You may have read my bogus exclusive in August — a letter from Moammar Gaddafi to Dick Cheney, appealing for rescue from Libyan rebels who brought down Gaddafi’s government after British, French and American air forces, in classic colonialist fashion, crippled his army.
As you know, Gaddafi is now officially kaput. Apparently, his plea fell on deaf ears, even though he reminded Cheney in his letter that the two of them were former allies, as well as fellow war criminals and torture advocates, and ought to be looking out for one another when the chips are down.
Near the bitter end, when Gaddafi and his bodyguards was preparing to break out of Sirte, he sent one more dispatch to Cheney that my sources managed to intercept:
It looks as if the sand fleas will feast on me after all, and I suppose this is a good thing, under the circumstances. My Amazons have deserted me. I’m down to my last pinch of pharmaceutical meth, and sub-Saharan crank does not cut it, any more than this third-rate kif from Timbuktu.
I suppose you weighed all your options, to use the insipid American phrase, and decided to leave me twisting in the desert wind rather than come to my aid and answer all those awkward questions concerning our relationship, conducted mostly through your — how do you say it? — your point man, Richard Perle, who worked to help “burnish Libya’s image” back in 2006.
It is clear now that my big mistake was letting you and your British friends trick me into dismantling my nuclear weapons program in return for your false promise to supply me with “conventional and non-conventional military equipment.”
What the Prophet said is true: Do not trust fellow war criminals, even those who are your friends. The moral of this story, as you Americans like to say, is that only countries with nuclear stockpiles are truly safe from the crusaders. Our friend Kim Jong Il has starved millions but your infidel fighter-jet pilots steer clear of North Korea lest he incinerate your allies to the south. I guess I never quite got the gist of what you call realpolitik.
If you see Condi, say hello for me. I miss my Nubian queen even more than my Michael Jacksonian palace and wardrobe.
See you in hell.