Star Wars

Dear George,

“Weaponized space!”

Doesn’t the idea send your follicles atrembling? Imagine it, a phallic thrust into space as we weaponize the final frontier. We must call it our Chicken-Little Initiative, for the sky will surely fall unless we put our testosterone into orbit.

Lasers. Mirrors. Sophisticated surveillance equipment. I can see it now: two terrorists sitting on a park bench planning their next attack, when Poof!, there’s a blinding flash and a puff of smoke as a well-aimed laser beam reduces the wedding party on the next bench to a pile of smoldering ash.

This is the great thing about the Chicken-Little Initiative; it will never succeed. This means dumping more and more funds down a rathole in order to guarantee a success that is doomed to failure.

Pork, thy name is Chicken Little.

The military-industrial complex is good for another generation or two because Congress is blind to a basic rule of poker: You don’t stay in a game with a lousy hand just because you’ve got money in the pot.

At the same time, our leaders are promoting a healthy mind-set. The purpose of any empty space, be it on earth or above, is as a future home for military hardware. After all, for the paranoid, unfilled space is a threat. The demons of Hell work best in a vacuum, so we must fill all voids with our toys.

We must weaponize the cracked closet door and the space under our beds where monsters lurk, for everything is a threat to our national security, and we must secure it all before it hurts us.

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones