A Not Brief Refresher on the Cuck Petraeus
The psychological impulse toward cuckening manifests itself not unlike a lake of fire set ablaze on the peripheral shores of the mind.
— Dr. Roland Bowieval
Author of The Art of The Cuckening
She was a woman. And he was The General. Is there anything more American than that?
They met inside the conspicuously concealed halls of Harvard. A place shrouded in the patriotic aura of the inane. Quickly their talking led to touching and drinking fine wine, while a formerly sun kissed sky faded to the lonely nothingness of the dark Cambridge night.
Morning in the trade of armed politics is the time for fitness. And they both loved to exercise the way fanatics do. Relentlessly.
Despite annoying appearances by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Central Intelligence Agency this story suffers no shortage of absolute stars. General David H. Petraeus alone lays claim to four. Hailed by dusty mouthed lunatics as spectacular, he is distinguished as the singular military genius behind the tremendous success of both the-never-ending campaigns of democratic violence in Afghanistan and Iraq. The General is the truest modern synthesis of America incarnate. A gaunt faced marvel whose body is wrapped in the tannest skin. Skin like copper blended badly with drawn butter and stretched taut against the beating desert sun.
Our greatest living General. No common pot pisser.
The General’s acolytes helped contour the intensity of his living myth. Outside the tight knit group of digital-alphas, people spoke words like worship and unsettling adoration when describing the intimacy between The General and his loving boys. Cult-like, one source said, but not in the normal disconcerting usage.
Known specifically for never seeing any live action, The General’s boys were a high-octane computerized bunch. Some of them affectionately referred to The General as King David. A perfectly normal title among men of certain rank. For his boys, The General was a benevolent king.
There’s nothing like a woman to foil an exceptional nation’s democratic duty abroad. So the deep state saying goes. Make your acquaintance with Mrs. Paula Broadwell.
Upon first meeting Mrs. Broadwell you might neglect to know that she was both the homecoming queen and valedictorian at her high school in Bismarck, North Dakota. Don’t fret. Though four years past forty, Paula will not allow these accolades to slip through the discursive cracks of time. She is an incredibly proud woman: and after her enormous success in high school Paula attended West Point where she took degrees in Engineering and Political Geography.
By the time she first glimpsed sight of the lecturing General at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government in 2006 Paula was twenty years his junior. An age difference they maintain to this very day.
When the lecture came to end Broadwell approached The General, not bashfully. She said, I would love to study you. He took her hand and offered his assistance. The General could be very helpful.
They engaged in a mutual case study, examining The General’s style of leadership. The study mimicking his style, was hands on and very thorough. That they were actively engaged in separate marriages is impossible to dispute. He to a woman named Holly. She to a Dr. Scott. There were some children.
Before we get all moral and dumb let’s not forget just how hot and lonely it is over there in Iraq, in Afghanistan. Where things between the two grew incredibly pedagogic. Teacher and student, what fun! She affectionately called him Peaches. He called her his Darling Safira Breedwell. The funny joking General.
Some people say the fiery passion of their case study helped our country win the war. Both the wars. People are always saying things.
With victories on both fronts clear in hand, and the wars forever resolved, The General returned home with his darling Safira. Followed closely by his triumphant clan of computer loving boys. Wars won, loves had, things good.
This intervenes Dr. Roland Bowieval — while wetly tonguing a large smokeless cigar, was not an inopportune time — the conditions were theoretically set, for what Bowieval terms the cuckening. The psychospiritual awakening that sometimes occurs within the unconscious mind of a powerful man, like a perverted fascism waged mercilessly against oneself. The mysterious force of the cuckold has known countless forms. Painted in the most pitiful light by Chacuer; impregnated with the seed of pathos by Shakespeare. These two writing men wrestled bravely with the irreconcilable attributes of the cuck. It is thanks to their revelations that we now recognize the prominent role played by the cuck archetype in all of human history.
It was 2011 when The General began to feel its first caresses. Unidentifiable sensations are always inklings of the cuck to come. A kind of torment that tears at the tapestry of being like a dreadful conspiracy of horrified nature. Which it is.
The specter of the feral cuck does not seek to transform reality without a keen sense of the fragile nature of human time. Take for example, the suddenly retired wars winning General, who upon restoring peace to the good world was nominated by our native born POTUS to serve as Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was a time of resolute and happy clamor. Most everyone clapped and stood up and shouted things like, Yes! This General is our man! Oh how fine an Agency the CIA will become in the relentlessly capable hands of our most prized wars winning General!
The most indisputable truth is that all contemporary tragedies are guilty of neglecting Shakespeare. If only the lot of foolish men had recalled what the Second Servingman spoke to the First in the fourth act of Coriolanus:
And as wars in some sort,
may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but
peace is a great maker of cuckolds.
The blind senate rendered a unanimous vote, 94–0. The peacemaking General received a flawless score at becoming boss of the spies.
Mrs. Broadwell beamed with actual pride. She said to The General between nibbles of sugar free macaroons, the most foreshadowing substance of weak disposition: Don’t you think Peaches, on account of you being such a great and fit and admirable man that I oughta write two separate and very different books on the importance of your life and style?
Oh Safira replied the newly installed Director, as visions of dollar signs bounced plump inside his skinny thick head.
The Director General decided the next morning during their daunting run, that in fact, Mrs. Broadwell’s expertise in the fields of Engineering and Political Geography, combined with her intimate understanding of his relentless self, made her the perfect candidate to author two very different and separate books about his own fantastic disposition.
Oh Peaches! Let’s call one book:
“All In: The Education of General Petraeus”
And it will be all about that!
And the other we’ll call it “Relentless” and boy of God, will it be about that!
Oh my Safira.
It was then that four sinewy above average strength arms locked as if one.
A lot of what happened next is hard to know precisely, due to the dubious concept called classification. One component of being Director of the CIA is that classification comes into play an awful lot. It’s a thankless job truly, that entails all sorts of highly classified data, secret code words, and this incessant pain in the ass sworn duty to protect the covert identities of assets all over the great big planet, who no shortage of people would prefer to identify and kill very badly. Then too, there’s your basic everyday top secret war strategy, which everyone agrees is better off remaining basically top secret. The job essentially comprises every conceivable iteration of secrecy. It’s a lot like maintaining a happy marriage, in that way.
The other thing that it’s important to do while being the Director of the CIA is publish two books about your character, for the dual purposes of myth and moneymaking. And that’s what Paula and The General were ostensibly doing when the cuck first struck.
It shone first through the form of petty jealousy as it is often want to do. Gripping and pulling. The weight of the cuckgeist already bearing down on The General, little did he know.
But the books were going swell. Mrs. Broadwell wrote giftedly about her gifted lover. And don’t take my word for it, please in fact go and seek out copies that you mustn’t purchase. Its a bottom line thing.
Dr. Roland Bowieval assures that while rare, the pathology of The General’s cuckening is not all together unique, and certainly not ahistorical:
Take a man at the top of top secret power, a self-perceived conqueror of sorts, a maker of fine peace, and it is not at all illogical for certain formulations of energy to emerge — taboo and unconscious excitations — and for these cucky passions to reveal themselves in the form of unwitting fits, reeking absurdities of incomprehensible action, into the waking life. This is not uncommon. What more says the Doctor, there must be the other. The cuckening as a phenomenon is dependent upon at least three living culprits, though that number can grow significantly larger.
The culprits in The General’s cuckening consisted of two married women, and eight highly classified black notebooks. Notebooks filled with secrets.
The darkest manifestation of the cuckening can occasionally surpass the sacred act of coitus, or I should say, the wonderful act of sex is not always the final logic of the cuckening. Dr. Roland Bowieval smirks, as if pleased by the truth of his own remark.
The General’s cuckening was filled with plenty of dirty extramarital sex, some of it even oral, or involving hands, but the final logic of The General’s cuckening had a wholly asexual object in mind. The specter sought our nation’s precious secrets, the specter desired a spectacle of a political humiliation.
After bedding Broadwell for nearly six years, The General kept doing that, while adding to his foray of extramarital fuckery an additional married woman, the self-proclaimed Socialite Jill Kelley.
It’s like what they say about having your cake and fucking two different married women neither of whom are your wife Holly, too. Strange are the adages of the deep state.
We are all constantly guilty of projecting too much dignity upon people in power. For example:
Somehow the head of the CIA, the world’s most powerful clandestine entity, flummoxed the situation with the married women and eight classified notebooks, in a manner reminiscent of a toddler eating a cone of chocolate ice cream. Flummoxed in fact to such baffling proportions so stupidly unfathomable, and beyond the pale of black-op decency, that Dr. Roland Bowieval, upon studying the details of the case has confirmed unequivocally the presence of the bamboozling specter of the cuckold.
A veritable circus of cuckery, raps the Doctor, Yes quite absolutely.
The General’s unconscious desire to be cucked out of power, it is the only logical conclusion given the lunacy that transpired. The carelessness and devout lack of professionalism, certainly a man like The General could not stoop to these idiocies without being infected, poisoned by the nibble of the Cuckgeist.
What was all happening? There was the job of running the CIA. There were the two incredibly collaborative books that required publishing. And let’s not forget about the two married women, the concomitant romancing. But where you ask in this cuckold’s tale do the eight highly sensitive classified black notebooks fit?
The hard cuckold’s truth is: they don’t.
Mrs. Broadwell works steadfast, dedicated wholeheartedly to her puff piece books. Then one day out of the blue fog of sex she asks The General, might she read the classified notebooks, the ones resting just beside her location, in the conspicuously ajar drawer belonging to the General’s bedside table.
Of course you cannot Safira. Those black notebooks are highly classified and have literally nothing to do with the incredulously fake books you are writing about my character so that we can get more money, The General says.
Ever obedient to Peaches, Mrs. Broadwell obeys The General and forgets about the black books, full of real pertinent violence causing information entirely foreign to the baseless pop culture write-ups that were her charge.
Then somewhat mysteriously, not three weeks later The General emails Mrs. Broadwell:
Meet me for breakfast Safira. I’ve those eight classified notebooks Darling. And a hunger. Hell a thirst!
After sharing a hearty breakfast of fry bread, a rasher of bacon, and a dozen over easy eggs, The General freely and really uncharacteristically hands Mrs. Broadwell the eight classified black notebooks. The ones that were none of her business, and that she was not legally allowed to possess, the ones that were in fact the sole interest of the The United States of America.
Pertaining to The General’s truly bewildering act, Dr. Roland Bowieval does not advance a sequence of words, but rather snickers and snickers.
What happened immediately next was, nothing. Time passed. Mrs. Broadwell and The General worked out, then fornicated. Almost always in that order. And from time to time The General would go fondle Jill Kelley too.
A deep and proper cuckening is not exactly a speedy phenomenon. It’s not like writing one of Mrs. Broadwell’s books. A cuckening is a thing that must ripen, then fester into a state of rot. And around Easter it did.
Maybe its because Jill Kelley and Paula Broadwell were both married to men named Dr. Scott that brought the whole thing down so dumb on everybody.
We find strange affinities like this on the periphery of many historically relevant cuckenings, divulges a giddy Dr. Roland Bowieval without citing any evidence for his claim.
Anyway. Everybody had gathered over at Dr. Scott and Jill Kelley’s fantastic place to celebrate the Jesus’s awfully impressive defiance of painful slow death. The feast was splendid and the wine flowing. The house was filled with the laughter of children and friends. There was spiral glazed ham fixed with pineapple, along with heaps of those neat doughy soft Hawaiian buns. The ones that go perfect with Easter ham. Also, there was something more tantalizing than the consumption of spiraled ham and buns that Easter Sunday at the Kelley residence. You see, it turns out, according to testimony, and the reading of a truly superfluous quantity of anonymous mean-spirited emails, which were quickly revealed to be the opposite of anonymous — though still regarded as mean: that the ham was not the only pork.
The emails, which were sent to Dr. Scott and Jill Kelley’s separate email accounts, emanated from these mysterious addresses:
The emails said similar and different things, vague and specific. The messages sent to Dr. Scott went like this:
Hey you better watch out. You know, and make sure that wife of yours doesn’t go and jerk off any Generals indiscreetly beneath your own Easter table.
Basically Dr. Scott’s inbox was flooded with an incredible number of messages that did not dare break from this theme.
While the emails Jill received were more in the manner of direct commands:
Hey quit jerking off people and Generals beneath tables, Easter or otherwise. Or else.
One thing was immediately clear, whoever had written these anonymous emails had a talent for written language.
It was the ‘or else’ part that grabbed the Kelly’s by their attention. As it were, the Kelly family had always regarded Jill’s under-the-table habits with pointed pride. A thing they were happy to discuss warmly and share with inquisitive newcomers. All too happy. Until the anonymous threats rained down.
When Floridian Socialites are harassed online they turn to the FBI. This is one of the innumerable aspects that make them different from you or me. However, it’s a big one.
And wouldn’t you know? The honest men at the FBI had been extremely supportive of the Kelley’s hospitality over the years, finding it never other than immensely pleasurable. So what the heck? said the FBI, and promptly opened an investigation in order to defend the happiness of the friendly Kelley family.
Well it didn’t take very long for the FBI to track down the IP attached to those clever email addresses. One thing not to gloss over about the FBI is they have a natural talent when it comes to digging through electronic metadata.
By God’s good gravy those malicious emails were cranked out from the residence of Mrs. Paula Broadwell, spoke the FBI to itself, the way it does.
Truly this was a very simple case to crack, said one FBI to the other, as they shared a single-serving sized bag of crispy Cheetos. Sure was, said the other, Oh that’s weird. Both these married broads have swaths upon swaths of emails from this same character.
— Troves, you mean?
— — One David H. Petraeus.
— sounds like a pedophile’s alias.
— — wait isn’t that the name of a four star general.
— no dummy, you’re thinking of the director of the central intelligence agency, who has a name that sounds a lot like that.
— — stupid me.
— stupid you.
— — boy these Cheetos are yummy.
— lets get more.
Out of the Cheetos room,
And into the dithering light of the present.
Three years after tendering his resignation to President Obama, on account of being an adulterer, General Petraeus plead guilty to a generously softened misdemeanor charge for the mishandling classified materials. He avoided the legally required felony charge, and concomitant prison time that is the basis of said charge, because by design, the politogoons rule the roost, and America has persistently been made great for that special class of carnivorous birds.
A few months back when I originally wrote this story Petraeus was among the gaggle of flouts floated for Secretary of State, but his nomination was determined untenable because of his past. The position went to Sweet Rex Tillerson, our venerable Exxon man, who apparently does not fuck.
But with the demise of Flynn, Petraeus becomes relevant once again. This guy who cucked himself out of power, by his own derelict volition and extramarital tendencies. Now appears ripe to relinquish his cushy position as chairman of KKR Global Institute, a part of the private, explicitly honest equity firm Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, in order to fill the void of National Security Advisor, assuming he is granted the ‘go-ahead’ by his probation officer, which all indications are, that guy’s a pushover.
Does this story reflect poorly upon the dignity of the American psyche? I am reminded of a question Shakespeare posed in The Merry Wives of Windsor: Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now?
It is always we the people.