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Bags of Dick, Make Me Tick

Dateline - Washington, DC, April 7, 2008

By Special WNN Op-Ed Commentator Bill Kristol:

That is a dick-eatin' grin right there. Many of you may know me as the co-founder of the Project for a New American Century, or perhaps from my work at the New York Times. Heck, some of you may even have attended meetings of the Bilderberg Group with me. But not many people know the real Bill Kristol. My sensitivities, my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations for a better America. While I may not be able to share all of these with you today, I felt like it was time to share one piece of Bill Kristol with the world that may otherwise have gone unknown: I love eating bags of dick.

Life can be hard running a neo-conservative think tank, and promoting hawkish foreign policy in order to further our agenda. My days can be long, and stressful. My tireless promotion of America's active intervention in the Middle East often times leave me drained and in need of a rejuvenating elixir; an elixir not found in supermarkets, television ads, or even tiny little Chinese bodegas down on the corner of Jefferson and 5th where they can refer you to the right massage parlor for a $15 rub and tug. No, my days leave me in need of something more powerful, and messy. That, my friends, is when I reach for Kristol's time honored fountain of youth. I reach for a fat bag of dicks.

Not just one or two, mind you, but an entire bag. Wrapped neatly. Served to me on a tray not unlike those found at your local dim sum joint. Tempura battered. Steamed or fried. I like all the bags of dick that I've tried. Sweet or spicy, dry or saucy, I find that there's nothing quite like curling up in bed at night with a good book, a cup of tea, and a warm bag of dicks.

I first discovered this panacea after being told during a debate with some of my more liberal colleagues that I could "eat a bag of dicks if I thought we should invade Iraq." Well, in true patriotic American fashion, I took that bag of lemons and made lemonade. Just like any good American should. Only really I took that bag of lemons, and turned it into a bag of dicks. Which means I really made a batch of dickade. But dickade doesn't really exist, you see. When you juice a bag of dicks you don't get dickade. You get semen. Sweet, sweet semen, glistening in the moonlight. So you could say I took their bag of dicks and made semen. A lot of semen.

But that's neither here nor there.

What I'm trying to say here today is that behind my hawkish and tough exterior, behind the smary grin and false bravado, is a man. A man who loves dicks. Does that make me a bad American? I don't think so, and neither should you. Don't be afraid to yell it in the street, or in church. To stand up and say, "I'm Bill Kristol, and I love bags of dicks."



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