"Missspeak" or Porkies ?

Discussion in 'Current Affairs' started by lsadirty, Mar 27, 2008.

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  1. Apparently Hilary Clinton has been caught out during her campaign speechifying. She has claimed that she landed at Tuzla in Bosnia under sniper fire, much to the astonishment of the comedian Sinbad, and the singer Cheryl Crowe, who were on the same flight. Not to mention the film crew who recorded the event for posterity. This is at least the 3rd time she has talked up the incident, including when she "landed in one of those corkscrew landings and ran out because they said there might be sniper fire."
    Throw in her claims about how she advanced the cause of peace in NI almost singlehandedly by talking to a group of Republican women (obviously the Nationalists didn't have a TV crew available at short notice), and you have a woman who would do or say ANYTHING to get power.
    One of her excuses was at the time of her speech, she was "sleep deprived", after staying at her home the night before.
    Mmmm, could account for all those imaginary nasty dreams of mine up North in the 70s, where some nasty people were knocking rather loudly on my door with all manner of noisy things, and they weren't Beach Boys.
    She has admitted she did "Misspeak" about the matter. I say LYING BITCH - any comments ??
  2. Seadog

    Seadog War Hero Moderator

    Being discussed on ARRSE. Several call signs at the same lat & long at the same time have no recollection of incoming. General Jackson's book doesn't mention it (he was at the top of the metaphorical gangway to greet VIPs).

    Porkies, big timer. Her idea of 'hostile' is as far removed from the truth as her hubby's idea of sex.
  3. Now, now gents... she's a WOMAN! What you and I would regard as harmless probably scares the wits out of Mrs C. Look how het up some women seem to get about whether a loo seat has been raised or lowered, so when some cameraman farts she clearly thought she was under sustained sniper fire! :lol:
  4. Missus Clinton has based her entire run for Prezdint on her fabled "experience". She made the mistake of lying about Tuzla and then lied about the lies. She then doubled-up by terming her repeated telling of the Tale of the Dragunov Dodgers as "miss-speaking because of sleep deprivation". Not good. The C-17 pilot has now come forward and said that there were no evasive manouevers, no sequestering of the Royal mother and daughter in the armoured cockpit and no-one sat on flak-jackets.

    Sinbad is another story and his interview was hilarious:

    Clinton has, throughout the campaign, talked about a harrowing trip to war-torn Bosnia as an example of the foreign policy experience that has prepared her to face future national security crises, should she become commander-in-chief.

    “I remember landing under sniper fire. There was supposed to be some kind of greeting ceremony at the airport, but instead we just ran with our heads down to get into the vehicles to get to our base,†Clinton said.

    But last week, the comedian Sinbad, who accompanied Clinton on the trip along with singer Sheryl Crow and then-first daughter Chelsea, said he remembers the landing differently. “I think the only ‘red-phone’ moment was: ‘Do we eat here or at the next place?’†he said in an interview with the Washington Post.

    Clinton has said in her stump speech, “We used to say in the White House that if a place is too dangerous, too small, or too poor, send the First Lady.â€

    Sinbad scoffed at this statement as well: “What kind of president would say ‘Hey man, I can’t go ’cause I might get shot so I’m going to send my wife. Oh, and take a guitar player and a comedian with you.â€


    I'm not really surprised that when she stopped for tea in Belfast and stole her host's silver tea-pot she managed to transmogrify the visit into saving the NI Peace Process



    As bullets clawed the air around us and screams echoed down the rubble-strewn tarmac, I felt almost peaceful.

    It was a simple mission, they had told me - get in, shake a few hands and mouth a few platitudes, get out. Simple. Yeah.

    Things had started going wrong while we were still in the air and only gotten worse from there. So here we were, pinned down, choking on the acrid tang of cordite and the heady scent of human blood. The mission was even simpler now: survive. Whatever the cost, survive.

    There was a grunt and a clatter of equipment as Sinbad threw himself down at my side. Sweat glistened on his bare arms, and I could see tendons contracting and relaxing as he squeezed off bursts from his M14. The motion was hypnotic, like a snake about to strike. Perhaps, when all this was over-

    No. Concentrate. Focus on the mission. Survive.

    A shout from my left drew my head around. Sheryl Crow, guitar still strapped to her back, had taken cover behind a haphazard pile of decaying corpses. Her hair, once lustrous, now lank and greasy, was held back from her eyes by a dirty red headband. Her slim nostrils flared in the dirt-smeared oval of her face, seeking air free of the funeral taint shrouding the airfield. Still, I saw a fierce exultation in her expression that I knew mirrored my own.

    Her lithe, nimble fingers stroked the top of an M67 frag grenade, strumming a chord of impending doom. With one quick, economical movement, she plucked the pin free and sent the deadly payload sailing toward the ridge concealing our enemies. My eyes traced the arc, willing it to fly true, to rain death on-

    "There!" Sinbad shouted. "The convoy!"

    I wrenched my gaze in the direction he was pointing. The boom of the grenade registered only faintly, suddenly unimportant. Thirty yards dead ahead was the real target: the armored convoy, offering safety, shelter, survival. If we could reach it.

    "Follow me!" Sinbad roared, levering himself to his feet. As I prepared to follow, a high-pitched whine arrowed across my eardrums and warm, sticky rain splashed my face.

    I forced myself to look, already knowing what I would see. The big man lay there, crumpled, the left side of his head a nightmare maze of blood, brains and tight curls of yellowish-orange hair.

    Time to mourn later. Survive.

    I juked to my left, darting and weaving, somehow making it to Sheryl's position. Her eyes were wide, shock and fear clouding their emerald depths. "Is he-"

    "Gone," I snapped. "We have to move. Now."

    For a moment I wondered if I would have to leave her behind, but then her jaw tightened and she nodded sharply. "Stay behind me," she said with a brief squeeze of my hand, then she was up and running, moving like a deer.

    I followed, matching her as best I could with the mindless insect hum of lead bees filling my ears and the cracked tarmac clutching at my heels. We ran, time stretching, flattening, the convoy impossibly distant, a cruel mirage, too far, too far . . .

    And then, somehow, we were almost there. We had made it, we were going to -

    A flat crack and the mournful twang of a guitar string. Sheryl fell, scarlet-splashed splinters from the shattered guitar seeming to hang in the air.

    I stopped. Men were flooding out of the brush and streaming around the cars. One approached me, smirking, rifle held casually across his body, smoke still rising from the barrel.

    "Every day a winding road," he said in heavily accented English, shrugging a shoulder toward Sheryl's body. He stepped closer, almost close enough to touch. "End of road for her today. And you."

    Still smirking, he began to raise the rifle. I lunged forward, freed the ka-bar concealed under my pantsuit, and buried it to the hilt in his chest. He grunted, stiffened, and then slid backwards, the knife making a greedy slurping sound as it pulled free.

    The other rebels froze, momentarily stunned. There were a lot of them - too many, surely - but it didn't matter. One day, I knew, I would be telling this story to rapt audiences as I made my inevitable march to the Presidency. Would this ragged group of smelly goatfcukers be the ones to stop me? Would they?

    I raised the blade to my lips, licked it clean, and began to laugh.

    Survive. Whatever the cost, survive


    Si Se Puede.

  5. Looks like Obama is getting dear old Hils a trifle flustered, and guilding the gingerbread as a result. I suspect she is under a lot of pressure from the money peole to get her ratings up, and as a result has embarked on a risky strategy which may well be her downfall.
  6. Bergen - There must be some sort of regression therapy happening here. You've even got me convinced I was there, possibly as a baggage handler caught in the crossfire. Just like the old song from Gigi, "Ah yes, I remember it well..."

    Anyway, it looks like "our Hil" is someone else who never lets the facts get in the way of a good dit. I heard yesterday that she once claimed in an interview that she was named after Sir Edmund, despite having been born six years before he scaled Everest.
  7. More like NBC warfare.
  8. Let me get this straight. Mrs Clinton is a politician. It's election year. She has lied. Is there any politician who doesn't lie in an election campaign?
  9. Seaweed

    Seaweed War Hero Book Reviewer

    A more mature politician would be careful only to lie where they can't be immediately contradicted. She should have learned from the way her husband's emissions came back to haunt him via Monica's dress!

    However voters will cheerfully back a liar if the words suit their prejudices.
  10. Come again?
  11. Just for info chaps and chappettes the stain on Monica Lewiskys dress, after forensic examination, was found to be a soup stain!!! Any offers out there as to what type of soup????

  12. May well have done. :w00t:
  13. I'm telling you it was a soup stain!!!! :thumright:
  14. I think probably the most relevant point about the lewinsky afair is it shows just what dear Hilary will do to stay or get into the White House

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