There's a new dicktater in Afghanistan

Dateline: Asad Khyl

In a surprising upset in local politics, a former American Special Forces Soldier turned War Correspondent and Photographer, recently declared himself a Canadian and then, in an even more shocking turn of events, installed himself as the "Military Dictaor for life, or until my paypal runs out" in the villiage of Tarok Kolache, Afghanistan. Local Tribesmen are very suportive of Yon, who plans to rule through the use of extreme insults and by banning everyone who slightly disagrees with him, as well as through character assassinations and threats to tell everyone's boss if they don't apologize.

At the first press conference held in the new Presidential Palace--a recently converted Brothel and goat-feed store--the Glorius New Leader of all things, as Yon's acolytes call him--decreed that for the time being, he was suspending all US military activity in his lands. He would allow the ISAF forces to continue operations only after they have agreed to his many demands, which include the immediate dismissal of all Public Affairs Officers, the rewriting of embed policy to include him in all military decision making processes, and the immediate erradication of all spiders in Afghanistan. "What people are missing here, the really big enemy," said Yon, "is that the most dangerous threat to freedom isn't the Taliban. The real threat to freedom is the spiders. They too, live in caves, and hide where they cannot be seen."

Yon has made other sweeping changes in his new country, some of which include:

• renaming all of the months of the year after himself, except for February, which is now known as "I hate Jimbo" month


• giving himself the title of "His Most Righteous and Sheikh Excellent Professor Doctor" (HMR&SPED )


• requiring all muslims to do the "hokey pokey" five times a day, facing in the direction of GEN Stanley McChrystal's house in the USA


• sending ministry teams into Utah to preach his new brand of religion, dubbed Yonego, to the Mormons


• building a moat completely around his capital city, which will be filled with coconut pudding


• "Boneshakers," safety bicycles, and any other similar machines are banned from the center of town


• it is now illegal to kill, injure, taunt, or otherwise harm a Yeti, or any other animal whose name begins with the letter "Y," except spiders


• 'Y' is now the first and last letter in the alphabetall turtles will be immediately deportedsex with rodeo clowns in the presence of horses is now illegal

HMR&SPED Yon also has new plans to boost the economy of his cash-strapped feifdom: He will immediately begin prospecting for fossils and Ferrous Oxide in this rugged country, as he expects there to be a major boom in these tiny markets in the years to come. He also has plans to buy as many vehicles as he can find, ship them to America and sell them to the US government under the "cash for clunkers" program. In order to encourage the people of his new country to work harder, he has ordered all internet service providers to block all web pages, and only display his "Public Figure" facebook page when someone tries to use social media.

Local Response: When asked what he thought about his new leader, Ahmad Rasshad Soretoro, the owner of the Presidential Palace, said "What could it hurt? We haven't had an effectve government in Afghanistan since... well, ever, actually. For certain, He does tend to go a bit nanners from time to time, and no one knows exactly what he is doing with all those goats and boys during his mentoring sessions, but why not try Yon? What is the worst thing that could happen?"

Aman Bin Fartin, the local taliban chieftan and owner of "falafel on wheels," said that it was good that there was now someone they could point to as the reason their policy of "kill everyone who disagrees with us" was not as effective as the US claims, and also that it would provide a nice distraction to pay attention to local politics after a long day of digging IED holes, stoning women, and buying new lingerie for his goats.

Danger Close with Destiny

Some of McChrystal’s milblogger goons are trolling my comments demanding “evidence” that he is waging a smear campaign against me. Others want “proof” that he doesn’t know how to run this war.

The evidence has been sent to my lawyer. And the proof … well, the proof McChrystal doesn’t know what he’s doing is everywhere. The proof is in Afghan children making paper airplanes because they don’t know how to read. The proof is in Mayor McChrystal McCheese monopolizing whoppers. The proof is in the pudding.

Nevertheless, I have something bigger than evidence. Larger than proof.

I have destiny.

Six years ago.

There I was, there I was, there I was … in … the Congo.

I’d been hot on the trail of a pack of fugitive Nazi cannibals for months, and just stumbled across their abandoned camp. Crept into a clearing, pistol drawn. Heard no voices. No footsteps. A dwindling fire hissed its dying breaths under the sounds of the jungle. A rhesus monkey laughed at man’s impotence against nature. The macaw cried about something sad. The ominous notes of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung drifted from an antique victrola atop a tree stump.

Over the cooling firepit was a charred human body, split down the middle by a metal spit. A German eagle and a swastika set in silver relief from the handle. Some of the meat on the body was gone. Nazi cannibals were ass men, apparently. An Iron Cross glinted from the ashes. Its black and silver finish tarnished by oxidation and history’s judgment.

I’d just missed the Nazi cannibal bastards.

Suddenly, a crack. Gripped my revolver tightly. Spun and leveled it on the chest of an intruder. Fear was greeted by mirth. A small, brown man stood barefoot and naked, except for a scraggly white beard and a necklace of shrunken heads draped around his neck. His eyes hard to see past the wrinkled folds of his smile. The brown slits gleamed with wisdom and power. I recognized the mark of a shaman. He recognized the mark of a warrior.

“Away put your weapon, I mean you no harm,” he said with a raspy accent.

“Who are you?”

“Not important it is who I am, Michael Yawn,” he answered.

His gaze became serious. “To you more important – to the fate of the world more important – is who you are … uh, is.”

“I don’t have time for word footsie, little fella, I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’m hot on the trail of a pack of Nazi cannibals.”

“Take you to them, I will. But now, must eat.”

The old man reached into a pouch made from the skin of a panther. He rummaged around and pulled out a pack of saltines.

“No, will not do, this,” he harrumphed and tossed them aside. The shaman dug through the bag again, this time finding and discarding a pack of wet naps. After tossing away mints, Crest White Strips and a dog-eared Danielle Steele novel - the shaman finally found what he was looking for. His eyes closed and his long, pointy ears twitched in satisfaction. He pulled something out of the bag and thrust it toward me.

“Here. Eat this, you must.”

It was a human skull, top sawed off above the eyes. Inside was a creamy paste. Looked like peanut butter. Looked like danger.

It just so happens, I like peanut butter and danger. It’s my middle name. (“Danger,” not “peanut butter.”)

I ate the paste. It tasted like destiny.

“Well thee fare, Michael Yawn. Your destiny, you will find.”

The world swirled. Blurriness, then blackness.

Color. Swirling color. A tunnel of light. A strange figure, riding, walking toward me. On eight legs. A giant spider on a bridge of light. Only, its torso was that of a man with craggy features wearing a green uniform. Next to the spider man was a demon in a hockey jersey negligently discharging a weapon.

In front of them was a man. His steely gaze and rigid shoulders obviously marked him as an American soldier. Behind the soldier was an Afghan girl, making paper airplanes. The spider man and the hockey player were attacking the American soldier and the Afghan girl. They spotted me.

“There is nothing you can do to stop us, Michael ‘Danger’ Yawn,” they said in unison.

“Eh,” added the hockey demon.

“God damn you bastards, I must try.”

“Yes, try you must,” echoed the voice of the shaman. “Try you must, try you must, try you …”

“… must.”

I awoke on the wooden floor of a Thai cathouse. Naked. Two sleeping ladyboys tangled on straw mat next to me. Opium incense sticks burning. Empty tequila bottles. Pounding head. Was it a memory? Was it a dream? Was it a vision? I didn’t know.

Until now.