Avoiding conflict

(I flattened and photographed a cardboard box that held tea bags, because I noticed that there was this design printed on the inside.)

Dear diary,

I’m a chicken. By which I mean I’m a coward. So when I contemplate going to war, my first thot is: How can we weasel out of this?

And so I begin to philosophize. What is war, exactly? I guess it’s when two teams decide to fight a battle.

Ah, so here now we’re making progress. Because if we merge the two teams into one, then there won’t be anyone to fight, and we chickens can all come home to roost.

So that’s my mission: To merge Team A with Team B.

Yet, first, how can we tell apart one team from another? The answer to this question can vary...

In the olden days, it was obvious who was on the enemy’s team during a war. Your own countrymen shared a culture and a certain way of dressing, and this differed from the culture and the dress of the townsfolk you invaded. So if you see someone wearing a blue linen mantle, you know that they are one of the “good guys”: they’re on your side: do not strike them down: they are your friend: be nice to them. But if you see someone wearing a red coat, annihilate them immediately: they belong to the bad guys from the colony that your country rightfully owns: fight them relentlessly, till they yield up the deed to their property.

Or if you were one of the warriors in ancient Israel, you could very easily tell who your enemy is: Your enemy is simply any thug who remains uncircumcised.

The Enemy and all his army shall be slain by the sword, saith the Lord GOD. For I have caused my terror in the land of the living: and he shall be laid in the midst of the uncircumcised, with them that are slain with the sword, even the Enemy and all his multitude, saith the Lord GOD. And they shall lie with the armies that are fallen of the uncircumcised, which are gone down into hell with their weapons of war. (Ezekiel 32:31-32, 27)

So, if you are a citizen of ancient Israel, and you wonder whether an approaching person is your enemy or not, all you need to do is pull down their trouser pants, behold that they are uncircumcised, and kill them dead.

But I repeat, my goal as a coward is to avoid physical skirmishes; and the whole reason I began to reminisce about how rival teams were able to be told apart, at least in the good old days, is that I desire to unite all nations. If time would only stand still, we could follow a simple rule: Once you’ve discovered the way that your enemy dresses, just wear the same attire and you’ll become fast friends. Adopt their fashions and styles until World Peace erupts. Discard your mantle blue, and don a red coat. Or, if you’re a red coat, try sporting blue linen. It’s not going to kill you. What will kill you, in fact quite literally, is fighting in war.

He who is uncircumcised, let him be circumcised. And he who is circumcised, let him become uncircumcised.
(I Corinthians 7:18)

But that’s only, I repeat, if time would stand still. For the whole rule about opponents wearing different colored uniforms is now becoming a phase of the past. Nowadays, bad guys tend to dress just like the good guys — they both wear green. The reason for this is that most battles now take place in the jungle, or else on the football field, both of which tend to be decorated according to that color scheme (jungles are usually forest-green in hue, and most fields are sea-green). And the players from either team wear camouflage to blend in with their environs, so that they’re harder to shoot. For one can’t hit what one can’t see. Or rather, in order to snipe a creature that’s nearly invisible, one must pray to God that the arrow hits its mark; and God rarely answers prayers. That’s why deer hunters in Florida wear bright orange or reflective yellow clothing: for oranges are that state’s main export, along with pineapples.

And the world’s biggest military belongs to the United States. This complicates matters, because the U.S. is one vast melting pot of cultures; thus, U.S. soldiers can appear like anyone from anyplace on Earth, as people from all over the world are U.S. citizens — it’s not just one single type of individual who hails from the U.S., like how Mars is populated exclusively by Martians who all have green heads, or Venus is populated exclusively by Venetians who all have blue hands, or the seas are jumbled by the Jumblies who possess both attributes:

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
     And they went to sea in a Sieve.

[—from “The Jumblies” by Edward Lear]

But let’s take one of the many current targets of the U.S. military and imagine ourselves in the shoes of these hated enemies:

Let’s say that you’re like me, a total coward; and you live in Hyperborea. Now you get wind that the U.S. is planning to attack — you and your fellow citizens have been suffering for years under their cruelest sanctions, and now there’s rumors that they’re ready to “put boots on the ground”. What do you do? Here’s my advice:

Figure out what type of uniforms the soldiers shall be wearing. This shouldn’t be hard, because all their clothing is imported from the Far East. So get the Far East on the phone, and simply ask what is the latest trend in military garb. The Far East has no horse in this race — they’re just honest businesspeople; so they’ll say:

“Well the U.S. Army just ordered nine million of these snow-white gowns.”

Upon hearing this, you should think to yourself: Ah, that makes sense; for they’re trying to blend in with our icy environs, so that they can do a sneak attack & slaughter us in one fell swoop. Then, when you’re done thinking this private thot, address the receptionist aloud as follows:

“Thanks for the info. I will now place an order for thirteen of those same ensembles. That should be enough to cover me and all of my countrymen. And can you please add sequins to one of them?”

“No,” the receptionist shall answer; “the clothing has already been sewn & boxed & stored in a giant warehouse. One size fits all. We cannot unpackage any item and add custom touches, or reinforce its stitching; all products can only be purchased as-is. For we mass-produce everything on an assembly line. This way, quality & cost are kept dirt-low.”

“OK, that’s fine,” you then say; “I just thot it was worth asking about. As a matter of fact, it’s probably better that all the uniforms are identical to what the invading forces shall be wearing, and that not even I, the leader, shall have glittering sequins; cuz my purpose in buying these gowns is to convince our enemies that we are all in the same gang. For if we all show up to the date sporting the identical snow-white costume, my hope is that they will assume we’re their fellow soldiers. With luck, they’ll end up intermarrying and bearing children to us, before they grow wise to our stratagem. I’m hoping that thereby we might avoid having to participate in a bout of physical violence. This is war, after all.”

“I understand. Your total is $6.99; would you like us to gift-wrap this?”

“Yes, please. Also could you add a special note?”

“Sure! — What would you like the note to say?”

“It doesn’t matter… Surprise me.”

“Okie dokie, ma’am. Expect your order to arrive in several moments. And thank you for calling Battle Gowns Express Hotline.”

Then, because the uniforms of both sides shall match, as soon as the Occupation Forces arrive, they’ll come bursting into our homes & then stand there perplexed, holding the battering ram, blinking in wonder:

First they’ll assume they’ve met their own doubles in the surreal realm and locked eyes with them fatally. Then they’ll revise their hypothesis and begin to believe that they’ve entered a magic mirror & now are trapped in the alter-world with their doppelgangers who are made of antimatter. (This latter scenario at least allows our invaders the possibility of escaping with their reputations intact.) But then they’ll notice that our facial features are not at all like theirs, and that our skin tone and hairstyles are quite different from theirs, and they’ll shout:

“What’s going on here?—ye are dressed to the nines, yet ye seem to lack swagger... Might ye be a cadre of Hyperborean spies?”

At this point, give the following answer, and all will be well:

“The U.S. is a melting pot of many cultures, including Hyperboreans, remember? This proves that we were waiting for you to save us from the foemen who were holding us captive here; but it ended up taking too long for you to arrive — you must be operating on Christ Time, for you’re unbearably late — therefore we had no choice but to slay all the enemies ourselves; and, ever since that valiant deed of ours, we’ve been waiting for you to rendezvous and bring us home in your helicopter.”

So then everyone gets to take a ride in the solid gold chopper; which appears in a long-shot, parked outside the entryway of our igloo.