In 1941, during the Nazis occupation of Paris, the Gestapo reportedly visited Pablo Picasso's flat in the Left Bank. One of the 'secret' police noticed a postcard miniaturization of the famous artist's most famous work, "Guernica", which graphically depicts the Germans' obliteration of a small Basque village. The original painting was gigantic, depicting all the horrors of war, showing - in Piccaso's inimitable, gauche and gaudy style - dead babies, wounded soldiers and bombed-out villages. It was a classic portrayal of the immorality of war. The Nazi policeman demanded to know, "Was it you who did this?"
In his typically defiant manner and his intense eyes ablaze with hatred, Picasso spit, "No! It was you!"
Sixty-two years later, George W. Bush and those who actually controlled his Presidency, decided to attack Iraq. In fact, that one objective was in place from the very day Bush entered the Oval Office. His father, George H.W. Bush had been highly criticized, ridiculed and humiliated for 'not finishing the job' and ousting Hussein during Desert Storm in the early 1990's. Bush, Sr. had become a laughingstock; even Hussein had laughed in his face, and at one time threatened to assassinate the elder Mr. Bush. As are most wars, this unconstitutional, illegal, unjustifiable and immoral 'war' was started for very personal and highly emotional reasons (as well as Dick Cheney's coveting all that OIL swimming underneath Iraq's sands, and the giant U.S. military-industrial complex wanting to boost its sagging profits with a 'new' war). Wars among men are started for the silliest of reasons: often, those who start the wars wrap themselves in religion, or the flag, or both. George W. Bush was no exception. As a college cheerleader, he had learned all the sis-boom-bahs and rah-rah-rahs needed to 'pump 'em up'; he put on his best cheerleading costume, held up the American flag, and boldly pronounced that - with God's help, of course - we would vanquish the threat of a mysterious 'evil empire' that somehow loomed large in Iraq, a sovereign nation that in no way threatened, provoked or attacked the United States. But, it was easy to see how a simpleton like George W. Bush could easily be convinced that the events of 9-11 and Saddam Hussein were linked - and how it was up to him and the Bush team - to go in and erradicate all those weapons of mass destruction. By doing so, it would "keep America safe".
Bush was the perfect puppet for the job. His machismo and bravado served to mask his cowardice and his pusillanimous "little pecker syndrome". The pipsqueak was nothing more than a gutless wonder, whose privilege and family fortune had kept him out of harm's way throughout his spattered career of failure. It was the family money that bailed him out of one predicament after another. It was the family influence that allowed him to simply walk away from his military service without consequence. It was the family power that got him elected Governor of Texas and President of the United States. As POTUS, George W. Bush fancied himself a warrior, hellbent on 'getting even' with Hussein, and ready to put the lives of innocent Iraqi citizens and U.S. soldiers on the line to show the world what a 'tough guy' he was. Bush's massive ego more than made up for this small stature. One could only imagine Georgie Boy in bed with his wife, Laura, pronouncing, 'Honey, I'm gonna' make the earth move for ya' - I mean it!" And one could only imagine Laura's frustration when all the fanfare was reduced to limp, flaccid flesh in a matter of minutes. To stretch the imagination even further, one might picture George W. Bush lying back in his bed, hands clenched behind his head, puffing a cigar, pronouncing, 'Mission Accomplished!" when, in fact, it hadn't even got off to a good start.
O.U.T.R.A.G.E. had given Bush a taste of his own medicine. When its silent, secret members bombed the Capitol Building on the night of Bush's final "State of the Union" address, perhaps the most worthless President in the history of the United States finally realized the reality - and abject horror - of war.
Most Americans alive today have never had to experience the devastation and destruction that war brings to cities, nations and the human beings that live - and die - in them. Most modern Americans drove around in their brand-new Lexus SUVs that can parallel-park themselves, never having knowing what's it like to have a massive building implode on you; we've never felt the pangs of glass shards shooting into our torsos or watching the blood ooze from our soon-to-be- lifeless bodies, all because some unknown 'enemy' wanted to inflict his rage and hatred on us. Most of us don't know how it feels to have a bullet rip through our heart without the benefit of anesthetic morphine. For most of us, drugs are simply a way to
ease the pain of everyday life; a little gaunchey, a few prescription pain killers, or a couple belts of bourbon and we're good to go. As we view the 'reality of war' on our television screens, we fool ourselves into believing we can "feel the pain" of those soldiers and war victims who have just watched their own leg blown off, staring at the bloody stump as it lies in the middle of a dusty road within arm's length. But as we go to reach for it, we suddenly realize that the arm that just minutes before was attached to our right shoulder is also missing! All that's left is a protruding mass of bone, ligament, blood and dirt. How helpless - and hopeless - must it be to know, in that blink of an eye, that, as of right now, you can't walk back to your Humvee or won't be able to write your girlfriend a love letter tonight?
Any discomfort or pain that all of the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombing victims might have felt on that late afternoon of January 17, 2008 was probably not enough. In fact, most of the corrupt politicians; wealthy elitists; irresponsible entertainment, sports and media executives; and greedhead corporate officers probably felt very little pain. The O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombs were most likely a blessing in disguise. Unlike the soldiers in the field who often suffer for hours or days before finally being drugged up enough to ease the pain, most of the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombing victims never knew what hit them. They were dead before the building collapsed around them. They were gone before the pain could inflict its presence on their bodies.
Colin Powell called Jil Adams on Tuesday, January 13: "I want the AROB group to plan a special nationwide program for January 17 to honor and memorialize all those killed by the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombs last year. I know it's short notice, but if anyone can pull this together, I'm sure your group can." Short notice?? Heck, Jil thought, we've got four whole days! She immediately called the rest of the AROB group. "Get on down here to Indianapolis," she ordered. "We've got work to do. I've already sent for Dana, Lynn, Michelle, Patrick, Lynn, Doc, Connie, Chris, and all the others. Bring 'Hot' Donna and Mike, Bobby and Lovee Boyles, Bobby Cowles, Boo and Jo Warren, and anyone else. Oh, by the way, Hooter said he's coming, too! I'll see you later on this afternoon!" Bob Ryan chugged down a beer; Ron Oetting stirred up a fresh pitcher of peapickers and Phil Baker downed a half-empty decanter of Dickel's. From all around the country, this group of O.U.T.R.A.G.E. 'special event planners' would converge on the Canterbury Hotel in Indianapolis and put together a memorial for all those its organization had assassinated just a year earlier.
O.U.T.R.A.G.E. had the resources, the manpower, the cash, and the talent to do things like this on practically a moment's notice. This 'party' would be a much more sobering event than all of Jil's others. In less than a year, she'd become the premier party planner of the U.S.A., motivating people and bringing joy to an-otherwise downhearted nation. This time it would take a monumentous effort to keep the spirits of O.U.T.R.A.G.E. volunteers up while honoring the very victims of their well-organized high-tech revolution. But, with her usual aplomb, Jil puffed on her cigarette, sipped on a scotch (yes, she'd started drinking scotch; it seemed to help her concentrate more) and went to work as her trusty associates began arriving in Indianapolis.