Six figures in masks enter the Office of Special Plans in Washington. They greet each other under portraits of Leo Strauss:
COVE: … and this ignoramus writer says to me “The father of the neocons invented blue jeans?” I was embarrassed for him. “Leo,” I said, “you pecker. Not Levi. Leo Strauss.”
DICK: Gentlemen, gentlemen, settle down. I’d like to call this meeting of the Office of Special Plans to order. Rum Rum, how does it look?
RUM RUM: We are currently sufficiently deployed, locked and loaded, cocked and ready, champin’ at the bit, poised for engagement, steady ready Freddy.
DICK: Excellent. How’s the coalition building?
RUM RUM: Slow, but good news. Luxembourg is in. As to the rest of them—Germany, France, Russia—I say, fuck ’em.
PEARLY WHITE: Double fuck France. Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but I had a grand old time at Tim Robbins’s Embedded. By the midway point, I was laughing so much that my neighbors at the Public Theatre were beginning to stare. They were, by this stage, feeling not so much embedded as embalmed, in Mr. Robbins’s burial of his own play. The audience’s dissatisfaction arose from a simple confusion: they’d assumed Mr. Robbins’s work was a satire on the way the Bushitler and his lying liars lyingly lied the country into a war with Iraq. In fact, it’s a delightful
