I was stuck for three hours in a rented car with a stranger I didn’t like, but I couldn’t do anything about it except wait for her to say something that pissed me off so I could lay into her. It was that kind of a day. This is what she said, in reference to Operation Iraqi Freedom: “I can’t believe we (Canada) stood up the Americans!” Stood up. Good God. I replied: “This is a war with dead civilians, you know! It’s not a date!” And suddenly, the entirety of American foreign policy crystallized in my head so succinctly I was almost frightened by the eloquence and simplicity of my theory. If you can get past the chauvinism, I think you’ll agree it’s pretty accurate.
The United States is the popular Disney-stereotype jock who’s captain of the football team. Let’s call him Chad. He normally has no trouble bagging any chick he desires, but when the new transfer student arrives—call her Melinda—his jaw hits the floor.
Melinda has the biggest, ripest, fullest tits (oil reserves) Chad has ever seen. He desperately wants a piece because, frankly, Chad loves tits (remember, oil) more than anything. He can’t live without them, much like America can’t live without millions of barrels a day. But the trouble is, Melinda transferred in with her steady. Let’s call him Bill. Bill (Hussein, the Ayatollah, Noriega et al) is Chad’s dorky opposite—bespectacled, geeky, a face riddled with acne. Chad doesn’t really consider Bill much competition and is amazed at how he managed to net a choice cut like Melinda in the first place. He figures one day he’ll corner Bill behind the fieldhouse after practice, have it out with a quick round of ro-sham-bo, and that’ll be it. Melinda’s mammarian bounty (oil!) will be his dominion.
Canada, then, is Chad’s buddy, Steve. Steve is also on the football team, but he ends up benched most of the time. When Chad and Steve hit Tippy’s Tavern after games with their fake IDs, Steve usually ends up holding back Chad’s hair when he pukes out all those shotgunned Miller Lites.
Steve is a little more restrained, a little more thoughtful than Chad. He has the distance and perspective to foresee the consequences of Chad’s hair-trigger actions. So, one afternoon in the smoking pit when Chad is halfway through a Camel and tells Steve all about his plan to dispose of Bill, Steve becomes wary. Initially, he’s all gung-ho, because let’s face it—Steve sure loves tits himself. He’s even got his own well-endowed honey (Alberta).
But Steve is a gentler sort. Beneath the machismo, he doesn’t like to see people get hurt, especially for something as inconsequential as a particular pair of boobs. There’s always more where those came from. But he doesn’t want Chad to call him a pussy, so he says nothing until the crucial day when Chad finally buttonholes that four-eyed twerp Bill after a particularly rough scrimmage, when he’s pumped full of a pungent mix of testosterone and adrenaline. Chad signals for Steve to hold Bill’s arms behind his back as Chad revs up for the shit-kicking of a lifetime. But suddenly, in a crisis of conscience, Steve backs down. When will it end? he asks of a furious Chad. When will your ravenous and insatiable desire for tits be stanched? Too many people have been hurt, and how many more will be needlessly whupped in the future!
Well, Steve’s pleas are to no avail. Chad pummels Bill thoroughly and unilaterally. Even breaks his jaw for good measure. Steve is called a pussy. And Melinda and her luscious hooters are all Chad’s, until he tires of her or spies another chick with an even bigger rack. And so it goes. But at least Steve had the balls to object. And he—and us—have cause to be proud.
