JON RAPPOPORT–Win the war in Afghanistan? Impossible, you say?
Dear Mr. Trump: it can be done, I assure you.
There is a pattern. It’s tried and true. It’s been tested in America for decades. So let’s rely on this accumulated wisdom and put it to good use. Finally.
Buckle up. This doesn’t need an executive summary. It isn’t a position paper. It’s an all-out attack. Let’s roll!
From hundreds of planes, drop fast food all over Afghanistan. Burgers. Fishsticks. McMuffins. Legs, breasts, wings—two weeks of chicken done right. It’s a good intro. Lightens everybody up a little. Hey, they’ve been cooking vulture over yak excrement for centuries. They’ll love the change. And the numerous chemicals in the food will begin to slow them down. That’s a given.
Then, from those same planes—candy! Fifty thousand tons of gum drops, jelly beans, Almond Joy, Reese. Hell, Reese all by itself is unstoppable.
Sugar! You’re telling me people can resist sugar? They’ll be scooping that stuff up off the frozen ground. In high mountain areas, tribes live on lichen. All of a sudden, here come 20 colors of Reaganesque jelly beans out of the sky!
Give them enough sugar, and they’ll be running in circles one minute and lying back and napping the next. It’s chemical determinism.
A month of heavenly candy.
Then next, a million cases of various diet sodas dumped out of our planes. Aspartame! Weird those dudes out. Three months, and they won’t be able to find their way back to their yurts. They’ll be bumping into rocks and trees, howling at the moon.
Now comes the heavy action. It takes a little longer. After installing an Afghan wireless grid, carpet bomb the joint with cell phones and iPads. Beam in Soaps, Judge Judy, Rachel Ray, Fallon and Colbert, Oprah, Little House on the Prairie reruns, Law and Order, and yes—sports! Soccer, and, of course, women’s beach volleyball! Kidding me? Amazons wearing G-strings running and leaping on sand, hour after hour?
“Hey, dude, it’s time for the Friday night tribe meeting.”
“Shh! First, two hours of Hermosa Beach Women’s Finals. Then Victoria and Billy just adopted a baby. She can’t have kids. Billy paid two million for a little girl. But it’s actually Daisy’s baby. Nobody knows it.”
The fabric of Afghan society comes apart at the seams.
US planes fly over with a few million cases of Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, and Ritalin. Open the bomb-bay doors. Drop those suckers right down the slot. And tranqs! Valium! Old stocks of Librium. Opioids.
On the ground, pills and capsules everywhere. You can’t walk by without picking a few up and swallowing them. It’s another law of nature.
You’ve got the whole country hooked on meds. They’re weaving and wobbling and gnashing their teeth, when they aren’t completely zoned. A suicide problem begins to develop.
And finally comes the coup de grace. Porn programming! Linda Lovelace, Marilyn Chambers, Amber Lynn, John Holmes, Ron Jeremy, Suzi Suzuki, Rick Masters. The classics.
Dudes in Kabul and up in the Hindu Kush are eating Butterfingers, downing Zoloft, and getting their vicarious porn freak on. A certain amount of internecine murder is expected, to say nothing of what happens when the WOMEN get hold of the porn files for their own private viewing…
All this, in a matter of a year or two, will totally destroy the Afghan culture, such as it is. You see, Mr. Trump, we’ve got weapons we didn’t know we had. Real weapons!
So we let all this simmer for a while. We let things take their natural course. We’re already out of there. Not a single US casualty is being sustained.
And then, just to make sure we have the entire country enveloped and warped beyond repair, the CIA begins to beam, through all those cell phones and iPads—take a deep breath—ready?—the AFGHAN HOME SHOPPING NETWORK!
Oh yes, Mr. Trump, where there’s a will, there’s a way. The Afghan people don’t have money? They’ll find money! They’ll sell each other if they have to! They’ll pawn their old muskets and CIA supplied weapons and take out second mortgages on their shacks and huts and yurts.
The Afghan Home Shopping Network won’t be denied. Shampoos, soap on a rope, shower caps, earrings, toe rings, rugs, couches, square-dance instruction CDs, food storage containers, kitchen knives, scarves, fans, belts, undies, shelving, shoes, pet food, bird houses, pot holders, battery-operated hair dryers, perfume, books on tape, storage containers, stockings, lipstick, eye shadow, bathrobes, bracelets…
And not a shot fired.
And after the whole population has developed MAJOR symptoms from this all-out campaign, send in the doctors and the shrinks, so they can diagnose! Diagnose diseases and illnesses and disorders from here to Sunday—and they’ll prescribe more toxic drugs! And vaccines, of course, which push compromised immune systems over the edge of the cliff.
It’s a party.
America does to the Afghans what it’s done to itself.
Because you see, that’s the pattern. America knows it intimately, because America has bought into it.
America is already that kind of society. Who better to impose it on another population?
There you have it, Mr. Trump. Bang-bang. The formula and the game plan for an ultimate takedown.
Throughout history, no one has ever really won a war in Afghanistan.
You’ll be the first.
You can preen and swagger and congratulate yourself.
You can declare victory.
Your generals may not like it, but who cares? They won’t be able to deny the outcome.
And Congress? Hardly worth a mention.
They’re already drugged to the gills with prescription meds, right?
You like slam-dunks, don’t you, Mr. Trump?
This is the big one.
Big, bigger, biggest.