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Show Acting Alone Page 3 32 Neither can our wayward brother Spikey, here, claim lack of information as an excuse for his overseas sins. Everybody always knew that the peacock feathers on the Shah's throne had been glued there with the blood of political prisoners, that the pedestal of that gaudy throne had been supported by the severed hands of their wives and children. Before nuclear weaponry it wasn't quite so dangerous for boys and boyish men to primp and preen themselves with brass buttons, ribbons, ostrich feathers, and parade around like transvestites with execrable taste, their shiny instruments of death on their shoulders. The most damage this type of emotional regression could do was to kill a limited number of people and lay waste to limited tracts of land, no genetic poison left hanging in the smoke afterwards. But, with the advent of the atom, America's Great Cycle of Military-Industrial Prosperity, my sisters, has been tragically broken: Prosperity-Inflation-Depression, followed by Economic-and-Spiritual-Purgat ion-and-Regeneration-through-the-Glory-of- Limited-Warfare, and thus Back-to-Prosperity is a greasy donut, my sisters-of the Faith, never doubt it, a pitiful greasy donut with a bite out of it now, and we have to go to Winchells soon and try a different flavor, or spin to our vaporized deaths in a broken circle. Now that the military's toys are megadeaths and the genepool, we must outgrow them. If we can't quell our racial bloodlust intellectually, then let us rely on our innate fastidiousness, my sisters, with our grossout fights over lunch and our asphalt chip ice cream and our head-cheese, let us rely on our fastidiousness, I say, to do the job for us. We need to look on military men as rather distasteful social misfits, like teens with |
