World War III Has Been Postponed Indefinitely
Thank God it’s Friday. If the cable-news talking heads had to hyperventilate for one more day about a World War III that’s not going to happen — unless Ukraine decides they’d like to play the Texans in a large-scale re-enactment of the Alamo — they would probably pass out and potentially die, doing irreparable harm to the hairspray industry.
Vladimir Putin certainly never wanted a war. He wanted an order of Crimea for delivery, and that delivery should arrive in a week or so. Granted, there are currently reports that Russian troops arestorming an airbase in Ukraine, and while that’s deeply rude, it’s by no means the beginning of WWIII. And if Putin is averse to war, Barack Obama is positively allergic to the idea, as though he has qualms about bringing civilization to an end.
The West seems determined to talk about this conflict in terms of “escalation” and “de-escalation,” “turning up the heat,” and a lot of other buzz phrases that are a poor fit for facts on the ground. Since the US doesn’t want to increase tensions, it has avoided doing anything with its military. Well, strictly speaking, it’s done three things.
Today: KKK costumes in Carnival, NATO air strike, Russia’s economy and North Korea’s elections.
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We’ve been sticking abominable substances inside the Gross Jar for roughly the duration of a school summer holiday now (six weeks). Along the way, the following have entered the glassy receptacle of desperate foulness:
- Human shit
- Rotten vegetables
- Drain hair
- Mouldy doner kebab
- Fish heads
- Lamb intestines
- A chicken’s foot
- Durian (Asian “stink fruit”)
- Human teeth
- An apple
- A Biro (scientific control)
After a month and a half of festering, the smell produced by the jar’s sinful contents is now worse than hell. There’s no point lying, this is starting to become tiresome. Those of us who deal with the Gross Jar have developed a claustrophobic relationship with the jar similar to that of Michael Corleone and his petrified wife, Kay, in The Godfather II. The jar is the Don and we are all his battered wives.
Our noses are sore, our hands dry from being washed so many times and our self-esteem below zero. But, like dying soldiers who’ve become numb to pain, on we march. This is week six. This is a dead rat.