Loving Hank Kissinger

Dear George,

God, how I lust after power! I was born to it. I have the perfect mindset to exercise it, to attach my signature to a document that would unleash death and suffering upon the multitudes. My soul is crippled, my mind is twisted; I feel not a whit of compassion for my fellow animals; I see life through a cracked and darkened lens that reduces all of creation to a quantifiable abstraction that can be negated without a single twinge of regret.

If only I weren’t stoned all the time.

This is why I idolize Hank Kissinger. There was a man who understood. Only a deformed psyche can produce a realist like Hank. If his realism required the death of millions and the suffering of millions more, he would set it into motion with a flick of his wrist. Here was no namby-pamby moralizing or wimpy hand wringing. Women or children, it made no difference if they stood between Hank and the execution of his grand scheme of U.S. dominance.

Who else but Hank could have said, “Depopulation should be the highest priority of foreign policy towards the third world because the U.S. economy will require large and increasing amounts of minerals from abroad, especially from less developed countries.”

Doesn’t that just make your heart soar, George? Hank exemplified the penultimate male, adolescent fantasy of bloodless brutality. To intellectualize this retarded development was his finest accomplishment.

Tom Lehrer got it right when he said that political satire died the day Hank won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Someday, George, maybe someday I’ll put the pipe down and begin my rise towards the corridors of power. Until then, I am content to dream dreams of power and chicks.

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones