By Bill Wetzel
Arizona Daily Wildcat
Friday March 28, 2003
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
George W. Bush orders a barrage of missiles launched on specific targets in Baghdad, thus beginning Gulf War Part Deuce.
This is the account of a humble, albeit devastatingly charming, opinions columnist during the first 24 hours of these historic events.
I am in my apartment kicking it up a notch on some pasta, when Dan Rather pops up on television to tell the world we have just bombed Iraq. White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer then holds a short conference informing us that our Supreme Court-elected president is going to address the country at 10:15 p.m., Eastern time. Horrified, I drop a fork on the floor as terror hits me harder than an Ike Turner bitch slap.
The following war coverage was going to take over the time slot scheduled for "All-American Girl," thereby preventing me from getting my "ogle on."
Losing my appetite, I decide to jam out to my "Party Time Karaoke" CD and bust out "Glycerine" by washed-up British rock group Bush. Somehow "washed up" and "Bush" go well together.
On a related note, my next-door neighbor attempted to purchase uranium from Niger in a blatant move to end my life with a nuclear strike.
In a phone call from back home, my younger brother mentions two of his friends are in the Army and may end up in Iraq soon. I make a mental note to include these boys in my nightly prayers.
And speaking of prayers Ě
This column will now be interrupted by an important message from God.
"Hey Shrub, this is God. You better stop dropping my name in moral justification of every stupid idea you have, otherwise, I am going to drop a lightning bolt on your dumb ass."
"I say bomb the hell out of Baghdad and bring on the oil wells, so long as my gas goes down." This is my misguided humanitarian friend Mike, yammering on the phone about kicking some "Raghead" ass. I try to explain about low prices and oil company greed, but Mike owns several large guns, including one strapped to his leg, so I keep my mouth shut before he joins forces with my neighbor.
People like that make guys like me disappear.
Those wacky "al-Qaeda ÷type" friends of mine.
I'm drinking coffee strong enough to take out an Iraqi bunker while watching CSI. My fascination with Jorja Fox's sexy spit gap is growing by the second when it is revealed that Saddam is behind the onscreen killing, despite the lack of an evidentiary link.
More bombs fly due to this revelation.
Speaking of revelations Ě
This time an important message from Allah.
"Hey Saddam, Allah here, if you invoke my name again, I'm going to plant one between your eyes, too."
Meanwhile back up in my heezy Ě
KGUN 9's Guy Atchley informs Tucsonans that a fatwa has been issued on my life for future offensive columns that I may write. I blame Iraq and Bush delivers more bombs on Iraqi presidential palaces, successfully reducing the number of Hussein doubles to 300.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
After a night of watching war coverage, I am blinded by the "shock and awe" attack of KOLD News 13's Krista Gold's eye makeup. I recover hours later in time to catch the Arizona Wildcat game on radio because Iraq blasted out my cable and was righteously bombed for doing so.
The ╬Cats are up big on Vermont when I finally crash out, only to have a nightmare about Luke Walton and some guy named Coppenwrath. I wake looking as if I just visited Kim Jong-Il's hairstylist.
Just 24 hours after the war begins, I am enlightening my Uncle Earl's answering machine in Spokane, Washington, home of the Gonzaga Bulldogs, about how on Saturday afternoon the bombs were really going to start flying.
How prophetic of me.
So one week later, after bombs and basketball, I have come to this conclusion:
Sometimes wars in basketball can make winners out of everyone, but wars in reality always make losers of all involved.
For this, I'll stay glued to the television, hoping both of my immediate passions will have a happy ending.