Here’s another one of those gags that pretty much drew itself. On hearing the news that New York City would have the dubious honor of hosting the 2004 Republican Convention, this image slammed into my head like a runaway train and refused to go away:

This was my part towards inspiring locals and visitors alike to hit the streets and give the GOP a good old-fashioned New York City welcome, and to let the Bush Mob know that the people of NYC weren’t going to allow themselves to be cast as “extras” in a fascist corporate infomercial (which is basically what the Republicratic and Demopublican Conventions had become by this time).

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This piece originally appeared in an exhibition of cartoons at the Provisions Gallery and Bookstore in Washington DC. During the Q&A in my obligatory “artist talks about his work” appearance at the opening, one concerned art lover asked, regarding this cartoon, whether or not this was really the kind of conservation message I wanted to send, to which I replied “Conservation message? What conservation message?”

This was no gasoline conservation message; this was a comment on the attitude of the millions of American men who were trying to show off how macho they were, “playing soldier” by driving Hummers around their hometowns while, in the meantime, thousands of real soldiers were dying in theirs in Iraq in an attempt to subjugate a nation and steal its resources. By this time, gasoline was nudging the three-dollar-a-gallon mark, and I was getting more than a little bit sick and tired of listening to fat, selfish Americans pissing and moaning about the price of gasoline, as if cheap gas was something they were somehow magically entitled to. I actually found myself rooting for gasoline to hit four or five dollars a gallon — something approaching the prices people have paid for years in Europe — just so I could see all those selfish, arrogant SUV drivers get a bit of well-deserved comeuppance.

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Yeah, sure, call me sick; ask me if I care. I’ll proudly admit to having laughed until I damn’ near wet my pants on hearing the news that President Chimp had nearly choked to death on a pretzel while watching football on TV at the White House, and that my first subsequent thought was “have another pretzel, George!”

I’d also like to take this moment to start spreading around a new expression, to signify that moment when a cocky, hubristic institution suddenly realizes, alas too late, that it’s bitten off more than it can chew and can’t stop itself choking: “Biting The Pretzel” …as in “whoa, Dubya’s really biting the pretzel in Iraq, huh?”

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So, President Chimp had his “Mission Accomplished” moment, and America got all cocky and full of itself — just in time for the city of Fallujah to burst out with a wave of resistance and fightback, culminating the the capture, execution of several Blackwater mercenaries, followed by the burning of the corpses, and their hanging from a bridge near the edge of town. Media reports translated the irate Iraqis’ chants into “Fallujah Is The Graveyard Of Americans”, but I have a sneaking suspicion that what they were actually chanting was “Four More Years!”

Finally, the Iraqis of the town of Fallujah had all they could stand, rose up and kicked American ass, starting with the aforementioned gang of Blackwater corporate mercenaries. For a good week, the news media continued to insist that those punks were “civilian contractors” despite eyewitnesses report that said “civilian contractors” were wearing Kevlar vests and packing automatic weapons. Finally, NBC finally broke down a week later and started calling them “civilian SECURITY contractors”, which is about as good as it gets for NBC. I suppose they were “contractors” in the sense that they had a contract with the US Regime, and were paid large amounts of money, but let’s face it — they were mercenaries, guys whose job it is to kill and be killed for whoever gives them the best deal.

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