O’Rourke writes about war in a manner that would make Hemingway hang up his guns and run home screaming to Mommy.
He gets sarcastic about it.
The book is a bit dated, having been published back in the late ’80s. However, many of the death-filled shit holes he describes so very well, are still… well, death-filled shit holes. In some cases, we have a new cast of death dealers. In other cases, they’ve been overshadowed by newer, gorier death-filled shit holes.
Either way, this is the kind of guy whose bags you’d like to carry in the event of, say, an unscheduled stopover in North Korea, in today’s context.
