Spam and Water Boards

Mistakes happen. I'm trying to take a Zen approach to this whole sordid ordeal. There I was, minding my own business in the White House garden, mentally preparing myself for the second debate between Mr. George and that housedog-of-a man John Kerry, when all of a sudden my world turned black with tiny white spots. When I came to, I found myself cold and wet and naked, strapped to a water board somewhere in Cuba. As I felt myself being lowered up-side-down into the icy water, I shouted "I'm an American! I know Karl Ro-" before the water stifled my cries. What seemed like two minutes later, I was raised from out of the water. A man speaking Arabic with a thick Spanish accent punched me just below the rib cage and spoke in crazy jibberish. I can wrote no more of this. For the last few months I have been locked in a tiny prison cell, beaten and assaulted on a regular basis by my fellow countrymen. And countrywomen.

If there is a silver lining to this black cloud, it's this -- the U.S. government knows how to torture and extract information. I told them everything. Everything! I told them about petty cash at the A&P, I told them about the pumpkins and Mrs. Butterfield, who was married and lonely and soft to the touch, I even told them about the government-owned gardening equipment in my apartment. While I knew that I was being tortured for no good reason, I took comfort in knowing that many of the people in prison were being tortured for a good reason. I am but a tree in a large forest. A tree with a soggy lungs and a broken eardrum, but more importantly, part of a forest. A forest that has some miserable trees being beaten and raped, but a large and thriving forest nonetheless. I have moved on mentally, and I am ready to resume my gardening roles.

Please, dear reader, forgive my absence. I promise that it will never, ever happen again.