How nice it must be…

To sit in the sunny computer room in your house in the suburbs and pass judgement on the kidnapped, the beaten, the murdered…

Phil Sands shares his experiences as a kidnapped journalist in Iraq in the WaPo:

DAMASCUS, Syria The kidnapping happened quickly and efficiently on a bright, cold Baghdad morning, the day after Christmas. I’d slept well and decided I would leave Iraq — after one more story, one more set of interviews. Now I knew I’d waited too long: A pair of sedans blocked the empty road I was traveling down with my driver and translator; men in balaclavas clutching AK-47s jumped out. Tied-up, blindfolded, my mobile phones taken, I was bundled into the trunk.

After the lid slammed shut, there was silence, an appalling moment, fear choking the breath from my lungs. It was also strangely cathartic: I quickly came to terms with the idea of being dead and decided there was not much else to worry about, no point in panic.

The whole article is pretty fascinating, if a bit terrifying. See, the difference between me and the Right Wing shit flingers who would blame a telephone pole if the President rammed it with his mountain bike, is that I don’t have any precious illusions about Iraq left to protect. I can smell a giant pile of shit without having to have it fall on my head.

LGF, not so much.

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