Franken-Lies-And-the-Lying-Liars-Who-Tell

"That doesn't make sense," Gore said, leafing through photos of the soldiers. Not a
good-looking group. Private Phil Gramm, a sweaty, slack-jawed Southerner; Private Mortimer
"Rush" Limbaugh, a corpulent and sweaty radio specialist; Private Newt Gingrich, a perspiring
rifleman, also a few pounds north of fighting weight.
"That's what HQ thought. But they sent 'em out again with a freshly minted shavetail
from the Point. This time they were back in twenty minutes, again without their officer."
"Twenty minutes? That doesn't smell right."
Kerry nodded. "According to Gingrich and Limbaugh, he stepped on a mine. Gramm
said he fell into a pungee stick trap and died of an infection. But the fishiest story came from
Private George Will."
"George Will? You mean Stoner?" Gore asked. "I know Stoner. I bought a bag of killer
sticky icky off him."
"Yeah, same guy. He said the shavetail was eaten by a tiger."
Gore was putting it all together. "So these chickenshits were fragging their squad
leaders?"
"It was obvious to everybody. Except General Westmoreland. He sent 'em out five
more times. All told, they bagged four lieutenants, a sergeant , and two captains."
"Oh, man. So they killed all their officers?"
"All except Captain Max Cleland. They left him for dead, but he crawled back to
base. That's when they went AWOL."
Gore shook his head in disgust, then looked back down at the dossier. He held up the
picture of a young black man holding a Playboy and sweating. "This Private Clarence Thomas
looks very familiar."
"That's because he's standing next to you," Kerry said with a bob of his head.
"Coke?" Thomas asked, holding out a can of Coca-Cola to Gore.
"Thomas here made military history. When he deserted from a group of deserters,"
said Kerry.
"I'm the first double-deserter since the Spanish-American War." Thomas beamed.
Gore felt that the young man's pride in his dubious accomplishment was more than a
little displaced. "Keep your Coke, Thomas. You oughta be in the brig."