As the bullets whiz by

I just received the following from Herman Melville, Cub Reporter.

Dear Mr. Menick:

I thought you would be interested to hear that I have been stationed in Baghdad by VBD HQ. My new assignment is to report back on forensic war stories.

Yesterday was a good example of what it's like out here. The sun rose hot and dry, and by seven o'clock our affirmative platoon was baking in its boots. Private Parts, our leading social contract man, was at his post overlooking the Cheney Memorial Oil Refinery when he spotted guerillas riding in on mules from the northwest. Parts immediately sounded the alarm, and within minutes Corporal Punishment, our utilitarian, and Private Keepout, our deontologist, were by his side, bazookas at the ready. I don't know if you've ever seen a brigade of Derridean guerillas in full armament, mounted on their magnificent steeds, heading in your direction with only one thought in mind: Critique! Critique! Critique! (All right, maybe that's three thoughts, but they're three of the same thoughts.) But it's one stirring sight, I'll tell you.

The first shot was fired, perhaps unintentionally, as Private Parts, quoting Jean-Jacques Rousseau, vowed to take no prisoners and requested that in the future his morning omelet be served cooked perhaps thirty seconds less to keep its insides the consistency of a baby's dribble. Punishment and Keepout, brandishing their swords, their plowshares and their copies of the shooting script of Howard the Duck, returned the guerillas' fire with a lob of pleasure calculus to their left flank and a categorical imperative to their right.

But the guerillas were only beginning. Their leader, a rogue law student dressed head to toe in a jellaba over his doe-colored Armani suit (an ill-fitting irregular purchased at the local outlet souk), ripped out a copy of The Geneology of Morals and had the temerity to light its fuse and toss it over the barricade. This started a charge of existentialist propaganda, liberally laced with synecdoche and metonyms, that took Private Parts completely by surprise. He was wounded in the exchange, and quickly retreated to the 4077th R*A*W*L*S field hospital for treatment, leaving Corporal Punishment and Private Keepout to defend the camp.

The ensuing battle was ruthless on both sides. Venom was spewed, spread and rebutted like peanut butter in a nursery school. Back and forth, forth and back, thrust, parry, en garde, avant garde, flaneurs falling like greased boas from a banana tree. [Note to self -- polish metaphor skills]. In the end, no one was left standing. When Private Parts rushed out of the 4077th, where he had been protected by a veil of ignorance, there was nothing left but carnage. "No one wins," he crystallized, removing his helmet and filling it with sand from the great desert.

And that was just one day, just one forensic war story.

See you soon.

Your friend,

Herman Melville, Cub Reporter, VBD