I suppose there are two ways to look at this. First, Trump is smarter than any of us think, and he's speaking in language the chubby psycho with the bad haircut in North Korea understands. But more likely, he's an idiot completely ignorant of the ramifications of the sabre-rattling he's doing, trying to overcompensate for a dick he couldn't find with a flashlight and a search party, and at the same time edging us closer to nuclear conflict than we've been since the '60s.
And what does he care? He'll be holed up in his gold-leafed bomb shelter, watching Hannity on Fox News and Dancing With The Stars, complaining how unfair North Korea is being to him.
Or maybe it's just all a rouse to get Melania to finally hold hands with him (insert small hands joke here).
Regardless, this is what happens when hillbillies, greedy billionaires and spineless Republicans give nuclear codes to clowns.
At any rate, with all this going on it seemed like a good day to repost this piece, which was originally called "Gimme shelter, or not." It's a little personal plan of attack (pardon the phrase) if you will about what to do as we reach the final chapter.
Put on your sunglasses, pop open a beer, rev up the credit cards and grab that guy or gal you've been thinking about. The big bang is getting serious. Please to enjoy.
Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.
Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.
We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.
It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.
Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.
There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.
First, get to Vegas.
For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.
It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?
Who's with me?
Next, run up the credit cards.
The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.
A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.
Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?
Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.
To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.
Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.
Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.
Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.
Remember the part about no regrets?
Finally, remember to smile.
You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.
If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."
It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.
Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.
And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.
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