My Dearest al-Assad…
A Love Letter to the President of Syria Uncovered by Our Own Reginald F. Montague
My dearest al-Assad,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you these days, knowing that we can never be together again. Life and Time have torn us apart even as they taunt us by putting our names just pages apart. Even just those few wisps of paper separating me from your image are too much, and they give me such an ache in my heart, and my loins, as you cannot imagine.
We are so alone in this universe, you and I. Restless sojourners for a truth that we can’t be sure will ever really come true. Keepers of a love that will always be shunned, as we are. No, it isn’t fair my beautiful Bashar; it’s not fair that we are burdened with this great vision of a world spun in red from the blood of anyone old enough to disagree with us. And probably a few who aren’t, too.
They don’t understand us because we see a vision they do not. We possess a blissful joy they will never know: the giddy glee of squashing the innocent under your thumb like a handsome, yet amazingly rugged, god. They will never know the peaceful contentment of ruling with unquestionable authority, or the weighty burden that is being right all the time. Even when everyone in your country disagrees with you.
They are ingrates, those teeming masses who struggle to be free from our smothering embrace. They ask for freedom, but is not the unconditional love (elsewise, death) of men like us the ultimate prize? Why must they ceaselessly clamor for “safety”, and “choices”, and “democracy”? You and I have both worked, slaving tirelessly over a hot government each day of our lives, and all they can do is complain that what we made is killing them. Barely even a bite of our creation before their throats closed up and they died screaming mutely on the floor.
We did always love it when they did that though…so cute.
No one but us really knows just how hard it is to be a despot these days. The ceaseless calls from world leaders; the sanctions that make it so hard to crush your people effectively, and never a single day off. What I would’ve given for just one day to walk down the street unmolested by the incessant dying of my subjects. Just one gorgeous afternoon to walk the streets and be greeted with smiles and waves, but there are always so many women and children to gas. And the scandals… another biological weapons plant poorly disguised, another toddler shot 30 times; one more body to toss on the pile of regrettable realities that are the cost of this beautiful Eden of oligarchy.
Those fortunate masses see nothing good in all our blessings. Those masses that get to watch the best movies we select for them; enjoy the latest news we choose to broadcast and revel for hours on end at the T.V. speeches we so lovingly make for them. They, who are so fortunate as to live in the fantastical fireworks show that is unpredictable military bombardment; they appreciate nothing.
Bashar, my Bashar. Were it that we would get away from all this rotten mess like we used to. Spend a weekend away in the mountains with Vladimir, and Momar and Hugo. Feel your strong embrace again in front of the warm fire, and the soft tickle of your mustache on mine. Whispering quietly into the night about our plans for taking over the world as we lay together.
Those were the days my love, and I fear that recently too many of our closest friends have left your world for mine. Kim Jung Il arrived not so long ago, and while I rejoice for the company it breaks my heart to think of you living up there in the world with one less friend in these trying times. Our old hangouts are all taken over; the boardroom at Goldman Sachs, the Penn State locker room…our favorite places are gone. At least we can rejoice at the news that John Edwards won’t be returning to trial—a sorely needed victory for our team.
Well my love, Satan is calling my name. It seems it’s time to start work on Rush Limbaugh’s golden estate again. The prince of evil surely will be pleased when he finally makes it down here to see it to and take his rightful place at the throne next to Satan and Karl Rove.
All my best, my cupcake, and feelings of most eternal affection. I miss you with every lash of fire on my back, and the insertion of every morning’s acid enema. Keep your chin up and stay strong, Bashar. I’ll love you always. Osama says hi.