Word surge

Greetings,

"Here they come," yelled an Iraqi boy pushing a disaster, a catastrophic agenda along Baghdad Street. The thunder of 21,500 NEW dusty marching boots echoed across the desert. Waves of soldiers fanned out in a glorious display of might, power and escalating force.

An obese very rich white guy named Dickie and Rice, his emissary, watched from the viewing stand. "The menu's improving," she whispered.

"It's a numbers game," replied the boy's father. "We've got the oil, geographical zone and we are living in a sandwich."
"What?" said his son.
"A sandwich. It's an American kind of fast food. First you get some stale bread, and slice it."
"Like we do to goat throats?"
"Kind of. Then you slap on some sweet jam, throw on some wilting lettuce and whatever's handy. Maybe some protein if you're lucky."

"Are we lucky, father?"
"Yes son we are lucky to still be alive inside this chaotic tribal mess after four endless years of tears, burials, bombings, no electricity, retribution, extortion, corruption, denial, rampant inflation, and manipulation by media masters.

"We are a living sandwich here, between Iran and Syria. We are the fixings."

"I never finished school father but I have a question. Is this surge, this military escalation, this increase of American occupiers a cover, an excuse, for Israel to attack Iran?"

"Good point. Perhaps. It makes sense in the geo-political long term strategy. At the end of March our so-called government will hand over 75% of the entire oil industry to multinational companies. They will own us lock, stock and barrel.

"The puppets in Tell Eve are dancing for their masters. All they need is some plausible denial, some "event" to justify launching strikes on Tehran. They will handle the dirty work for their masters."

"Why don't the freedom loving politicians at the House stop the madness?"
"They love sandwiches. It's all semantics to them, launch or lunch."

Peace.