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WMD: WEAPONS OF MASS DECEPTION
(2004)
Dir: Danny Schechter
I was sitting in the library, preparing to write my review of WMD, when it happened. To my left, there was an old man hanging his head over what looked like a financial guide of sorts. There were dark liver spots showing through his shortly cropped gray hair. He was asleep in his hands. A young Arab girl was studying a little further away. To my right, a tousled Baggins was thumbing through one of Frank Herbert’s books. He kept wiping his snotty nose on the glittery back of his hand. I was listening to Beethoven through headphones. Outside, the sun was shining. Things generally felt right with the world. Surrounded by thousands of books, newspapers, magazines and videos; in the warm marshmallow embrace of the wisdom of the ages. I’d been reading an article, in Harper‘s about what it called “the republican propaganda mill,” entitled, “Tentacles of Rage.” Naturally, it was brainy, but its description of the “thunder of the conservative right,” amounting to little else but, “the sound and fury of middle-aged infants banging sliver spoons, demanding to know why they don’t have more…” really made me grin. That’s a most apt sketch of these avaricious, morality-zombies that are dragging their bottomless gruel cups across the land, leaving festering, crimson trenches in their wake. Forever In service of corporate entities; themselves organisms of ultimate discord, their very cells at war with one another; yet evermore they feed. It was rad and all, but all of a sudden, there came a very real thunder. An encroaching pounding, outside the library walls. Footsteps, like city buses bouncing around the park across the street. Shortly after the booming subsided, explosions of dust and debris showered the patrons as the roof of the library came unhinged from the rest of the building and went sailing off toward the horizon. I saw Ashcroft’s head first. It popped up over the top of the chasm and hissed directly at me. I followed his serpentine neck as best as I could through the libraries windows. It was connected to an enormous, chubby, peach-colored body that appeared to be sitting cross-legged in nothing but black dress socks, jacking itself off. I was in total shock and awe as Rupert Murdoch’s visage came plowing through a giant picture window, stopping abruptly to vomit bloody bile in the faces of some squealing, high-school girls. Then a sweat-gowned Bill O’Reilly threw his head in a high-pitched arc, his trajectory aimed directly at the Arab girl. She was able to dive out of the way at the last moment and the O’Reilly head smashed into a solid oak table. While watching the head of George W. Bush belch fire on all of the books he’s never read, I glanced to my left and noticed that the old man was still sleeping. At this point, the whole foundation of the building began to tremble. Either this four-headed hydra was going to crush the entire library with it‘s blubbery arms, or it was about to ejaculate. All hope seemed at a loss. Then I spotted the Baggins. He’d managed to scale the beast, and using a length of microfiche, had bridled the Murdoch head. It was awe inspiring. He looked like a proud Muad'Dib Atreides, wrangling the hysterical fucker. My heart pounded out bursts of raw admiration as I watched the steely virgin rip free a pewter wizard amulet that hung about his neck and jam it into Rupert’s eye. A geyser of crude oil burst from the wound and showered the library’s lobby. Everyone began cheering; the battle had begun. There are still unmolested enclaves of collected knowledge where, free-thinking, whatever its bend, can graze unfettered, like a Hindu cow--and with the proper resistance, there always will be.
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