Did we kill Bin Laden right?

What a funny question, being asked recently by certain hilly-billy newspapers (Yes, I’m kidding, I’m not THAT racist). Was killing Osama Bin Laden legal? Well, let’s get into it. Bush requested Bin Laden “dead or alive.” That includes the possibility of death. In essence, a judgment upon Bin Laden had already been made; his sentence had already been decreed; capture or death.

Flock

Someone I know once wrote “I am a baby mastodon.” I do not know what exactly it means. Perhaps that he is extinct, a white elephant unsuitable for these times. It may also point to a reliance on his mother. My guess is as good as anyone else’s, and probably is someone else’s.

On the other hand, I am but a sheep. I am not exotic; if there exists a living mastodon, people would pay hundreds to see it. Its enormously bucked teeth, its alien snout; its prehistoric atmosphere would rake in cash for the zoo that invested in it. As baby one, too, it may still retain features of adoration. Maybe the mastodon still holds onto large eyes, or disproportionate body shapes, that render it adorably cute and attractive to maternally minded women.

DoubleThink

Do we mock ourselves out of pride or shame? I can never tell which. Sometimes I say “Wow, I suck so hard!” This is because I just failed in an endeavor, and wish to communicate my failing to the public. It also bolsters my confidence, gives a small promise that next time I will not suck so hard. Other times I scream “Why am I hopeless?” That stems from my shame; I am a useless lunatic chasing butterflies across continents. But it gives me an excuse; it says “You are nobler than everyone else; that is why you seem hopeless; it is merely the result of high morals.” They two motivations contradict each other, but I firmly believe that both of them come into play.

The Penal Colony

Death is disgusting, is it not? Life is pretty disgusting in and of itself, and death, being the release of life, almost deserves to be even more revolting than life itself. First is the actual act of dying. Blood spills out like milk from a ruptured bottle. IF the wound is deep other things may spill out; intestines, brains, organs, bone, all could come out of this package of revolt waiting to explode, held back only by a thin membrane of dead cells.Then the immediate postmortem occurrences. Bodies do all sorts of disgusting things after death. Some people get erections after death; they have to have an open casket. Many animals eject all their excrement as they die, leaving shit and urea everywhere. Heads still react after being severed from the body, while decapitated chickens run around, as if taunting us in our inability to bring even a corpse to stillness. The fluids of death spill through; sea cucumbers puke their insides, our stomach acid begins eating through our defunct stomach while the gallbladder releases all it’s contents as well, filling the intestines with bile.

A face

Can you imagine how an artist must look at a human face? He takes us apart into little blocks, particular lines, particular shapes. But try this: find a few pictures, or as many pictures as you want, and try to create it in the Sims 3, or Sims 2 if you prefer that Sim-maker. Why must you be so pathetic, you ask? The answer is that you will fail. That’s right. You can go through the pictures, you can try to match the individual pieces together, but even if you have known that person all your life, or just saw them 5 seconds ago, or even had them in front of you, facing this way and that at your command, you would not be able to make them. Even if you could directly import hairstyle, because that’s really hard to do with a 3D model program, could paint the freckles just right, had all the mods and downloads in the world, we would not be able to capture that person’s face. The closest we could get is to create the distinctive features; a beard, glasses; these superficial things are the best way to tell someone “This is [insert name here].”

Happy birthday

It’s a strange place, it’s a bit late,

But happy birthday.

You deserve a happy birthday,

One day made just for you,

To fulfill you’re every mood.

You could buy bright pink balloons

Could stare at the waning moon,

And know your life still stretched

Ahead in a big green meadow,

With pretty violet wildflowers

Snared in your hair,

Like pinpricks leaking from

(To use the cliché term)

Heaven.