Exclusive! Brit Journalist Nick Meo's Secret Diary! A Satire...

If you've been following the blog reading list I have so helpfully provided at left, you are familiar with the injustice recently perped upon our troops by one Nick Meo, a British journalist who went on a nighttime ride-along with an American Police Mentor Team in Afghanistan. The unit was hit by an IED, killing one of our fine soldiers and injuring others. Meo lived to tell the tale, and quickly scrambled to get the hell out of Dodge. He elbowed his way onto a medevac chopper, and subsequently filed his own skewballed and error-filled After Action report with his employer, the London Daily Telegraph. Unlike other outstanding journalists - notably Joe Galloway, who threw down his camera and picked up a rifle while reporting from the Ia Drang in Vietnam - Meo used his keyboard to sling mud and other brown slimy stuff at U.S. troops. Not my idea of fair play. I would like to join my fellow mil-bloggers in shining a light on Mr. Meo's bad behavior.

And now, by odd coincidence, I have received a document retrieved from Mr. Meo's cubby when the Telegraph was getting ready, I'm told, to drop-kick him for journalistic incompetence. The document appears to be a letter, or perhaps a secret journal. Herewith an enlightening excerpt.

Dearest Poppy: A holiday! A holiday! The tantrums paid off. The Americans have agreed to let me RIDE WITH THEIR SOLDIER BOYS in Afghanistan! Hahahahaha! Forgive my ebullience, Poppy Dearest, but I am a-tizzy with joy. Take that, all you waxen dummies at the Beeb. Nicky-boy scored big and is headed for an imbed in the 'Stan. Oh, be still, my beating heart! Okay, gotta go pack. I think the red scarf contrasts nicely with my tan jacket from Banana Republic. I'll include the black, just to stretch the old wardrobe, hahaha.

Poppy-my-love: Prepping now for the Big Hol. Am taking your advice and packing blackout dark glasses. I hear such interesting things about those American boys and their big, powerful.... weapons. Wouldn't want them to see my eyeballs popping out if I happen to stare. I wonder if they'll find my accent enchanting? Fingers crossed... fingers crossed....

So here I am. The Public Affairs skirt is kind of a pest. She acts as if this stuff is serious, and that I should know I'm in a war zone. "Here are the safety precautions. Please be aware that the Taliban is active in this area, and that journalists come under fire along with our troops." Oh, puh-lease! Who the eff started this war, anyway? The effing Americans because of the effing way they are. Would they do anything if they thought they could actually get hurt? The eff! All their stoopid casualty reports... it's nothing but propaganda. They came in here with bad-ass weapons. They know how to protect themselves, the bullies. Am I supposed to be scared? Eff no! This isn't about fear. This is about story. This is about drama. And I am the one to do this job. I am the boy-o! I will spin this into Fodder. Do me a favor. Call the Monty Python people and withdraw my application. I am the new Rudyard Kipling! Woot!

Poppy I was wondering. Should we get white or yellow gold matching rings? When I hit it big, I mean. When I hit it big on our behalf.

Tonight we embark on the mission. I must say, the soldiers seem to be taking this a bit, like, seeerious. Oh Gawd. Lighten up, G.I. Joe. Do like the Nickster. I ran across the wreck of a Soviet Hind and acted just like the Russians. I took a swig from the brake fluid. Good stuff. Gives you perspective. I say, Poppy. When I become the next Rudyard K, should I use Nick or Nicholas? What do you think? If I do this as a novel, would I qualify for a Booker Prize? Am I in time for this year's nominations? So much to think about. So little time. Oh, if only I could crawl inside one of those gorgeous sets of combat fatigues. Oh, stoppit Poppy! You and your dirty mind! I was only thinking of fashion!

What is with these DULLARDS? They act as if they could get shot or something. Come on, soldier boys. Lighten up! This is supposed to be fun!

I wonder if they have real bullets inside those weapons? I mean, what if they pulled the trigger? Would an actual round come out? Oh Gawd. I wonder. Could someone really get hurt? Maybe I shouldn't even be talking to these soldiers. I mean, what if.....? Ewwwwwww.

GAWD! POPPY! WE GOT BLOWN UP! I am scrawling this with a sharpened stick dipped in my own blood. I know it looks like regular ink, but I have altered the chemical contents of my own blood so that it acts like ink. But believe me. I am IN DANGER. I am dangling upside down by one shoelace and am suspended over a deep gorge. Directly below me is a horde of angry militia with some sort of shoulder-mounted weapons aimed directly at my soft spots. They have every right to be angry, of course. I mean, I'd be angry, too, if an American convoy fell from the sky and landed atop my secret hideaway. I should hold up a sign. "Brit! Not a Yank! Journaliste! I'm only here to document these bullies and their bully attitudes!" You speak-a the Pashto? Or, um, what language is that. anyway....? I should have spent more time on the Rosetta Stone... Oh Poppy-my-angel, I tried to make the sign of the International Red Cross, but the cross shape seemed to inflame them. Oh, where are the Americans? Why aren't they dashing to my rescue? Is this how it ends? Is this....

Okay, so I didn't get hurt. The ink really was ink. I just thought it was blood. I must have suffered a TBI or something. I made it safely out of the gorge. Not sure how. But those Americans sure are tending to their wounded. It's like, they actually care about these people. What's the deal with that? Anywho.... I am SO EFFING GLAD that I didn't bother to get to know any of them. I mean, if I had even mildly befriended a wounded or killed man, I could wind up scarred for life. How effed-up is that? By the way... I've had the opportunity to really look at these men's hairdos. Um.... you don't want to know. I mean, who does their hair, anyway? Geronimo?

Poppy, this is so effed. Too much gunfire. Too many upside down vehicles. I am effing outta here. Just heard a medevac chopper. I don't care what I have to do or who gets left behind. I am ON that bird. And oh yeah, they better watch their covering fire. If I get hit on the arm with ONE hot shell casing... yeah. You know how I am about my skin.

Back at the FOB. The stupid skirt is all over me, checking to see if I'm alright and do I want to go to the dead guy's ceremony. Uh... no. Effing no. They should, like, ask someone who cares. As for me.... I've got a story to tell! Oh Poppy! This should be the break I'm looking for! Eff Monty Python! Eff the Beeb! I am the NEW RUDY K! Woot! Woot!