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Rescue of FARC Hostages, 2008Edit

FARC Rescue: The True Republican Story.

John McCain leads an expeditionary force through the jungles of Colombia to free a thousand hostages from terrorist drug runners.

The year was 2008 and everything was right with the world. Peace and prosperity created a sort of malaise in the fat and lazy elite. But, it was this sort of liberal thinking that made me suspicious. Despite reports to the contrary, I knew there was someone somewhere suffering from an as yet unknown terrorist plot. I yearned for adventure and made plans to seek out and rectify that pain I was certain existed somewhere.

I was able to charm the use of a corporate jet from the local cougar with a few bottles of chemical persuasion and tales of my exploits in the Vietnamese prison camp.

With the jet fueled up and ready to go, I gathered a team of special forces to accompany me on what I was sure to be a monumental mission to rescue captives or some other brand of travesty.

Unfamiliar with the new-fangled jet, I ditched it in the canopy and single-handedly removed the surviving members of my party from the burning wreckage.

"Get the fuck out of the burning plane," I encouraged the few trapped inside.

But, my words fell on deaf ears, very much the same way the Viet Cong's billyclubs fell on mine.

"You fucking disappoint me," I screamed above their complaints.

I lead my team away from the deserters to separate us from their choice for failure. We wouldn't look back; only forward.

I decided to wait a few hours, not because I was tired, but to use the cover of darkness to better aid the mission. My weary compatriot, Joe, could only sit and cry himself to sleep.

I built a 2-room hut and the two of us waited.

I couldn't sleep.


As the sun disappeared and the sky darkened, I watched ever alertly for the growing possibility of threat likely to loom over the next hill or after the next clearing.

Maybe even in the next stretch of monkey-shit-smelling bunch of trees.

There was no way to know exactly.

We walked onward ditching our shirts releasing our bare, glistening chests in the evening air, cooling us and bringing us a moment of relief, but the jungle had other plans. It remained as hot as it had been during the day, my friends. I don't need to tell you that. I focused clearly on the task at hand, and not my memories of five years in a POW camp, which this was beginning to remind me of. Joe silently weeped beside me his eyes widened in fear as he reached out his hand for my belt so he would not get left behind.

I led Joe down the little path now just visible in the glowing moonlight.

I had no idea where we were going, but I knew it would be far. Or close, it didn't matter, we had to keep going.

The mud began to seep into our shoes and what little clothes remained on our bodies stuck to us like makeup to a trollop.

"I can't go on, John," Joe whispered to me as he fell into the mud.

I thought to myself, "We were so close and now he decides to fall in the mud!" I knew I had to conserve my energy, but the team couldn't afford to lose another man, so I spent the next few minutes disciplining Joe with the back of my hand.

Trembling and sobbing, Joe could only muster enough strength to look up at me with his puppy-dog eyes, pleading for me to lead him out of another mess of his own making.

Picking him up out of the mud, I began to carry him fireman-style on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry, John," he said and then, "I'm sorry, so, so sorry."

It was then I realized he had relieved himself into his pants. The warm liquid drizzled down my arm. I would have to wait to discipline him again.


I marched for another hour or so, with Joe sleeping comfortably on my shoulders, when I heard the sounds of a terrorist camp close by.

Joe stirred slightly so I elbowed him in the face and firmly, yet quietly admonished him, "Shut your whore mouth, I'm fighting terrorists!"

I trained my eyes into the darkness and was able to make out the outline of a group of terrorists around a campfire half a click below us.

Having lost all our communications equipment in the plane with the losers, I fashioned a flare from one of Joe's muddy socks and shot it into the air.

Immediately, the terrorists looked up and frantically extinguished their fire. The possibility that their nefarious plans would be thwarted filled the camp with the sounds of chaos. Their native grunts meant they were taken by surprise and shouted to each other asking if any had seen the origin of the flare.

Within seconds an American aircraft flew overhead and dropped a fully-equiped Hummer a few feet in front of us.

Straightaway, I threw Joe squealing into the back seat next to the reporter, "Make yourself pretty!" I commanded, "We have people to free, or kill or capture!"

I leapt into the driver's seat and gunned the already-running engine full thrusting the powerful machine toward the terrorist camp below.


The surrender was instantaneous and was captured live by the reporter's camera. The jihadists followed behind their leader mimicking his every move as he walked toward me--the conquering hero--his hands raised and his head bowed in defeat.

"The people of Venezuela can rest easy tonight," I began.

Joe had managed to comb his hair and tend to the bruises he had received from the plane crash as he leaned forward and whispered, "Colombia, the people of Colombia."

"Yes," I began again, "Colombia, that's what I said. Colombia! The people of Colombia can rest well tonight knowing that the Shia uprising has been squashed! Thank you!"

The crowd that had disembarked from the other Hummers that were dropped from the aircraft politely applauded my every word and my friends, the entire episode was a resounding success.

Until the acrid smell of urine overpowered the jungle scent. I looked around for the source, which I knew had to be the doughy Jew. Joe stood behind me interrupting the wild applause, sheepishly trying to pretend he didn't smell like an airport bathroom.

The smell became obvious even to the terrorists. They looked at me with contempt, as though I had anything to do with the quivering Jew peeing his pants. I squinted and growled at them to back down and they did.

I graciously obliged the reporter with a quick recreation of the rescue by shooting and beating a few of the terrorists. The remaining ones were disrobed, handcuffed and hooded for their ride to meet their date with justice.

As dawn slowly lifted the blanket of darkness, I posed for one last picture, my foot atop the head of one of the brown jungle-terrorists. I bent my arm and planted a fist on my hip. My strong jaw jutted toward the ever-brightening sky as I breathed in the rising mist filled with gunpowder, blood and freedom. I had only known that smell one time before in my life and fought back a triumphant tear recalling that day long ago when my five years in captivity had ended and the air of freedom from a jungle hell filled my lungs!

The only difference between now and then was fragrance of urine. Joe would have to pay for his misstep, my friends; he'd have to pay. Maybe on the plane ride home, or in the Senate chambers during a hearing.

Maybe in 100 years, who knows?

But he'll pay.

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