by Flint Driscoll on May 2nd, 2011

So that’s it then. We finally got the Big O. Victory is at hand. It’s time to bring the boys and girls back home from Afghanistan, Iraq, Guantanamo and Germany. President Barack Hussein Obama finally gets Uncle Sam some genuine pay-back for 9/11, and we can close this long and painful chapter in America’s gilded history.

Wrong, people. Wrong.

I have yet to see any convincing proof that whoever they – and we don’t know who “they” are – killed in Pakistan last night was really Osama Bin Laden. We don’t even know that a raid took place. Sure, they can show us some grainy photos of a crashed helicopter, but what does that prove? Unmarked black helicopters crash all the time in the woods near my house in Virginia. The difference is that this time the UN isn’t covering it up.

These are ruthless, Godless, cunning people, who will stop at nothing to cling to their dream of global jihadi liberal domination. If you can fake a long-form Hawaii birth certificate, which uses a funny type of half-laminate paper, and has a Jack Lord watermark embedded against the grain, then this sort of thing is child’s play. Wise up, my friends: remember, these are the same people who faked the entire World Series in 1992 and again in 1993, so the Toronto Blue Jays could appear to win. As if.

So what really happened in Abbottabad last night? Well, I’ve been working the blogosphere all night, and I’ve come up with a pretty solid picture of the real turn of events. According to security sources whom I can’t name here, for technical reasons, the principle target of the “raid” was an Osama Bin Laden lookalike, who has been kept “on ice” by the national Democratic leadership and its Pakistani/Al Qaeda allies since shortly before the 2001 terror atrocities. With President Hussein’s re-election campaign only eighteen months away, the time was ripe to cash in on this particular chip. Cue ticker-tape and hoopla. Hail to the Chief.

So where is the real Osama Bin Laden, you ask me? Where he’s always been. Alive and well and living in Paris, like Khomeini before him, ready to go active again whenever the anti-American global elite needs him. A guy like that is far too useful to kill for real.


by Flint Driscoll on May 4th, 2011

So, the White House isn’t going to let us see any photographs of “Osama” with his face re-arranged, because it might upset some people out there in some countries we no longer need to care about. Okay, I can well believe that the present administration is worried that it might make a bunch of terrorists cry. That figures.

But that’s not what’s really going on here. You’ll have seen – how could you not – the infamous photograph of Obama and the White House brass, supposedly watching the Take-Down live on an operational real-time video feed. You know – the one where Clinton is trying not to yawn (I see that mealy-mouthed creep Malcolm Tucker lurking just behind her. Now we know where he washed up after the fall of the leftist government in England).

Well, I had some good friends – security sources – take a long hard look at that photo. Using the latest in imaging reconstructive algorithms, they were able to enlarge the picture, depixelate, blow it up some more, depixelate, and so on, and so on, until they could actually see the reflection in Obama’s eye. And what were they really all watching, on Saturday night in the West Wing?


Sickening, isn’t it?


by Flint Driscoll on May 6th, 2011

I’ve been studying the European debt crisis from afar. What’s that I hear you say? Schadenfreude? Perhaps a little. But as somebody of Irish and German blood (we’ll leave my Comanche half aside for the time being) I have to admit I’m somewhat conflicted.

The Irish part of me is dismayed that my Celtic fellow tribesmen are once again to be sold into a form of serfdom, as they were before Black ’48, condemned to toil and suffer on their native heath at the behest of an arrogant and bloated foreign rentier class: then, the British absentee landlords;  today, the bankers of Germany and France, who now effectively own Ireland thanks to the willingness of not one but two Quisling governments in Dublin to bend the knee to Brussels, and force their citizens to pay the reckless debts of local and continental financial elites.

But my inner German says, Nein, das ist gut! Now, at last, we have a land border with the United Kingdom! And the Englanders have yet to even notice!  Soon, the birthright we won at Waterloo (Blucher got there first!) will be ours at last.


by Flint Driscoll on May 8th, 2011

It seems that the Apache tribe is now objecting to the use of the code name “Operation Geronimo” for the mission to track down and kill Osama Bin Laden. They think that it demeans them to have the name of an Apache leader used to represent a notorious enemy of the American way of life.

Two words for you, Apaches: Own it.

I, Flint Driscoll, am one half Comanche. My dear departed mother used to sing me what she said were Comanche war songs in the cradle, before she went away when I was seven. I used to tease her about it – she looked so much like my German-Irish Dad, and even had the same maiden name! – but she was proud of her pre-Columbian heritage. And so, to a point, am I.

But she was a Comanche. Who are these whining Apaches? I owe some thanks here to my friend KevinTheRed,  who is a staunch behind-the-scenes contributor to this blog, despite – or perhaps because of – having ended up in the penal system, due to a series of poor life choices. Kevin points out that the Apache are close cousins to the Navajo, who attempted to introduce not only communal farming to the proto-USA, but also matriarchy! And they tried to pull off this hippy crap in Texas and Arizona!

So what kind of people are these Apache/Navajo? Ethnology tells its own hard, cold story: the Apache and Navajo are distant and very isolated southern outliers of the Athabaskan language group. Dear reader: if you aren’t already shaking your head in silent contempt,  go look up the word “Athabaska” on the search engine of your choice. That’s right: the Athabaskan heartland is in the  north and west of Canada!

Geronimo: Canadian hippy

Apaches and Navajos: go back to Canada. Or Pakistan. Wherever you feel the more comfortable.

Whenever the USA does actually track down and kill Osama Bin Laden in France  – let’s say no more about the recent charade in Abbottabad – what name could be more appropriate for that operation than “Operation Geronimo?”


by Flint Driscoll on May 17th, 2011

I’ve just finished reading Matterhorn, Karl Marlantes’ critically-lauded and best-selling novel, reportedly based on his own service as an infantry officer with the US Marines in Vietnam’s de-militarized zone.

Matterhorn has been widely-praised for its unflinchingly realistic yet nuanced portrayal of the psychology and relationships of young men at the business end of a vicious jungle war.

I’m not so sure.

As I plowed through its seven hundred pages, more and more doubts came into my mind. The Marines of Marlantes’ fictional Bravo Company, One-Twenty Four Marines, are foul-mouthed, filthy, cynical, unpatriotic, unmannerly to their officers, ill-disciplined and sometimes downright cowardly. I may be ex-Army myself (Operation Desert Storm 1991: Ramstein Air Base; if you weren’t there you won’t understand), but I refuse to believe that the men of the USMC would ever sink to such depths. I have met many Marines while they were on active service overseas, and they were always clean, courteous and immaculately turned-out as they let me into their embassies.

Some US Marines, before they got all whiney

Many details of Marlantes’ narrative do not gel with my own knowledge of the war in Vietnam. For instance, Marlantes states that Marines would usually only put 18 rounds into their 20 round M16 magazines, to prevent jams caused by weak springs. I have read in several books that the true figure was 19.

In Full Metal Jacket, several of the Marines wore peace symbols and similar beatnik regalia on their helmets and flak jackets as ironic symbols to demonstrate their commitment to the war against communism. In Matterhorn, only one character does so. Bit perfunctory, Mr Marlantes. Smacks of box-ticking.

The novel’s Vietnamese characters are oddly unrounded: indeed, the Vietnamese themselves are almost entirely absent, appearing only as figures glimpsed in the jungle, or fleetingly in the heat of a fire-fight. None has been given any real dialogue, much less an opportunity to interact with the American protagonists in a literal or symbolic examination of the meaning of war, and of America’s undoubted if sometimes frustrated good intentions. Yet such exchanges were clearly a commonplace for US infantry personnel, and radio DJs, serving in ‘Nam.

My doubts hardened yet further when I flicked through the military glossary appended at the end of the novel. Marlantes defines the term “O.P.” as standing for “outpost”. Wrong, Karl. It stands for “observation post”. Always has done, always will.

His derivation for the term “poag” – it should be spelled “pogue” – meaning a soldier serving his country in a logistical capacity, is quite incorrect: I shall not repeat it here. As those of us who served with pride in the US Army quartermaster corps could have told him, “pogue” derives from the Gaelic word “póg”, or kiss, and refers to the great esteem in which rear-echelon support personnel are held by the rest of the military.

Elsewhere, he claims that the weight of a 155 mm howitzer shell, at 95 pounds, was nearly three times the weight of a 105 mm shell. This rang alarms bells with me. In fact, a standard Nato M1 105 mm high explosive shell weighs 18.1 kg, or just short of 40 pounds. Three would weigh 120 pounds. The figures just don’t add up.

It is with great sadness that I say this, but there is a history of people with poor military records, or no record at all, falsifying their life stories to claim combat experience in Vietnam. This kind of imposture is much more difficult in relation to my own war, Desert Storm: there were special tee-shirts on sale at all the PX stores, and if you didn’t buy one, then you weren’t there. Case closed.

How do we know that Marlantes is not himself a sad fantasist, guilty of a massive fraud on the American reading public? Apart from his Navy Cross, Bronze Star, two Navy Commendation Medals for Valor, two Purple Hearts and ten Air Medals, what trace did he leave of his alleged time in the bush along the DMZ? Nobody I ever met at dinner parties in Georgetown or Annapolis mentioned having served with him.

Remember John Kerry? We don’t get fooled again.

One last thought: when did the Marines get to be so goshdarned whiney?