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Thursday, August 19, 2004
August 20, 2004
Larry Thurlow
Swift Boat Veterans for Truth
PO Box 26184
Alexandria, VA 22313

Dear Mr. Thurlow,

I think we’re going to have to go to Plan B.

Now that they’ve released your military records, it turns out you’re a war hero, too! You got your Bronze star in the same fire fight as the Flip-Flopping Frenchman! There were "enemy small arms and automatic weapons fire!” They were directed at "all units,” and there were “enemy bullets flying about” you and the Flip-Flopping Frenchman! I guess he’s a war hero after all.

Oh well. That’s politics. Sometimes you get caught “exaggerating the truth” and you just have to pull your commercials. But before you rewrite your book, read on, because I think I have an even better story for you. But to make this one work, you’re going to have to do a much better job of selling it!

Keep a straight face! STAY ON MESSAGE! Are you ready? Here it is:

The Story of George W. Bush: War Hero

When young George W. Bush was languishing at Yale in 1968, academics were the furthest thing from his mind. Young George struggled with deep inner turmoil. His fellow countrymen were fighting and dying in a far-off land known as Vietnam, while he was forced to follow his father’s footsteps in a secret and mysterious society known as Skull and Bones, where he reluctantly fulfilled his duties by keeping the beer flowing and initiating freshmen with a hot poker.

But George had a grander vision. He wanted to make the world safe from Democracy. After much pleading, his father finally relented and helped him leapfrog over 500 people waiting to join the Texas Air National Guard. “Finally,” said young George. “Now I can make America safe!”

But still, George W. Bush wasn’t satisfied. He quickly grew weary of flying laps around Houston in his F-102 and fulfilling his duties by keeping the beer flowing for his fellow pilots. Then, on that fateful day of May 15, 1972, destiny called! Young George had applied for a transfer to Alabama and was packing to go. He was wrestling the second keg into his duffle bag when he overheard his roomie’s shortwave radio:

“Lieutenant Kerry here...(static)...trouble...swift boat in Mai Kong Delta...fierce enemy fire....(static)...can’t hold out much longer...”

Then, nothing but eerie silence.

George W. Bush didn’t hesitate. He threw down his book, “The Pet Goat,” and exclaimed, “My buddies are in trouble! I have to help!

Without a thought, he ran down the airfield, leapt into his F-105, and headed straight for Vietnam! George flew by day. He flew by night. When he arrived at the Mai Kong Delta, he came upon a scene which chilled him to the bone. From his aerial perch, he spied a dozen American Swift Boats, all in a circle, shooting at one another.

“You’re with us or you’re against us!” young George exclaimed. He gritted his teeth and dived straight down into the living hell, guns blazing. When the Swift Boat crews saw the airborn sphere of grit and determination bearing down upon them, every man jumped into the river and swam for his life.

George W. Bush made a perfect landing on a 50 foot strip by the shore. As he heroically emerged from the cockpit in his fighter pilot’s jumpsuit, he allowed him a self-satisfied whisper: “Mission Accomplished.”

He was interrupted from his momentary reverie by a high-pitched whining in the jungle to his right. He ran toward the sound, and there, hidden behind a fern was Lieutenant John Kerry, curled up in a fetal position, crying, “My leg! My leg! It’s blown apart! I’ll get a Bronze Star!”

Lying face down on the ground, only ten yards from Kerry was a ten-year-old Vietnamese boy, dead with a bullet in his back.

“Who committed this atrocity?” asked George.

“I did,” replied Kerry. “It was a pre-emptive strike. Please,” he whined. “Help me with my leg!”

Young George looked at Kerry’s leg. He looked at the other one. “Which leg?” he asked.

“My right one! Hurry!” screamed Kerry. “It’s blown off!”

“Why, that’s nothing but a scratch,” said Bush. He was rummaging in his backpack for a bandaid, when the jungle became a blazing inferno. Charlie was everywhere! The sky was raining hot lead!

The Swift Boat crews were nowhere to be seen. Kerry was curled up like a fetus again. George W. Bush grabbed Kerry’s M-16 and opened fire, shouting, “Even a fetus is a human life that deserves to live!”

George singlehandedly held off the Viet Cong for four grueling hours, enabling Kerry and his crew to escape. During that time, he killed 120 of the enemy, each one with a direct frontal hit to the heart. But finally, Bush was overpowered and taken prisoner.

This began the dark days for George W. Bush. He was subjected to a variety of harsh interrogation techniques: He was beaten and raped; he was forced to stand hooded and naked in one position for hours; he was made to pile on naked with other prisoners while the cameras were rolling; he was led around naked on a leash while a doberman was biting at his leg; he was subjected to dietary manipulation.

But George wouldn’t crack. Name, rank, serial number, name, rank, serial number. Day after day, week after week, month after month. Name, rank, serial number. Finally, on a cold day in April 1973, the Viet Cong let him go. They stood aside respectfully as he strode out of his 4x4 cell for the last time. More than respectful, the enemy was shocked and awed at the strength of the man. They handed him the keys to his F-102 and saluted as he flew into the horizon.

Back home, young George had some explaining to do. Why had he been missing for nearly a year? Accusations of AWOL, hurled by his political enemies, flew threw the air like Viet Cong bullets. But to divulge the truth of his ordeal, he would have had to expose the cowardice of John Kerry and his crew, something that was not part of his honor code. Meanwhile a young senator named McCain was making a name for himself, telling a tale of POW misfortunes that sounded suspiciously like the story George had naively confided to him.

Our President bears the slanders in silence, knowing that history will be written long after we’re dead. But the important thing is this: God knows the truth about George W. Bush. (Music swells. Fade to black.)

You see? It’ll work! But this time, you have to stick to your story! Just remember--it doesn’t matter what they say. Answer every question with the same story! Don’t waver! Don’t flinch! SELL IT!

74 Days til Elections! STAY ON MESSAGE!

Carl Estrada

P.S Could you please send me a picture of yourself? Autographed? Make it out to my grandson, Lester. You’re his favorite Swift Boat Veteran for Truth. He prays for you every night.

 

 
 
 
 
 


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