Yellow Brick Road
One minute I’m floating on a raft down the wide Mississippi River, and the next I’m in a horse-drawn cart, driving through narrow streets in Paris with my hands tied behind my back. “What the Dickens is going on here?” I think to myself. “This is FUBAR,” I say in disgusted French to the soldier with the musket and bayonet pointed at my chest. “You imbeciles have got the wrong guy.” I nod my chin at my rope belt and homespun clothing. “Do I look like an aristocrat to you? Obviously, I’m not even French.”
At the next corner, the cart stops and I’m escorted up the gravel driveway of a lakeside mansion by an beautiful woman in a black evening dress. Inside, the host greets me warmly. “Gatsby,” he says, offering his hand, “glad you could make it.” A waiter carrying champagne glasses waits for me to take one off the tray as the orchestra breaks into “Ain’t We Got Fun.”
After the party, German soldiers march us through the destroyed city and force us down a ladder into a hole beneath the rubble. They tell us to mine the corpses of the people who were incinerated in the cellar of an apartment building.
It’s bitter cold inside the cave. We all know that the fascists are waiting for us to leave the safety of the mountain. “I’ve got to blow that bridge before the advance.,” I say to Pilar, who’s dressed in black and wearing a bandolier. “But I keep getting distracted.”
“It’s this war, this damned, stinking war,” she says spitting on the ground. “The only thing we can do now is follow the yellow brick road.”
I probably shouldn't admit that until I read your post, I didn't even know FUBAR was a comedy series on Netflicks. I don't watch much television. To me, it was simply a reference to WWII (and later) military-speak: Fucked-up-beyond all recognition.
I rarely watch any of the series. I had not heard of "Fubar" until I read your latest post. Lately, we're up to our necks in facists. Sooner or later all of them will end up digging their own graves. I'd help but I'm too tired these days to even lift a spoon.