Fashcism! - Saddam Hussein By Eric Gruber

Welcome back to Fashcism - a safe place for you to fawn over wardrobe choices made by the world’s most notorious monsters  (you meaning me, of course)

You’ve heard of the fashion police, this is the fashion gestapo. The Nile and the Mississippi to Joan’s Rivers.

Today we bring you, from somewhere between Tikrit and a bottomless pit of wretched smells, piercing screams, fire and brimstone -  the one, the only, Mr. Spider Hole himself, former president of Iraq, Dancing with the Stars season 3 finalist, Doctor, Lawyer, 5-star generalissimo, President Barack Saddam Hussein Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti  (Editor’s note: Not a doctor).

We’re going to try to understand how the Butcher of Baghdad always managed to look so calm cool and collected under both the hot desert sun, and the dumb Bush son. Also, maybe uncover his secret to managing a successful deli counter at the most popular Shop n Save in the Mansour district. Butchers gotta butch.

Whether he was out gassing Iranians and terrifying Kuwaitis, or at home, leading squadrons of poorly trained soldiers to their death against a vastly superior American military (He did that twice, the rascal!), Saddam never seemed to have a hair out of place or a place out of hair.  

You just knew that when Saddam threw a shoe at you, it was gonna be a nice one.



Come on look at this guy - is this 30-something go-getter coming from or going to a boozy business meeting?  Was this one-man Dog and Camel Show out, yet again, doing the salesman shuffle for some cheap whiny out-of-town trolls from a uranium cake company in bumblefuck Bahrain?   

And if so, did he close the deal?  Did he secure those ever elusive WMDs and finally seal his fate as the ultimate despot of the fertile crescent?  Or, did he have one of his classic temper-tantrums about love and duty, freedom and futility, Rogers and Hammerstein? Did he scare everybody off, or did he strike a nerve?  Is he going home another loser in a city full of losers, or is to be celebrated as a champion, a modern day hero, the definitive man-god.   

Truth is, you can’t tell! Motherfucker is ice cold!  

What does he know? What does he dream? What is he hiding?  

He could be blacked out on a dozen martinis and two dozen platters of oysters rockefeller, or he could be stone cold sober.  You just don’t know! His poker face game is that strong!  

The furrowed brow, the perfect eyebrows, (I could write a whole essay on his right eyebrow - the shape, the size, the angle, the squinted eye beneath, the furrowed brow above - so much happening in this man’s ocular region),  the windsor knot, the jet black trench.  This is a man who reveals only what he wants to reveal.  The rest is theory, conjecture, guesswork...or possibly an autopsy.  Either way, my friend, whether you’re commuting to Madison Avenue or controlling the Mohammed Al-Qassim highway, this is the look you need in order to win over the hearts and minds of an insecure nation.


Little known fact, even while he was consolidating power, systematically executing his detractors, and torturing his own people, the Iraqi leader would always carve out some personal time to kick back, relax and sell some used cars.

And boy could he sell a used car.  Yugos, Pintos, Gremlins.  Sold, Sold, Sold.  In fact, he was the top salesman in his region 324 months in a row.  Some say it was because he never talked down to the customer, and truly believed in what he was selling.  Others think that it had something to do with his iron grip over the country's military and police forces.   

Either way, look how happy the General is in his natural habitat.  French beret, Timex Easy Reader watch, Army/Navy Store jump suit, Holy-Sheik-of-the-Month Calendar, off-brand kleenex, Lumbar support cushion. Just a regular Jafar, doing regular Jafar things.  (I assume Jafar is like Joe in Iraq) I’ll bet he even tells Dad jokes to his subordinates.  “I’m begging for your mercy.” “Hello, begging for your mercy. I’m Saddam.”  RASCAL!


Here Mr. Hussein is seen wearing a lightweight, 4-pocket, water resistant, black jacket possibly from Burberry’s well received Fall 2012 line.  Or it actually may be an LL Bean Slim Fit nylon bomber, or even a London Fog microfiber golf jacket.

No matter the brand, the cut or the material, it seems to offer a nice protective layer from both the searing desert sun, the cool Arabian nights, and any potential Spider Hole spider swarms. Understated and practical to the very end this one.

Underneath the jacket, he is, of course, wearing a James Dean / Khalid Sheikh Mohammed inspired white tee. Classic.

I believe he’s also wearing some some kind of iron bracelets but they are just out of frame. Probably Alexander McQueen, the cad.  

Oh yeah, one last thing.  Almost forgot.  Saddam is seen here sporting the gaze of a man who at 3:30 in the morning, on the 7th day of a coke-ecstasy-sizzurp spiral, called up the nastiest sounding prostitute he could find, and after waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, opened the door and was greeted by his only daughter, his wife, his mother, her three best friends, and the entire starting line of the Philadelphia Eagles.  A shellshocked husk of a man.

This is what you call the “waking up without having gone to sleep” look.  When the bender that you had been calling a life finally comes to a swift and brutal conclusion.  When, after 60 years of living as the centerpiece of a massive conspiracy, the lynchpin of a collective lie, the lead in a theater performance with the most staggering of consequences, you suddenly find yourself completely aware of just how grotesque and distorted your very being has become.  You become a stranger to yourself.  The world makes no sense and all the sense.  You’re alone.  

You pause momentarily for a photo

You know what you look like.  

You know what you did.

You’re a monster.     

You don’t fucking care.

You’ll go down in history.

You’re unceremoniously hung a few days later

Punk fucking rock.