On War

If you thought that war was a nice fine time, then think again, friend, because it’s not. Only a pig would like war. For you get maimed or killed, and your hometown never looks quite the same afterwards. 

A soldier is taught to murder civilians, smash and burn homes, steal property, and molest anything that moves. That’s why war should be categorized as a dangerous crime — not even a pig would desire to get abused to death. 

And if you own a manor house, it becomes transformed into a hotel for soldiers. They move in and eat all your food, leaving you nothing but a carrot. After that, they tie you to a chair and pour glitter nail-polish all over your clothes. (That stuff reeks.) Then they pick up your handcrafted wooden figurine depicting “Jesus the Peacemaker” and intentionally allow it to drop to the floor, so that it shatters into fragments, which they then stomp on with their rugged army boots. 

During the above bullying session, the soldiers keep demanding that you reveal secret info about the so-called enemy; but you can’t, because you’re truly uninformed: You don’t even know who this “enemy” is, because you never watch the U.S. corporate news; so, all you can do is repeat the digits of your employee I.D. number and the name of your supervisor. So then they toss you into the back of their pickup truck and use a sugar-free cherry Popsicle to tease your hair so that it’s all sticky & punk. Then they bring out a plastic inflatable frog and force you to kiss it, and they mock you when the thing fails to transform into a prince.

Yes, war is hell. It’s all about killing more civilians than the next guy. Corpses accumulate. Blood runs down the streets in rivers. What are you waiting for — sign up & serve! Join the fray! Volunteer! Here’s your gun: begin blasting bullets immediately! (The ammo vendors are giddy about their predicted quarterly profits.) Here’s a torch: use it to burn everything in your path. Dig a trench and crouch there, preparing to strike. Read a book while you’re waiting. 

Dear mom, I’m sorry to admit this, but I won’t be marching home in this lifetime. I got slain in battle. However, don’t feel too bad: I believe that you would be proud of the way I went down: I scratched everyone angrily on their arms while they were knifing me in the back. — Well, now that I’m in spirit form, the only thing I don’t look forward to, about flying back to God, is that I’m afraid there might not be enough torment in Heaven. Things that don’t cause pain have no value to me. . . . Sincerely, Your loving son, G.I. Joe.

So, keep war alive. As King Lear says: “kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!” Nobody’s safe. Time is stuck in a loop: it’s a volcano with guts for lava, which never stops gushing! Let bombs replace raindrops; and may every lawn remain heaped with decomposing bodies!