THE GENERAL'S CAT

I had myself one helluva weird ass dream last night. I was the leader of a crack commando force. My mission was to guide an elite group of highly-trained soldiers over 12 extremely inhospitable terrain miles behind enemy lines, by whatever means necessary. Every man was a volunteer and the best at what he did. We parachuted in, moved on stealth patrols through the teeming jungle without a word or stray noise; crossing angry rivers and numerous minefields into the heart of enemy territory. At last we recovered our objective; a top secret device: a long metal cylinder sealed with numerous crypto-programs and fingerprint scanlocks. It was airtight and, consequently, chock full of Meow Mix with which to feed the General’s cat, code-named ‘Woogums’.
I saw it all as if it had been drawn by children armed with a Crayola eight box (as opposed to the highly sought after 64, complete with built in sharpener; the subject of many a recess battle).
We were cannon fodder for Woogums’ finicky eating habits. We got the cylinder and returned to base.
After the debriefing, my men were fighting amongst themselves because one of them had gotten himself killed by a landmine. There was a huge scuffle and people were yelling at each other. "He knew the risks when he signed onto this outfit!" They blamed themselves, pounding fists into palms. Then they calmed down all tough-like, and drank beer in a warrior’s lonely mood.
This is Smokin’ Joe Blow saying, "W.T.F., over?"