|“It’s like this,” said [National Review writer and NRO Online editor] Jonah Goldberg, grabbing a fistful of Cheetos from his pack. “I believed in this fight, and my country needed me. They needed able-bodied men – doughy, able to handle the rigors of sitting in a swivel chair for seven, eight hours at a time, and not afraid to put on a little TV make-up when the shit gets heavy. So I signed up.” He spit Cheetos-orange on the carpet. “Any man who won’t opinionate for his country and what he believes … well, I don’t call that a man at all.” At that he pulled up the sleeve on his regulation-issue Tommy Hilfiger powder-blue dress shirt to show me the tattoo on his meaty, girlish bicep. 'Born to Bloviate', it read, emblazoned on the bulging tummy of the Pillsbury Doughboy - the symbol of the feared 101st Fighting Keyboarders.
The enemy had brought in a few independent studies to fortify their position. Goldberg called for reinforcements, and emails supporting his stand began pouring in. As quickly as they arrived, Goldberg posted them to his weblog on the front. The action was getting furious, and, without looking, Goldberg opened an email from an unknown address. On the monitor was the image of a single white feather. Goldberg fell back in his office chair, and hit the ground and began moaning, softly and piteously.
“Medic!” shouted Derbyshire.
K-Lo rushed over and crouched over him. “It’s bad,” she muttered. “Oh, man, it’s bad.”
“What is it?” yelled Derbyshire, panicked. “Where’d they get him?”
“Oh, it’s bad. Those bastards. Those fucking heartless bastards. They got him in the feelings. Oh God, oh God, no. Those motherfuckers hurt his feelings! God I hate this damned war!”