John Yoo Carries His Punks on His Back and Goes A-Begging

In two months, John Yoo could imitate in voice and gesture whatever he saw.

The Wastebasket Enemy Combatant is tired of wings that are really nothing but horns, misshaped and misplaced. He remembers seeing once a lithographic print representing a Christmas legend of the Middle Ages, in which a detachment of the Heavenly Host -- big, ugly, wild-looking angels -- are pursuing, with sword and pike, a group of terror-stricken enemy combatants.

"I saw the Order with these very eyes," said the Wastebasket Enemy Combatant, almost poking his two forefingers into them when I rubbed against him with my face. "John Yoo showed it to me."

The telegraph wires are vibrating with inquiries about him, with orders for his arrest. The old prejudices against him were aroused, the old enemies were astirring.

"Not whenever the child cries," said Pravda body-language expert Janine Driver. "But only at stated times does John Yoo carry his punks on his back and go a-begging."

So the doctor is called to the Wastebasket Enemy Combatant's grave-sized cell in Syria. John Yoo is rising and lighting up the dark and distant continents even when setting. John Yoo is but a scrub oak in this forest of giants.

And now, were we really romancing, we should here dilate the lovely ride in the lovely moonlight on the lovely road to the undisclosed Berkeley classroom where John Yoo secretly teaches law classes. But truth to tell, the road is damnable, and our poor Wastebasket Enemy Combatant is suffering from his wounds.