Grassroots Commentary

The Sulphurous Tears of Obama

Jim Darlington · Sep. 17, 2012

The tableau is set inside the airplane hanger. Farthest from the camera four hearsts are aligned with rear doors open wide toward the several hundred assembled mourners, sitting on the rows of folding chairs placed with backs facing the vantage point of the reporters and their videographers. We are told that the boxes containing the bodies will be placed in them shortly and that the President will speak. Between the chairs and the hearsts, an open space where a podium waits for our Mourner-in-Chief and perhaps his Secretary of State to intone their regrets and announce their brave determinations.

We had a President, not so long ago, who guarded the dignity of those fallen and returning home, by mourning honestly and by consoling the stricken families, privately, in ways often noted plainly to be heart felt, and without once ever yielding to the temptation for obsequious display, for any personal political gain. He bore the responsibility for sending them afar, though it was never his choice or wish to do so, though it was ever his heaviest, most deeply regretted duty to do so.

We should be sickened, America, by this present circus of death. I have to turn away as the solemn music swells and the cameras pan around to the huge jet transports parked outside the hanger doors and the dignitaries begin to slither in along with the first of the flag draped coffins. These men are dead and I want something different. Two of them were former Navy Seals, fighters, intrepid, without equal. The other two were perhaps misguided but certainly dedicated members of the diplomatic corps. Or, as Obama might now say, correctly, corpses.

Four men dead. Now, after a couple days of coming around to the conclusion that further apologies may not be serving that purpose politic at hand, a perfect 180 is being accomplished, some empty suits will stand up, as if standing up, and search out that special something to say that might help tip the electoral scales their way. There will be nothing else that can be honestly rendered of their speeches. It is not possible that the slightest part of their expressed pity and concern will carry greater weight than poultry droppings. The first candle lit by a grieving family member will give off more light than the most resolute promise of justice that will hiss like escaping gases from the mouths of these Leaders of the Free World today.

I want something a bit more Shakespearean today from Mr Obama.

I would begin ever so faintly to believe him, if he wept and shouted out, as the heart of this country does, “Four dead! Four dead and lost forever. But how many of their enemies fell there before them in battle? Not one! No! Not a single one! What have I done to send good men soldiering, for the sake of our nation, without a single bullet between them? What vanity, what pride, what delusion, what lust for power…”

But no. I don’t think so.

He won’t ask. But we must. He does not weep. He licks a lip, before he reaches the podium, the microphones, the teleprompter, perhaps he is pleasured at the thought, “They died for me. They died for me to be here in this moment.” Before he orates, he breathes it in. He can do this. And he can even do it without smiling.

We have to ask: How is it that Seals can die without the company of their enemies?

We have to ask: How is it that the Commander in Chief has time for Letterman but not our closest Ally, and not for some 62% of his Intel Briefings?

We have to ask: How is it that the Office of the Presidency was forewarned the attacks were coming, that messages were sent, that the day’s dark date was unmistakably known, and yet Seals still died without the re-enforcements, without ammunitions and without a chance to fight back? There was no Hope of their surviving. And there will be no Change in this administration’s insane policies of engagement, that lead our best men to the mockery of indefensible death.

We have to ask, Mr. President, maybe you can help us, Ms. Secretary, what was left to them? The muslims dance, crazed in the streets, shouting out at Allah’s great blessing. The infidels were unarmed! Mr President! Were they at least permitted knives?

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