M & M's

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writers’ musings:

“H.G. Wells was a madman who thought he was H.G. Wells”

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The Strongman now goes abroad. The Strongman now makes his move of moves.

Why man he doth bestride the narrow world

like a Colossus, and we petty men

walk under his huge legs and peep about

to find ourselves dishonorable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

but in ourselves that we are underlings.

Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that Caesar?

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?

Cannot entirely get a hold of that Julius Caesar business but the parallels are clear. This hubristic terrorist bestriding the narrow world is overreaching beyond the beyond. There’s a littler guy on the stage as well, who has his own little fiefdom surrounded by bigger bastards in a morass, that seething cauldron of biblical tribal enmities. The littler guy is convenient for the Strongman; like all bullies and cowards he can push the littler one in front as a human shield, to take the fall when necessary. This is the zero sum game that stupid Pol Pots play in their Caesar’s Palaces. They tend to invent the wheel all over again, never understanding that the wheel was invented long before, that the cycle is NOT unique even though the despot actually believes he is the one and only, the first and foremost, the best and the brightest, the top knot, the top dog, the topper extraordinaire. “…like nothing the world has ever seen,’ this particular one is wont to say. And he says it alot.

If you give someone a hammer they look for a nail.

This Strongman believes he has been given his hammer. Patriot and Tomahawk missiles that are his to lob. that he has Eagle jets ($$$$) to weaponize. That he has boots to put on the ground; a flexing of muscle using all the toys of war: the pop guns, the ships to launch in the bathtub of the Middle East, rockets to arc into the sky that go WHEEEEE! Like his littler counterpart, drunkards that they are, it doesn’t matter that flesh and bone are on the receiving end. Infants have no grasp of chaos: Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s: Chaos. The world has taken note that there is no strategy, strategy is many cuts above the lizard brain at work here.

(Reminder: all of it costs MONEY. O it will be TERRIBLE when We the People realize how impoverished the United States has become as a result, when this worm finally turns. Hey, Big Spender!)

This really is the endgame of armament. Enemies mustn’t have nuclear capabilities (no, they mustn’t) but we can have nuclear capabilities. Only we can go nuclear if we want. L’État c’est moi. Territorial musings for icy islands in the northern hemisphere are put aside for the moment: oh look! there are thin spots in that Persian rug over there, let’s pick it up off the floor. We can do it, now’s the time. We are The World. C’mon, Pete! C’mon, Marco! JD, as my proxy you take care of things with Mike as my mouthpiece, I’m putting on my commander-in-chief hat. I tried it on in the Caribbean. It fit, so I’ll wear it in the Persian Gulf.

Let the wussies weep, let the grouse grouse. It’s SO good this time around to have all my little partridges following behind me in a row, so much better than the first round. My god, I hope I never die, I’m having too much fun. I am precisely where I want to be.

Someone is finally launching a candy with my name on it. Trump M & M’s.

(Code break: Megalo. Maniac.)