When they get around to it, they’ll hang poor old Sammy high on the tallest tree left standing in Baghdad. The people will see the soles of his shoes, and he’ll sway like a bag of laundry in the hot desert breeze until they take him down – which could be hours later, after the soldiers snap their pictures and the enraged Shiite mothers are finished beating the carcass with brooms. Perhaps they’ll burn him, like they did those security guards, leaving the mutilated body for jarheads to parcel up and mail off to wherever we send the bodies of despots who go up against us.

It’ll make great TV. That much is sure. So the sooner they do it, the better. Hurricane season was a flop; we thought God was gonna finish off New Orleans, and the nightly news about deviant conservative preachers and politicians is getting tired. Male prostitutes, meth and Page Boy Love is good for a day or so, but it reminds us about how stupid we were; we can’t exactly point the finger and laugh when we put them in the spotlight. There’s the nightly body count from Iraq, but there are only so many 22-year-old bodies we can cry over until it becomes just another part of the long, sad news of how we’ve screwed our own nation’s future.

It’s time for a hangin’. And until we get our hands on that queer little Korean dude, Sammy will have to do, so hang him high, fellas, and leave the body up there for a good long time. The last tree standing in Baghdad is rooted on the bodies of thousands of young American bodies, after all, so hang him high, way up on the top branch so the world can see just why it is that we sacrificed so much in a land full of people who never wanted us there, and now won’t ever let us leave.