Donald Rumsfeld’s Diary

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Since resigning as the Secretary of Defense last November, Donald Rumsfeld has mostly kept out of the public eye, raising worries that he may be building some kind of walking tank with which he intends to menace the world’s commerce. Fortunately for us, Rumsfeld’s daily activities have ranged more towards the mundane. Even more fortunately for us, Rumsfeld has been diligently recording his thoughts and activities as a service to future historians. Armed with this knowledge, a false beard, and a specially trained parrot, I’ve managed to obtain a few pages of his journal, which I present here as a service to my readers.

Monday, March 5th

A moving truck pulled up to the house next door this morning. The Peerson’s had moved out six months ago, their place sitting unsold the whole time. Someone finally purchased it last month, and the neighborhood’s been abuzz with excitement about who our new neighbors will be. I stepped outside to watch as the movers started unloading the truck, when a blue SUV pulled up in the driveway.

It was Colin Powell, and his family.

“Oh for fucks sake.” I muttered under my breath. Powell used to work down the hall from me at the office. He was a loser, and I hated him.

Powell stretched, and looked up at his new home, before turning his gaze to me.

“Oh for fucks sake.”

I snarled at him, “I thought I told you to never show your face in this town again.”

He sighed, in that irritating self-superior way of his, and replied, “No, you said that I shouldn’t let the doorknob hit my ass on the way out. Then you attacked me with a doorknob. At the time, I wasn’t sure why you had a doorknob sitting on your desk, although it later occurred to me that you might have had it there specifically to hit me with.”

I walked quickly up to Powell and slapped him in the face. “That’s one.” I said.

He reeled, clutching his jaw. “One what?!”

“For correcting me.”

“I didn’t correct you. What are you retarded?”

I slapped him again.

“That’s two.”

I turned on my heel and walked away.

Thursday, March 8th

According to Joyce, who’s been chatting to Powell’s missus, Powell and his family moved in next door because he’s just accepted a consulting job at a think tank a few miles away. He evidently wasn’t aware that we lived next door and bitterly hate him. Joyce started to observe that technically ‘we’ don’t bitterly hate him, seeing as she has no problem with him whatsoever, but by that point I had stormed away from the breakfast table, leaving my Fruit Roll-Up untouched.

Later I told her about the cabinet meetings we used to have, where Dick Cheney would repeatedly table a motion for a ‘Show of hands for everyone who thinks Powell has a vagina.’

“Everyone put up their hands! Don’t you see? Don’t you see what a wiener he is, and why you should hate him?” I interrogated Joyce.

“He’s not a wiener Don. He’s a very nice man.”

“No he’s not. He has a vagina. Men don’t have vaginas. We’ve talked about this.

Sunday, March 11th

Powell called the house today, and asked if I shit in his yard last night. I was ready for his call, as in fact I had shit in his yard last night. Prepared, and hoping to catch him off guard, I quickly responded “AVaginaSaysWhat?”

Powell’s evidently lost a step in his old age, and fell neatly for my verbal gambit, replying “What?” before catching himself.

“BWAHAHAHHAHAHHHHHAHHAHHAHHA HAHH HAHHA HA HA!” I cackled.

“You child. I can’t believe you. You didn’t even pronounce it properly. It doesn’t count if you don’t enunciate it properly. There was no way for me to tell what you’re saying.”

“HA-HA HA HA! You keep saying it!”

“Saying what?”

“BWHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA HAH AHAHA HA HA!”

Wednesday, March 14th

A knock on the door this afternoon revealed Powell on the front step wearing his customary poopy-pants expression.

“Donald, I wanted to talk to you about this ongoing… disagreement… we seem to be having. Now that we don’t have to work togeth… ARGH!” His speech was cut short with a sharp intake of breath, caused by the sudden impact of my head into his crotch.

I screamed in his face: “Self-defense! Self-defense! You were invading my home!”

“That wasn’t self defense you fucking psycho! You attacked me! With your head! Your head? Why? Why the head?”

“The head is the most powerful weapon we’ve got Powell. Do you remember when I climbed on top of the couch in the Oval Office and screamed that? Did you think I was being figurative? That’s why you lose Powell. That’s why you’ll always lose.”

Friday, March 16th

This morning I blew up Powell’s SUV with a predator drone. A couple dorks at the Pentagon owed me a favor, and at my request, that favor took the form of some precision guided munitions. Powell came out of his house to see what had happened, and I ran out into my front yard to greet him.

“YES! Eat me Powell!” I screamed, spiking a football that I had brought outside for just that purpose. “Now that is what I call unilateral action!” I danced around a bit, as he stared at me with a dazed expression. “Shock,” I yelled, pulling my hips back, “and Awe!” I concluded, leaping in the air while thrusting my crotch forward. I marched triumphantly back to the house only to see Joyce standing on the front step, silently shaking her head at me.

rumsfeld2.jpgSaturday, March 17th

This afternoon I slapped Powell on the face with my penis, after spending most of the morning shrieking at him over the fence and threatening him with said penis-slap.

Tuesday, March 20th.

A moving van pulled up in front of the Powell’s house this morning. I wandered over to investigate, and was met by Powell on his front lawn.

“Good morning Donald. As you can see, we’ll be leaving soon. Nothing personal of course.”

“Powell, I hope you weren’t put off by my behavior. It’s all horseplay you know. You need to toughen up. Horseplay,” I repeated, pantomiming riding a horse to illustrate.

“Oh that? No not at all!” He laughed, falsely. “No, it’s just that we’ve found another place to live that’s notable for being very far away from here. It’s a gated community. High fences, guards, etc. Very secure. Relaxing. You understand.”

“I understand completely Powell. You don’t want any black people in your neighborhood.”

“Yes… that’s it exactly Donald. Well, good bye.”

I watched as Powell turned and walked back to his waiting family. In a way, I was sad to see him go. Since retiring, I’ve often felt a bit rudderless, and it was only recently that I realized that so much of my very being is defined by conflict. I need a foil, someone to match wits with. I’m nothing without a ying around for me to brutalize with my yang.

“You… complete… me… Powell,” I whispered, winding up to throw one last doorknob at the back of his retreating head.

9 thoughts on “Donald Rumsfeld’s Diary

  1. I kinda expected this to turn out to be erotic fanfic. Not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  2. Makes me think of a john cheese piece but not in a blatant rip off kind of way. Good work.

  3. sudokryst: I kinda expected this to turn out to be erotic fanfic. Not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

    Rumsfeld: This afternoon I slapped Powell on the face with my penis, after spending most of the morning shrieking at him over the fence and threatening him with said penis-slap.

    Except for the fiction part, how is that NOT erotic fanfic, of the highest calibre?

  4. I bet your nuts are the size of tractor tires. Please tell us, with out bragging, where the fuck do you find pants to fit those massive bastards?

  5. qxwtxwuurcvzepcpwell, hi admin adn people nice forum indeed. how’s life? hope it’s introduce branch ;)

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