For some reason I'm in a killing mood. You know, you just encounter them sometimes. Just in a fuckit-fuck-them-all mood. Thank god it doesn't happen too often. It's the mood where it's raining outside and you strap on the headphones and listen to all the music you haven't been listening to because you've been too busy with life.
Last night I watched some TV show about some kids in Afghanistan who got blown away two weeks before they were due to come home, mainly because of some lame-ass decisions by the Usual Suspects, namely commanders who fucked their way to the top and now are puppet-stringing new cannon fodder.
I have no love for the armed forces. I have none whatsoever for violence or the solution of violence ending any conflict, be it even your neighbour parking in your spot occasionally.
But institutionalised violence -- you know, the one with actual rules about how you're allowed to kill someone -- is a tough nut to crack.
Sometimes I feel it in myself, the urge to just abandon everything and go over to Afghanistan and fucking kick these fuckwads' asses. It's almost atavistic. It's almost as righteous a feeling as knowing that one bedbug is going to spoil your whole holiday, therefore it must be eliminated.
But that's a whole theoretical ball of wax. Theory is theory. It's what you think about at 4 a.m. Reality is reality.
When it gets messy is when the twain meet. What some schmuck dreams up at 4 a.m. is the reality . . . because he has the power to make it the reality.
So it's with horror that I hear the stories of some 20-year-old getting hardened to actually thinking about killing someone else, backed by the full might of multinational approval, only to be abandoned in a luckless, desolate shithole like Afghanistan, a place that basically just wants everyone to go away and leave it alone, to lose his short, tiny life defending some forgotten dugout on some forgotten colonel's map.
It's such a disconnect, to be watching the evening news and learning about how the new school tax will affect parents and then see a story about some poor tiny 18-year-old fuck in a shithole sitting there, anticipating his youthful death in a joking, teenaged way, in some godforsaken outpost in Buttfuck, Afghanistan.
No matter how much I despise the military and all their machinations, I think about that poor little fuck on the front lines. And want to join him.
wow, too true.
ReplyDeleteMy dad, gods bless his carcass, did serious hurt to lots of people, or was somehow responsible for very, very serious hurt to untold amounts of people who he didn't and never would know, at his tender age of 22.
ReplyDelete22 is not an age to ask someone to go out and kill someone else, with full government approval, and then expect them to come home and, like, get a job like everyone else.
If they come home at all, that is.