They crossed the Tigris. They circled Baghdad. They’re degrading the Republican Guard, flexing their muscles, renaming the airport.
Our guys’ got M16s, F-14s, M1-A, Abrams and Bradley Fighting Vehicles.
They’ve got AK-47s, Soviet-built T72s and rocket propelled grenades.
We know they’ve got enormous stocks of biochemical weapons.
We’ll find ‘em. Smoking gun. Blister agent. Nerve agent. Told you so.
Could be mosquito repellent. It’s day. It’s night. It’s fireballs, mortar and small arms fire. Saddam’s alive. Saddam’s dead. Saddam’s standing on the corner watching all the girls go by.
We’re sending the Seventh Cavalry, the 101st Airborne, the 3rd Infantry. We’ve got Warthogs, Tony Blair, Super Cobras, Strike Eagles and Tom Cats.
They’re hiding in tunnels, hunkered in bunkers, hanging from the rafters. People are cheering.
People are desperate. People are funny. We’re being shot at, welcomed with open arms, cut to pieces. Here’s Phil. There’s Wolf. Over to Nic.
Back to Becky. They’re up in the air, on the ground, down in the dumps.
It’s hot. It’s cold. It’s hot and cold. This war’s fantastic. This war’s a disaster.
Streets and markets are seething. It’s Saddam.
It’s Chemical Ali. It’s the Chemical Brothers. We’re here. We’re there.
I’m trapped in a firefight, caught in a crossfire, hit by friendly fire.
He’s a tyrant. He’s a patriot. A genius. An idiot. Stay tuned.
Fighting’s house to house, room to room, hand to mouth, toe to toe, pillar to post, ass over tea kettle. It’s just beginning. It’s all over.
Open-ended. Closed captioned. Our forces are pressing north, heading south, looking west, bowing to the east. All is calm.
All is bright. Be the first to know. The latest reports are deeply disturbing, highly elating, clumsy and ignorant. Thank you.
We’re stuck in a quagmire. We’re in the driver’s seat. We’re in a quagmire stuck in the driver’s seat. He’s entrenched.
She’s embedded. They’re encircled. The Iraqi people are full of hope, draining our resources, brimming with confidence, bleeding us dry.
The media is exposing the truth, hiding the facts.
It’s spectacular. It’s hopeless. A cakewalk. A bloodbath.
More in a moment.
WALLACE GAGNE lives in Tokyo. He can be reached at: firstname.lastname@example.org