Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Thank You, Mr. President

When I was a kid, I was bookish and weird. I gained friends in a painfully slow Fibonacci progression: none in kindergarten, one in first grade, one in second, two in third, three in fourth, five in fifth, and so on. The school days when my one friend was home sick were a misery; the years during which my one friend was in a different class were unbearable. On the bus ride home, the boys would chant "Cry baby, cry!" at me until I'd oblige them. When I'd arrive home, I'd then be punished for crying "like a two-year-old." I was five at the time.

Today, all these years later, I get to sit back and watch the roles reverse as I beat the crap out of Syria by proxy. Yes, my own elected Commander in Chief will deploy the most powerful armed forces in the history of the world against a tiny nation whose only crime has been bombing itself. In the immortal words of playground bullies everywhere: "Stop hitting yourself!"

Seriously, though, don't you know that's our job, Syria? If you attack some of your people- doesn't matter which ones- with chemical weapons, gosh darn it, we'll attack all y'all with much more sophisticated weapons! Killing people is a human rights violation and therefore we have to kill you people so you get that through your thick skulls. It's not just our right as the biggest kid on the playground, it's our responsibility. And if we simultaneously get to enjoy the thrill of finally being the one administering the wedgie, well, that's just icing on the cake.

Stop hitting yourself, Syria,

S. Misanthrope

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