4988. ONE HUNDRED YEARS

ONE HUNDRED YEARS

August 1914 will soon be upon us; I might

not be here, but it will. One hundred years since

that stinking first all-defining war came down upon us  -

or us that was then. Stinking, shriveled men and their

tight-assed women; arms-carriers to death without questions,

bloated and grimed and murdered, like paste upon a deadly

field. Carrion never dithered  -  trench warfare was a fine

dinner-plate for banquet. Passenchandaele. Somme. Verdun.

-

How did people rise and sleep, live and walk with themselves,

then? How sickeningly morose and enfeebled the dire happiness

of War as noble cause and frolic. A day at the beach. A picnic in

those bloody trenches. I must leave my senses for this to work.

-

We've done it worse since then. I know, and I say, and I see.

The same twisted, stupid fucking wrecks  -  in uniforms and

tatters still stupid, and proclaiming Liberty, Honor and Duty.

May they (each and every) live a day and die. To get what

they deserve in ignorance and folly is not good enough.

I hold no respect aside for dunce and dribble, mice and

dope. Yossarian, Catch 22, the Naked and the Dead, let it

all go on. I'm still back on 1914 for this one.

-

I hate war and I hate Mankind that does it. I hate those

who serve and I hate those who've died. Let them shrivel,

I don't care. Every day is choices made, every day is another

selection : you opt for the radar and the gun, the uniform and

the might, the military budget to feed the shits and pay them heed.

Go ahead and have fun. Scum. But don't dirty my land
 with your futility.