Klondike Kill. Joan of Aren’t. Sarah the Destroyer. Malt Liquor and Parkaboobs, Siren of Death.
War is hell. So go big or go home, Mr. President.
Let’s take the knucklehead thing to the limit, shall we? Americans will soon be dying Mr. President. So don’t be shy now, go and kill a whole lotta them. It’s time the Middle East learned about the use of violence, and war. They need the sort of lesson they’ll never forget. They don’t know what they’re in for.
Big means bold, confident, wise assurance from a trustworthy Commander-in-Chief that it shall all be worth it.
The death of your son shall be worth it. To fight the one thousand or more obnoxious regional militias in Iraq for the next hundred or so years, all worth it. You will be grateful for Junior’s hideous dismemberment because I shall have Gone Big. And, in response to the vicious rumors, I can assure you my head is not permanently lodged up the War Donkey’s ass.
Charge in, strike hard, get out. Win.
Because that’s how you do it. You invade Iraq, charge, strike and…Win.