Monday, December 13, 2004


Blog Barf on the Euphrates

There’s no point in continuing this charade.

What do you mean, continuing the charade? There’s no charade here.

Oh, knock it off. You’re not Jonah. You’re Rumsfeld in a Jonah suit. I can buy these suits down at the Identities Shop for $50 any day of the week. Bill, you believe this mofo? Trying to make us think he’s Jonah. Wants to “take us to Iraq.” Like we’d fall for that one. Bill? OK, you shitbag. Where’s Bill? Where’s the car?

I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Jonah, this is my whale, and you came here alone. Sucked in with a few tons of krill and small fish.

Bullshit. I know how I came, and who I came with. You did something.

Perhaps that gentleman over there can help you. I really must get back to blogging about the deplorable condition of these herring I’m getting from the Midwest. Nasty limp little things. Couldn’t cut down a tree with them if you tried.

I looked at the direction he pointed to for the “gentleman.” I of course recognized him right away. It was Doug, stuck in some sort of Power Point slide about oil profits.

What? No, I’m Doug. That must be Bill.

No, it’s Doug, all right. I’d recognize that low criminal forehead anywhere.

Hold on. That’s no way to talk about myself. Myself? Shit.

Hey, Jonah. You got a mirror?

I usually just use that big fish scale over there.

Holy shit—that’s Bill’s face in there, not mine. But still. Where’s he? And where’s my face?

They’re in Baghdad.

Baghdad? Iraq?

No, Bagdad, Arizona. Dipshit. Of course Iraq. The Big Guy’s trying to keep this low profile. And you two almost fucked it up. That image over there is just for reference.

The Big Guy? Lincoln?

No, not Lincoln. God, you fuckers are dense. The Big Guy—Eugene V. Debs.

What! Debs? But Jonah said…

Jonah is a senile old video clip left over from a children’s Bible series created by James Dobson twenty years ago. How he got into this blog I have no idea. He doesn’t know shit from whist, strictly runs the herring department and smokes virtual joints. Debs is stuck in Baghdad, in a blog run by one Dasir Al-Hadris, probably a pseudonym. You’re going to get him out. Doug is already there, only he looks like Bill. You, obviously, are here. Only Billdoug’s image is there.

I think I get it. Debs, huh? What’s the angle?

Dougbill is working on driving the blog into Al-Hadris’ computer disguised as an order of pickled herring. We’re going to slip you into his email files. Your job is simple: get Debs out, so he can finish organizing the mullahs, put the means of oil production in the hands of the workers.

A Wobblie in charge of the oil?

No, braniac. Debs was this close to organizing all the mullahs into a collective—The All Merciful One Oil and Gas Company, Inc. Then they were going to declare a socialist Islamic state. Then Debs melts into the IWW’s screensaver.

A socialist Islamic state? How’s that gonna work?

It’ll work just fine. Of course, Rumsfeld and Negroponte are doing everything in their power to see this doesn’t happen.

You mean real power or virtual power?

There’s no difference. The blogs are all fundamentalist. Everything that they publish is God’s word.

The bullets and bombs—?

Will kill you deader than shit. Keep your head—well, Bill’s head—down. Now, ready? I’m going to turn you into a shipment of herring and the whale is going to barf you up on the beach of the Euphrates.

Ummm, yeah. I guess.

Oh, one final thing.


Watch out for Stalin and his goon, some guy named W. They're around the fringes somewhere. You do understand that this plot is extremely unstable. Things change, viruses get into the subplots and disintegrate the main plot, climaxes become troughs, the bits of virus dissolve characters and points of view, settings become so indirectly drawn that they could be taking place anywhere or nowhere...

Yeah, I know that. Shit, I've been writing this blog for months now. W, you say? Bush?

No. Not him. Some other W, who controls robotic goats from the future or something. The intelligence is vague. We got it from Kerik. Now, let's go.

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