"Why Are We In Vietnam?" is Not an Essay About Vietnam

The first paragraphs of the first two chapters:

Intro Beep 1
Hip hole and hupmobile, Braunschweiger, you didn't invite Geiger and his counter for nothing, here is D.J. the friendLee voice at your service-hold tight young America-introductions come. Let go of my dong, Shakespeare, I have gone too long, it is too late to tell my tale, may Batman tell it, let him declare there's blood on my dick and D.J. Dicktor Doc Dick and Jek has got the bloods, and has done animal murder, out out damn fart, and murder of the soldierest sort, cold was my hand and hot...

Intro Beep 2
The fact of the matter is that you're up tight with a mystery, me, and this mystery can't be solved because I'm the center of it and I don't comprehend, not necessarily, I could be traducing myself. Por ejemplo, the simple would state that Into Beep One is a stream-of-conch written by me, and consequently commented upon by my mother up tight with her libido-drained psychoanalyst. But now you know Chap One with Fink Razzbah (rhymes with Casbah) is made up by me, D.J., alias Ranald such-and-such such-and-such Jethroe, Disk Jockey to the world (my mental connections are faster than anything afoot) and lightning which is a special case of light-how about that, Zack!

Norman Mailer died this weekend. I admired "The Naked and The Dead," but I will have read and learned about him more dead than alive. Somehow, like Vonnegut, that matters to me. I'm certain I don't like it, but what're you gonna do.

(photo: PBS American Masters)