes to one day stand near the Ka'bah in Mecca, in the company of thousands of cheering jihadi suicide bombers, Pinch Sulzberger, and Nancy Pelosi, who'll stand arm and arm with Bashir al Asad, and receive those coveted silver wings on his chest - pinned, no doubt, by a softly smiling Ayman al-Zawahiri accompanied by his doughty band of thugs, thugees, and that dwindling membership from the bomb tossing bands of brothers.
Even as a fervid defeatist, Harry Reid has not equaled the behavior of that monument to the sell out, Marshal Petain of Vichy France, but it's not for want of trying.
A few years and who knows, Harry may yet realize his dream trip for two to Mecca and the tidy handshakes, small rewards, and cozy trinkets to be offered there by the chief acolytes of international slavery and butchery.
Too bad the whole sad sorry affair can't be immortalized by Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler. But though the old sergeant has shuffled off his mortal coil, he can be seen smiling down on the abject yellow spinelessness of the craven mealy mouthed senator from Nevada, one of America's best.
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