The Captain of the garbage scow SS Iraq War has steered his ship over so many rocks he has left big chunks of the keel far behind. The rats are leaving.
The first to go were the ugly neo-con rats. They gnawed holes in the navigation equipment, damn well ate the bloody compass. They are paddling off to find another ship, maybe headed to Iran, that they can sink.
Now it the time for the fat rats to leave. They ate cheese while the neo-con rats were screwing things up, never said a word. They were too busy scarfing down seabisquits to be bothered pointing out that the boat was scrapping over a reef. Now, even they have begun waddling over to the rail to jump.
But, not to worry. The loyal seamen are shoveling coal into the boiler as fast as they can. Well, those who haven't already drowned. And the Captain is topside, feet dry, whistling a jaunty chantey. He has faith. He has a plan. He is going to strap what's left of his crew to the hull amidship and use their bodies to keep his ship afloat. Then he can steer to those bright, shiny rocks on the horizon.