It' was strange watching the war in Iraq. It seems so surreal, all this talk about smart bombs--high-tech death from above. It is as if these abilities somehow represent a triumph in our human endeavors. It makes me so sad.

There's a goon that gets on telly from Central Command, called Vincent Brooks. He's a complete robot from hell.

Vincent likes to boast saying, "Look how clever we are. We've managed to blow-up a factory. We can send a missile from goodness-knows how many miles away and plonk it straight through the roof."

Yet there are thousands upon thousands of people, goodness knows how many thousands of people, injured and killed by Vincent Brooks and his smart bombs.

These are simple, tribal people—Afghanis, Iraqis. They know nothing about weapons of mass destruction. They have nothing to do with America and its power trips, or grabbing oil for the Jews, or the last pathetic masturbations of the British Empire.

You can see why the world has come to hate America. And the British aren't any better. They're out there killing people to sustain Tony Blair's self-importance.

It's an abomination. Every fiber of one's soul screams to be disowned from it. It's such an affront to our dignity—this war, this disgusting violent mess.

And all of this rubbish about weapons of mass destruction..

It's been proven, over and over, to be a complete nonsense—a fabricated lie. Everybody knows what this war is about—capturing Iraqi oil and securing the position of the Jews in the Middle East.

And when you look at how many thousands of people that have to die in order for this to happen, there's no place in one's heart where one can accommodate this kind of cruelty.

It's evil. It's rotten in my view. There's a putrid nature to the lie. It stinks. It smells from the very depths of hell.

I watched in germany as a man brought his small boy into the hospital. The man was terrified. The boy was comatose. A doctor laid the child on the table and examined him and then he closed the little boy's eyes. The child was dead. Millions watched the boy die on Al-Jezeera Television.

Who will call for the wrath of God on behalf of that child? Who will deliver the black flowers of our contempt to the godless air-man that killed that boy?

Imagine that poor little boy, seven or eight years old. Imagine in his simplicity how he trusted in life and his friends, and how he trusted in his parents. How could they ever explain to him what happened? What could they say to his little dead body?

"I am so sorry, so sorry. An American, on orders from the Jews, killed you from above. They want our oil you see. They want our oil. We are so sorry we failed you. We could do nothing to defend you and your innocence."

Who will call for the wrath of God upon the stench of these people: Vincent Brooks, the boasting goon from Central Command; Rumsfeld, giggling on television, insulting the Moslems, proud of his killer army, proud of the violence of his power trip; and Little Boy Blair, a pox on his soul perhaps?

Who will exposes the lies of the Jews who are behind this war, who even now are ordering America to attack other Moslem countries close by?

Who will call for the wrath of God on these people? Who will call for that little boy's soul saying, "Be brave, sweet child. Be patient. We will come back for you one day when the Jews and the Americans are no more. We will come back."

I, for one, will certainly call for the wrath of God.

And so will you if you still have a soul.