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Slaughterhouse 9-11

December 2nd 2005

Slaughterhouse 9-11

September 11th 2001

If David Nason, New York correspondent for The Weekend Australian, had wanted to interview a philosopher he would have picked somebody like Jed Clampett or Barney Miller. Jed was Clarence Darrow, Judge Roy Bean and Abe Lincoln all rolled into one. Nothing ever fazed him—not double-naught spies, Ellie’s critters, or Granny’s tonic; he had an answer for everything.

Senator Zell Miller (D-GA) has patterned himself after Jed. Barney Miller was more like Erich Fromme with a little Aristotle thrown in. He once said a good suit should last ten years. Anyone who could handle Wojo and Inspector Luger on a daily basis would be more than a match for such pseudo-philosophers as Noam Chomsky or Robert Jensen. With their feet planted firmly on the ground, Jed and Barney would never have praised or made excuses for suicide bombers.

If Nason had been looking for an old curmudgeon he couldn’t have gone wrong with Andy Rooney. If he had wanted a radical leftwing firebrand there was Michael Moore and Howard Dean. Unfortunately, what Nason got was Kurt Vonnegut, author of Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. Nason was on assignment and Vonnegut was promoting his new book, Man Without a Country, a collection of anti-Bush essays.

 
 
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Vonnegut is not a philosopher no matter what he might think. He doesn’t use words like Well, doggies and Jimcracky and he’s probably never seen the insides of a cracker barrel. He seems lost in a beatnik time-warp; coffeehouses, poetry, bongos, goatees, women in black leotards; Che and Fidel; Jack Kerouac On the Road; Maynard G. Krebs standing watch over the Endicott Building; Edsels and Moa; students flirting with Buddhism and Communism; not dirty or grungy enough to be a hippie, but older, nastier, no longer capable of understanding America, and with his own mortality staring him in the face, unable to keep his mouth shut for any appreciable length of time; the anger of a foolish old man, doddering on the brink of oblivion, unaware of  the onset of senescence.

Could this be Kurt Vonnegut? Who else? It’s not Jed Clampett; it’s not Andy Rooney. Vonnegut never starts a sentence with Well, doggies or Did you ever notice— So as not to disappoint anyone, Vonnegut discussed his world view with Nason. “What George Bush and his gang did not realize was that people fight back,” he said. Ah-hah! Bush has a gang! That is not good. Al Capone had a gang; Wild Bill Doolan had a gang. Bad people have gangs. Ipso facto, Bush must be bad. This is cracker barrel philosophy without the barrel.

Vonnegut had a lot to say about suicide bombers. “I regard them as very brave people,” he said. To die for what you believe is “sweet and honorable.” He rejected the idea that Islamo-fascists like Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour were motivated by twisted religious beliefs. “I regard them as very brave people, yes.”

Brave? No, Kurt, you are mistaken. Brave people do not commit suicide. Suicide is the opposite of bravery. Brave people take chances; they risk their lives, sometimes against enormous odds, but it’s to save people. They don’t deliberately kill themselves hoping to take thousands of innocent people with them; bravery is Audie Murphy charging a pillbox to save his buddies; bravery is John Q. Public diving into a frozen river to save a drowning child. Brave people do not want to die; they want to live; they do what needs to be done to save lives; that is what makes them brave. Fools, maniacs and those twisted and perverted by religious fascism want to die.

They don’t save lives; they take lives. Truth and reason have no place in their warped world. They are not brave; they are cowardly. Mohammed Atta, the result of 1,400 years of systematic brainwashing, did not commit an act of bravery by crashing that plane into the World Trade Center—it was an insane and selfish act—he was on his way, one might say he was Hell bent, to Allah’s Great Whorehouse in the Sky. Seventy-two virgins can last one of Allah’s slaves a long time.

Vonnegut said, “They are dying for their own self-respect. It’s a terrible thing to deprive someone of their self-respect.”

What did Vonnegut mean by that? Did he mean anything at all? Was his mind wandering? This is confusing. Self-respect? Was that why Henry Clay fought a duel with John Randolph of Roanoke? Was that why Lt. Col. Jochen Peiper of the Waffen SS ordered the execution of 72 American prisoners of war at Malmedy?  Were Clay and Peiper trying to regain their self-respect? Had they been dis-respected like, say—Rodney King? Was that what Lieutenant William Calley had in mind at My Lai? If Rodney Dangerfield had come into the world without a religion would he have chosen Islam?

 

So Mohammed Atta and Hani Hanjour killed thousands of innocent people because they were deprived of their self-respect? Is that why Ibrahim Hoopercrit of CAIR has never apologized or even made an excuse for their horrendous crime? Even the Wizard of Oz could not have helped those disgusting ratbags. One gains self-respect by doing the Lord’s work, not the Devil’s bidding—though in Islam the demarcation line is slim indeed.

Qur’an: 2:191: “And kill them wherever you find and catch them. Drive them out from where they have turned you out (think Herr Adolph’s lebensraum); for Al-Fitnah (polytheism, disbelief, oppression) is worse than slaughter.”

Henry Clay missed; John Randolph was as slim as a blade of grass. Peiper murdered enemy soldiers not civilians—nonetheless a horrible crime. Islamic suicide bombers make no distinction between soldiers and civilians; they are far beyond Peiper. More Americans might have died at Malmedy had not a German Sergeant ignored his lack of rank and prevented a German officer from killing yet more prisoners.

Is there anyone in Islam that would stop a suicide bomber? That’s where self-respect begins. Jed Clampett knew that; Barney Miller knew that; Kurt Vonnegut doesn’t. Vonnegut compared the destruction of the World Trade Center to Truman’s dropping the atomic bomb on Japan. Nine-eleven was more like Pearl Harbor, Kurt—a declaration of war on the West. Get it?

Then Vonnegut got philosophical. Could anything match a suicide bomber’s last seconds on earth? The rush must be awesome! Fantastic! “You would know death was going to be painless,” he said. “So the anticipation—it must be an amazing high.” Kerouac? Timothy Leary? Jed Clampett had that same feeling every time he sampled Granny’s tonic, but Jed always woke up alive the next morning.

Vonnegut is 83-years-old—and that might be part of the problem; but just to be safe, when he’s around, lock up the hemlock. He’s not going to pull a Charles Bronson, but he might think he’s Socrates.

 

By Denis Schulz
Freelance Writer  Contact Denis

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Keywords and misspellings:  politics poletics democrat demoncrat republican repub comentary commentary plegde 9/11 mohamad


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Copyright 2005 Best Syndication                                            Last Updated Saturday, July 10, 2010 09:47 PM