Dear Dirty America

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

Hillary Clinton had an attempt made on her life while visiting Israel. Iran’s Al-Alam reported the situation, but it hasn’t been picked up by many mainstream Western news outlets. Why isn’t it being widely reported? It seems like a big deal.

The story dropped me into a bizarre mood, almost like shifting down into an unfamiliar gear when driving my father’s 1950s white truck. I suffered from flashing mental images of a naked Hillary Clinton drinking out of a half-emptied tequila bottle while sitting, solid as a stone, alone in a five-star hotel. Paranoid as hell about an impostor. An insider with a grudge against her. A ‘higher up’ who’s got her in the cross hairs.

This wasn’t the first assassination attempt on Ms Clinton. In Kenya, three years ago, they (whoever they are these days) nearly got her. But Clinton was spared either by God Almighty, or her husband Bill’s connection to Him.

From Someone Who Knows:

A white Citroen DS, a French car built (assembly plant in Israel) drove alongside the convoy and opened up on Clinton’s vehicle with automatic weapons fire.

Normal security procedures should have prevented any vehicle on open regions from coming within 200 meters of Clinton. Additionally, the Secretary of State would have traveled with Apache helicopter air support above while on open highway.

Thus, the concept of a cheap French sedan with plastic wheels and a 1 litre diesel engine escaping such an incident is fanciful.

How do you write about a woman who can’t die, anyway? What’s the point of assassinating Hillary Clinton? Everybody knows she’s immortal. To her, death is a game. A play, for women and children. Death isn’t real. Not for the Secretary of State. If you chuck tomatoes at her, and you’re a good enough aim, she’ll catch them and make a delectable pasta sauce. Nothing ruffles that Capricorn.

For normal folks, we have a pool of seconds that are constantly dripping away. There is, at this time in 2012, no publicly known way to replenish that pool. If there is, only the cream of our society is privy to it. Like Dick Cheney. He should have been dead at age 45, but he’s still hanging in there, even if he has turned into a farm animal from a botched heart transplant. And because he’s ‘hung in there’, two million or more other people have died instead. Life is a trade-off.

So, is it true? Did it really happen? I can only riff off what I read. I’m sure the event has thrown Hillary for a loop. Maybe not. She’s used to this sort of violence, whether barely escaping it, or calling for it through her Senate vote. But who’s trying to snuff her?

I was reading a rather bleak column written by a veteran who’s been very high up on the internal military affairs ladder. He said it’s nice to believe in nonfiction books and accounts of history, but you’re better off reading fiction. No historian has access to the real circumstances of wars or why regimes form, and tumultuous periods of life around the world. If only they could have access to the classified documents, was his argument, the painted picture would be constructed much differently.

How much access does Hillary have to these classified documents? Does anybody have access to all of them? Does she know who really tried to assassinate her? Who can she trust? Has she clawed her way too high up in the mob? Does she ever think about that while eating brunch and lunch and dinner with a bunch of staff members and government official friends?

Does she ever piss her pants with grief for voting yes on going to war with Iraq? Does she shake with guilt over supporting the escalating tensions with Iran? What about Libya, where tens of thousands of civilians were bombed by NATO planes? How does she feel about her husband Bill’s rapid unleashing of deadly force on Yugoslavia? When everybody thought he was in the final stages of advanced syphilis. Hillary might as well use an SOG Seal Team Elite knife to carve an X into her forehead and introduce herself to the UN as a deviant. Hello, my name is Hillary Clinton, and I’ve conspired to kill a lot of fucking people.

But here’s the other question. Is Hillary being double-crossed within her own camp of elites? Wouldn’t it be better to be a successful shoe cobbler rather than Secretary of State? Or president. Or Majority Whip. What I wouldn’t give to be the nation’s most stellar shoe-maker. But I’d have to move to China or Indonesia and work in a Nike plant to really flaunt my talents.

But if I had the power of Hillary, before taking any drastic turns, I’d flex my political and supernatural power, like by stripping Ralph Lauren of all his wealth and property, give him a gallon of water, and turn him lose in the Libyan desert. He could explore the lost cities of the Sahara recently disclosed by satellite images. Ralphie could mingle with the ghosts of lost civilizations and hear them out. Maybe he’d learn a thing or two, and boy, they’d learn something from him, too.

He could make sacrifices to the gods by burning a billion dollars every evening. Like a great, stinky brush fire. He’d have enough for about seven days. White, grey smoke puking into the sterile desert night from bundles of burning bucks. That son of a bitch. If he doesn’t believe in God, he could build a fire and boil a bit of water with a few wadded hundred dollar bills and see if they turn into an edible soup.

That won’t happen to Ralph Lauren. Bad things don’t happen to people like Justin Bieber. People like Dick Cheney get a new heart at the last second. Hillary’s life isn’t counting down, because people like her don’t die. They possess the cool, calm center of a reptile poised in the shade and ready to lash out at any small desert mammal that wanders too close. We can only observe the carnage, and hope we’re at a safe distance.

The reptile’s instant movement has been, far too many times, compared to that of lightning. It’s over before you’ve mentally processed that it’s happening. The reptile can never get too complacent in its spot in the shade. For it must always be on the lookout for other hostile reptiles.

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