The exception that proves the rule, perhaps?
Making this movie cost me everything. I am a virtual outcast in Hollywood. After photos from a haircut party at Camp Iskandariyah made it back to the States, there were pictures of me with a new Mohawk and die shaved in my chest, and rumors swelled that I had finally snapped and turned into Travis Bickle, De Niro’s character in Taxi Driver. No one in L.A. understood what men in a combat zone would do to break the monotony, to create a chance to laugh. My family will barely speak to me anymore because they lean so far to the left. My soon-to-be fourth ex-wife and I are in a legal battle over visitation rights for our daughter. I know I can’t take care of my kid; I’m going back to Ramadi as soon as possible. It’s terrifying to go there. There’s a 10 percent chance you’re going to die, there’s a 30 percent chance you’re going to be wounded, and there’s a 100 percent chance that hot metal will go flying near your body.
The average marine was proud to be there doing his job. I have tape after tape of marines telling their liberal “rescuers” to go fuck themselves. They knew what they were doing there, that they were keeping Iraq from turning into a terrorist state that would have made Afghanistan under the Taliban look like Disneyland.
I’m not going into all the details. In fact, I’m barely scratching the surface. I made a documentary series for a reason. You can get some flavor at patdollard.com. Suffice it to say that many of my friends died, that I was wounded badly, blown up, and thrown out of vehicles. It’s all on tape. Getting at the root of terror is clear: topple these regimes and then bring democracy, capitalism, and education to the Islamic world. Let them have the hot wife, the Bimmer, and kids to live for. America has to lift them up, not because we are a country of great guys, but to keep them from growing into lost killer boys with the U.S. in their sights.