Nukes of Hazard
boil 'em warheads down
Seventy years. Three generations, grandfather to grandson, nuclear war is riper than a street-wino's armpits. Countless wars since the Cuban Missile Crisis have proven nothing except death, destruction, and massive profits from the blond of innocents, hot hands hovering over red buttons risking world-annihilation to prove a grimly-reaped assertion. Cluster bombs, chemical weapons, drone warfare haven't been enough, individual ideologies poking their toes on the double-yellow line of totality, shunning behavior of functional adults, posturing like infantile adolescents star-struck by ham shanks in a butcher-shop window.
“We'll fire a few, they'll toss several, keep it contained,” like an alcoholic's, “I'll have one drink,” profiteers with egos the size of Arizona. No other species agrees. Neither do the trees. In this instance, trees are smarter than the war-mongers.
Movies make war glorious, Slim Pickens riding Corolla's nuke at Dr. Strangelove's finale, insisting on nuclearizing war, the Universe's more intelligent entities refusing us the knowledge to travel far into space, carbon-based black holes, our brains sucked through our charred a-holes.
Truman nuked Nagasaki-Hiroshima while tittering the moisture on a margarita glass in his Key West beach house, Japan receiving most-favored trading-nation status for its troubes.
Everything except marijuana, war-craft, and entertainment choices have declined, one blue-green orb to live on. Any human has the intelligence to know what Nukes of Hazard will mean. By then it wil be too late.
“Use 'em or lose 'em?” Works for buried treasure, coupons, dancing skills, fruit and other tangible goods, coffee before it cools. Individuals smart enough to connive world dominance shouldn't be idiots when it comes to negotiating peace, especially in matters that might consume the planet to the detriment of its core.
Kids play war, no one dies most of the time. Adults...eeeeeeh. War and protesting war lead to injury, death. In his song Political Science Randy Newman sings “Let's drop the big one now,” an nu-reliable narrator being satirically sarcastic. Hardly anyone can take a joke anymore, everybody passing 'Go' directly to rage. What we need is a wizard, a Pied Piper to implement sensible intervention. God doesn't seem interested.
By the time it happens skins will have sizzled, the ground rumbled, fallen away. Who wins?” Radiation. No preparation for that, Armageddon unable to happen until it's enabled, everything we've said couldn't happen having happened, the ashes of salvation indentured to the servitude of insanity, the rats and cockroaches winning again.
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