At this writing the portly newish Boy-King of N. Korea is threatening his immediate and equidistant neighbors with nuclear annihilation, apropos of nothing in particular but his desire to keep the Hermit Kingdom and the Magic Kingdom on separate planes. It’s possible that Exalted Leader has been distracted momentarily with a plush toy so his keepers can take the reins and have a little fun. Our own strange, stammering, perpetually fatigued new Secretary of Defense, Chuck Hagel, has meanwhile held several press conferences wherein he has drawled with limited success various forms of the word ‘bellicose’, which is a term Pentagon arrivistes are trained to overuse on these occasions. Hagel seems barely competent, but only when he speaks. Big ships are being moved around. Futures traders and people with epaulets are on high alert. Dear Diary; if the earth is to be scorched with N. Korean mischief-radiation, let these words be a testament to man’s ongoing and occasionally endearing clown-attempts at appearing important. Here me now. Contrary to their expressionless delight in the prospect, the bugs will not one day have All this Glory back, and the Age of Enlightenment will not be reduced to a tattered theme park brochure they munch and excrete some ages hence. The Dominion contract we were so generously offered in Genesis still stands. Back off, Kim Sung Jim, or whatever. You will be pelted with the softening, bruised Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. It’ll be like when that Bette Davis apple tree in The Wizard of Oz threw apples at Dorothy, scaring the shit out of both me and Dorothy. Except it’ll be the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
Missiles of April
Published by jef
The blood thrumming around the still-point of this light headache can be traced back to the first rain. That is, our blood just sort of drifts, like smoke, through time; with stops in the Cambrian, the Renaissance and so on. It’s an impenetrable, infinitely-layered heap of unknowing. Okay? (sighs) Yeah The World (as it’s called) is a hopeless lucid dream, but not the kind where you can leap off a building, flap your arms and take joyous id-flight. It’s the kind where you show up for just long enough to see yourself in a mirror and Know that You are Here. That apparently necessary bit of business having been addressed, thermodynamics or some other such fancy idiot enters with a tea towel over its forearm, takes you politely by the gnarled elbow and ushers you back into the soil, where the mostly irritating Circle of Life awaits to make of you a tree, then a shoebox, then wet mush in a landfill again. Bring me my slippers! Oh…never mind. But I’m not here to philosophishizzle. We’re doomed animals at the momentary top of a food chain of no eternal consequence. It feels like. That’s not meant to be a downer. Bacharach sprang from the Ur-ooze, so that recommends the place. Let us celebrate our moment in the hum de dum dum de dum de de de dum dum. View all posts by jef
