You've got to feel a pang of sympathy for guys like Petraeus and Allen.
They're over there as emissaries for a culture that is superior in every way.
That's why we insist on training their fighting forces even though they just whupped us in a war.
So the emissaries for the culture that is superior in every way get together with some towel-headed war-lord, and what do they find?
They find that Mr. Warlord has seven wives and a stable of dancing boys.
They're stuck with their high-school sweet-heart they married when they were nineteen.
Cultural superiority has a price.
And at some level, once our Generals see how the other half lives, that price begins to foment resentment.
Before you know it they're banging the secretary and the under-secretary and the other secretary under the desk. And of course the biographer.
They can't quite get their heads around the dancing boys, but you can bet they're working on it.
Then their career gets caught in the middle of a turf battle between the FBI and the CIA, and it's all over.
Meanwhile, Mr. Warlord who we vanquished years ago is up to nine wives, and he's just added a couple of fresh twelve year olds to his dancing-boy harem.
It sucks to be the winner.
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