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Letter from America November 1, 2001
The Ames Strain
By Mark Ames Browse author Email

I t happened again this week: a "credible threat" of imminent terror, and the first person the government rushes to protect is... Dick Cheney. A man with four arteries already in the grave.

Every time America is threatened with attack, it's Cheney that they hide in that proverbial "undisclosed location." I'm sure if someone pumped mustard gas into the top three East Coast heart clinics this week, we'd see the world's most expensive body bag being carried out by morning. Finding Cheney has got to be easier than finding bin Laden -- but that's not something we really want to talk about right now.

The weird thing is that no one is talking about how weird this is. Common sense would say that the man we should be protecting, the man who should be in the greatest danger of all, is President Bush. But for some reason, it's Cheney they're protecting, while Bush is sent out to pitch slowballs in front of 80,000 screaming idiots, any one of whom could, in theory, have a bar of C-4 shoved up his ass with a blasting cap hanging out of crack, ready to take the whole structure right down on Bush's head. But that would assume that the terrorists want our president dead.

The reason why American security forces let Bush out there in Yankee Stadium is that there is no credible threat against him. Only the rest of us are in danger. Bush is probably the only safe man alive.

Apparently Cheney is the closest thing to a threat. And that's bad news for America, because that crabby old bitch is about as menacing as my Uncle Moe Noodleman. And he died of heart failure years ago.

Folks, I don't know about you, but I smell a rat. See, bin Laden doesn't want to kill our president. They want him alive and healthy and running the country. They want him in for a second term if possible, to complete the job. That should be clear to all of us now.

Even on 9/11, every citizen in America was under attack except for one. Y'all remember those pictures of Bush while we were under attack. As jet after jet crashed into American targets, President Bush remained squatting in a kiddie chair, in a half-circle of Negro kindergartners somewhere in Florida. Some nervous homosexual in a suit kept shuffling out to Bush and leaning down into his kiddie chair, whispering something like, "Uh, Mr. President, it looks like both New York and Washington are destroyed. Everyone in the government is now secured and in hiding. But... how do I say this?... our intelligence indicates that there is no threat to you, sir, so you can stay here and play patty-cake some more with these nice black kids if you'd like."

Bush just nodded his head vacantly, legs folded, waiting for the aide to leave him alone so he could keep playing.

That's when President Bush's chief of staff Andrew Card was overheard yelling at a Secret Service agent, "We can't have the President playing duck-duck-goose with these little nigger-kids! Not with thousands of Jewish-Americans on fire! The whole country will suspect him! Get him on Air Force One, move him around! I don't care where to, just move him around!"

So they walked him to a jet, long after the danger had passed, long after Secret Service agents had lifted Cheney by his shoulders and ran him screaming down into a nuclear bunker. The whole thing with Bush was a bad PR stunt. Every time he popped his head up in some miserable flat-land air force base like a confused groundhog, it became clearer and clearer to me -- and the better part of this nation -- that GEORGE BUSH WORKS FOR THE ENEMY. He is a puppet ruler, heading a puppet regime installed, or rather kept in power, by bin Laden. A Trojan Horse whose effectiveness lasts as long as that horse remains inside the city-state walls -- if you look hard, you can see towel-heads escaping out of a hatch in Bush's ass every night, preparing for more attacks.

So if you're thinking something's weird about our president tossing baseballs in a stadium while the rest of the government is squatting in a nuclear bunker right now, you're right. It is weird.

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Save The eXile: The War Nerd Calls Mayday
The future of The eXile is in your hands! We're holding a fundraiser to save the paper, and your soul. Tune in to Gary Brecher's urgent request for reinforcements and donate as much as you can. If you don't, we'll be overrun and wiped off the face of the earth, forever.

Scanning Moscow’s Traffic Cops
Automotive Section
We’re happy to introduce a new column in which we publish Moscow’s raw radio communications, courtesy of a Russian amateur radio enthusiast. This issue, eXile readers are given a peek into the secret conversations of Moscow’s traffic police, the notorious "GAIshniki."

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