Saturday, 8 April 2017

Munitions

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Little story:
My grandmother did not understand munitions. When I was a young child on an Irish farm in the 1950s I found a saucer of rifle bullets on a dresser (they'd shoot foxes with them) and started playing with the rather lovely, shiny things on the kitchen table. When grannie walked into the room she was aghast. "Those are dangerous!" she exclaimed. She whipped them off the table, threw them into the large, open turf fire and went back out of the house. I sat down on the stone floor in front of the fire to enjoy the display, being quite thrilled by the way the bangs were followed by small lumps of stonework being chipped out of the chimney walls. My uncle sprinted into the room and ran out with me, clueless, in his arms.
I remember his exact word on the matter. It was "Jaysus!"

I was reminded of this by the US bombing of the airfield that was the base for planes that dropped Chemical Weapons on Idlib. American horror at the thought of CW obviously knows no bounds because that's what you do with a chemical dump, isn't it?

Bomb the bleeding place!

It's obvious.

We do not know, of course, how many of the reported 14 Syrian casualties were suffocated/poisoned by CW fumes.

Or, rather, we do.

It would be amusing if 14 people didn't have to die to turn around Trump's political career and demonstrate to Pentagon and Washington hawks that they really are in possession of a penis.

How thoroughly modern that the captain of the ship that fired the Tomahawks was a woman. In our brave new humanitarian age it would be no surprise to discover that she has one too.

Tell you what. If I ever meet her and she's the racy type, I won't be inviting her back to my hotel room. 

No way Jose! She can save it for Hillary.


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