...in the news feed that jolts me upright in my chair like an electric shock and fills me with the hot, strong rage to stride roaring across the sand:
"What the fucking kind of oiled-up sodomistic cathouse romper room group-grope do you call this fucketty-fucking clusterfuck? Have you fucking people ever heard of goddamn sandbags, or did you use them all up for camel condoms, you spastic, grabastic dripping strings of rabid fennec drool? Have you ever fired a mortar before? Do you know which end of the fucking cannon the fucking round goes in or did that intelligence roll down your momma's leg with the rest of your attractive qualities? Well, I want to see some sand flying and some guns dug in and some ammo tarped and that all better happen in about three-tenths of a fucking picosecond or by Allah if there's a fucking farm and home store within this pestilential grid square a bunch of people whose seat of consciousness resides in their goddamn fourth point of contact are looking at a painfully intimate encounter with a cattle prod."I mean, sure; I know that the average Saudi troop unit is as worthless as a tampon in a typhoon. But there's knowing things and knowing them, and this sort of rank incompetence trip-wires the slave-chains of some old habits and instincts that, while deeply buried, still remain.
Fuckin' worthless Saudis.