Donald Rumsfeld's Secret Desk Drawer:

Donald Rumsfeld keeps the mummified cocks of dead male American soldiers in a special drawer in his desk, one only he has the key to. He tells himself that it's a tribute, all of these cocks sliced off at the moment of the death rattle erection, hard and firm and well-preserved, just like America, just like him. It's one reason why the bodies of dead soldiers arrive sealed in caskets, never to be opened again. It's because of the secret order from the Defense Secretary: when a male soldier dies, take the hard cock and send it to the Special Officer of Cock Mummification so that Rumsfeld may be presented, every week, with a bag full of dead soldier's dicks. The word has been spread among the troops, the wounded and dying men who make a bed of the streets of Baghdad, of Mosul, of a thousand cities whose names we shouldn't need to know, but must, unceasingly, be able to recite: it is an honor to have your cock laying in Rumsfeld's drawer. Rumsfeld is proud of his drawer: it's a vision of a perfect world, all races, all creeds, all sizes, all together in a pile, 1100 or so of them.



Dear, dear Donald - he is as multifaceted as his cock collection. Sometimes he speaks obvious truths that sound like nuggets of wisdom. As he told reporters on his plane to Kuwait yesterday, on his way to attend the inauguration of Hamid Karzai in Afghanistan, "You put up a poorly equipped police force against a well-equipped Iraqi insurgent force and you’ve got a mismatch, as you would with any military." So true, so true, and that poorly equipped police force must be backed up by American soldiers, don't you know. When he was asked what mistakes he might have made in the past as he was about to embark on his second term as Defense Secretary, Rumsfeld said he had two (the same ones he's admitted in interview after interview as the newly reannointed cabinet member): the size of the insurgency, about which he said, "But I don’t think anyone would say that the intelligence left anyone with the impression that you’d be in the degree of insurgency you’re in today and resistance on the part of a mixture of Baathists and pro-dictatorship, pro-Saddam people, mixed in with some foreign terrorists and extremists." Of course, the State Department had warned of this, but maybe they're not "intelligence" in Rumsfeld's world.



The other was, of course, the WMDs, but not in the way you might imagine: "One [mistake] is the fact that one of the basis for going into Iraq that the administration articulated was the conviction that they had weapons of mass destruction which would be findable and that is, of course, why our forces put on chemical suits all the way up from Kuwait into Baghdad everyday because everybody believed that to be the case. And at the moment, that has not turned out to be the case. It may later, but at least at the moment it hasn’t." Again, something he's repeated: the belief that weapons haven't been found only "at the moment," with the underlying conviction that they will be found.



Rumsfeld is a fount of philosophy, a veritable encyclopedia of rationale. On deaths in Iraq of Americans and Iraqis, he said, "People are killed by the hundreds every year in every major city in the world, but they’re not on television for some reason," which means he hasn't been paying attention to the local news in every major city (if it bleeds, it leads, motherfucker, if it bleeds, it leads). On those, like, say, John McCain and just about every retired general, who would say that more troops are needed in Iraq and Afghanistan, Rumsfeld opined, "A fixation with sheer numbers, it strikes me as a 20th century phenomenon more than it is the 21st century phenomenon." And Rumsfeld flew on, meeting troops in Afghanistan, shaking their hands, sizing up their cocks for his collection.



Meanwhile, meanwhile, meanwhile, the 1000th soldier was killed in action; meanwhile, in the last gasps of dissent in the CIA, the agency issued two reports about how desperately awful the situation is in Iraq; meanwhile, a pathetic attempt at truth-seeking is going on in a lawsuit filed in Germany against Rumsfeld and others for the horrors of Abu Ghraib; meanwhile, if you go to the press release section of the DOD website, all you see is a list of doom, release after release after release officially reporting another dead soldier, another cock to line the drawer.



But here's the real secret of Donald Rumsfeld's drawer of dead dicks and the reason why he declined when he was offered the first vagina of a dead female soldier. At night, when everyone but the guards and the late shift analysts have gone home, Rumsfeld goes into his office and locks the door. He tells his Secret Service agent not to let anyone knock. Then he lowers the lights and drops his pants. He opens the drawer and drags his hand through, fingering them to tell which one feels right for the evening. Sometimes he digs down deep, to cocks that have been there for over a year, and he pulls one out, feels its heft and shape, and then sits on the floor, pulling his achy legs back, and starts to fuck himself with that dead soldier's cock. Getting it in good and deep, watching his own dick get semi-hard as he shoves that dead American dildo in and out, telling himself, "Oh, yeah, oh, shit, these are the spoils of war" before dribbling a weak release of semen onto the carpet emblazoned with the insignia of whatever branch of the military he happens to be sitting on, naked below the waist, spent from fucking himself to deep pleasure.