Tag Archives: nuclear weapons

The War on Marriage

The War on Marriage won’t be waged with fighter jets or green platoons. Instead we’ll see soldiers suited up in homogenous suburban camouflage, blending in to raid their gated communities. There will be suicide bombers entering into self-destructing civil unions; dirty bombs that poison minds, infecting them to branch out to something more than Missionary style; bazookas that blast through yards and scorch the earth of our otherwise pristine lawns, shattering our picket fences; and billowing clouds of chemical warfare, suffocating our souls until we love who we can’t help. POWs contained, tied down with wedding rings, and tortured well beyond the limits of the Geneva Convention by daily household chores and a mortgage; those who refuse to cooperate are forced into a 401k. The fear that fills our hearts and minds will be justified once it turns to nuclear warfare, when loving, functional, nuclear units are dropped from the heavens to lay waste to the idyllic lives that previously plagued the neighborhood. Once those nuclear family bombs detonate, it will only be a matter of hours until the war comes to an end, and those of us who survive will be forced to rebuild, digging ourselves out of the apocalyptic ashes of this post-coital wasteland.

The Warmest Gun

I can still recall the swell of emotions that rippled through my veins when I fell in love for the first time. I was so elated, so overwhelmed by happiness, that I roundhouse kicked my love right in the fucking jaw and stuffed her, still screaming, into a trash can that I then proceeded to throw down a hill. Like a licked finger stuck into an electrical socket on a dare at Brian’s stepmom’s house in third game, the thrill was just so exhilarating, like nothing I’d ever experienced or even fathomed, that my impulse took over and found a way to release that brand new energy as safely and expediently as possible.

Later, on the day my first son was born, I simply could not contain my excitement at the sight of the fresh, new life that I had myself created (along with some help from my Fifth Love). I lit my own shit on fire and smeared the flaming excrement all over our fantastic doctor before smashing window open with my forehead and throwing him into the parking lot as a way of saying “Thank You.” Then I went over to my son and lifted him from the crib so I could look directly into the beautiful, crying, bloodshot eyes that I had given him. I was so engulfed with bliss and merriment that I ate the little infant right up. I was so consumed with life that the only thing I could do was consume some more!

And then came the day of America’s greatest victory: the Red Sox finally won four World Series in a row. I didn’t know how else to express my undying affection for the greatest American sports team, so I did what any devoted would do. I hijacked a plane from Logan Airport armed with a nuclear device and dropped the bomb right on Fenway park. I wanted the world to know that this team, and that I had never so proud to be a part of something in my entire life. The only way I could conceive of expressing this sentiment was by lighting up the oldest baseball field in the country for the entire world to see, so that they could truly understand my appreciation for these ball-playing dynamos.

“Happiness is a warm gun,” I heard once, in one of those old songs. Looking back, I’m not sure how I ever lived before I understood how true it really is. In those rare moments when you feel your entirety being consumed by that euphoric joy — sometimes you just have to let yourself pull that trigger, if that’s what you’ve got to do.

When the L Bomb Drops

They don’t teach children how to deal with bomb scares anymore. No one tells them how to hide underground, under desks, or in doorways these days when they’re dropped. We don’t drill them how to move or stay calm when that shrill sound like air raid sirens spills from her mouth. No, these days they don’t have to learn what to do when that tommy gun hidden in your leftest chest lays down a spray of bullets from its chain that makes your hand tremble like an alcoholic, or how to best recover when your upper lip warbles and turns concave, leaving you to stutter-spit your words. Just like no one builds shelters with six-feet thick cement filled with fine, silky sheets, dessert wines, fancy flowers, or another hundred pick-up lines, unrivaled and original, with a back-up generator fueled by scented candles, Marvin Gaye on vinyl or the Postal Service mp3s. If only we had spent those awful gym class hours learning how to keep our hands from sweating, feeling clammy when they’re clasped in one another, or if health class taught us not to taste her tonsils with our tongues but rather nibble on that soft and tender spot behind her ear, maybe then we would survive when the motionless air of an impending Armageddon implodes all around us, pelting us with a flurry or a hail of sensation that undermines—overwrites?—every social scripture that they’d taught us up ’til then. Unfortunately, it has proven quite difficult to evaluate a student’s mastery of mix tapes on standardized tests, or to establish an objective criteria by which to judge that attentive child who eliminates the gaps between the songs and leaves no awkward silence but those select few fleeting moments when the pause is deemed appropriate.

Sure, they can teach you how to take a test, but never what to say, nor the ways to respond, when she finally drops the bomb.