a) nuclear weapons are real b) the conflict is real, and not staged c) that Russia and China are independent actors
Then MAD theory (Mutually Assured Destruction) DOES NOT HELP YOU …
TWO-PERSON GAME THEORY assumes rational actors. NOT GOOD … they can be evil, but they have to be rational.
What kind of lopsided motherfucker could look at the shitheads, GOP and DEMOCRAT, in WA DC and say “rational”.
Because Russia and China at this point can presume the USA is NOT lead by a rational agent, but rather a confederacy of shit heads and crazy people? – then their best move is a decapitation strike:
Take out WA DC, command and control nodes, with precision nuke strikes …
Our next best move, after that, will be to sue for peace. Assuming someone rational takes over the USA as an interim government.
Garbage Dan, Garbage Dan, Puts his garbage in the garbage can.
Playing pretend, until the end, buy the “coin”, sell the “friend”, stare at your fear, as it lurches near, but vote for TRUMP, because you are a fucking CHUMP.
He’ll stick around and find your wooden heart. As bird spray fills the air, his poop chute will overflow with whiskey time nightmares and beef jerky memories.
Your own gundiz-rune lover will have her tulip-pizza, and the straggling ghosts go awry.
Don’t feed a hobo …
His honey jar produces scandal glass. Tired street rats hunt the last parts to make it surrender, but the scourge of dorg-ass fills the sky …
And your walnut-house woman lives her best life, in the smoke and ashes of this take home menu.
And no scorn.
If you feed a hobo?
The 5 paths will split into 6.
6 will be divided by 2, giving 3.
3 cloud monsters will hunt the dark minstrel, as the clowns scurry deeper into the heart of the Earth. Guide stone fury fills the seas and the boiling spreads and the one eyed bird sings.
If in feeding a hobo, you find yourself stuck with a house of pain?
It was your vain attempt at domesticating the beast. His YEAST fills the caverns and spreads the infection, and your own inflection point is reached, as you scream:
“FUCK YOU HOBO, GO FIND THE SCARRED QUEEN AND BE HER SERVANT!”
But tears in reality break the scheme, and shame of insane trolley masters sends you careening towards doom. Get off the tracks? – not for you snack stranger, not for the gumpton-flesh either.
The hobo will find his veal stew.
A typical hobo carries switchblades and Vietnamese money.
He wields the battle axe, hunting street bear and grouchy fishwives, all looking for easy style Kentucky love nests, all hungry for beef steak tomato.
His chest is covered in dead yellowjackets, and his veins flow with Trixie dust fancy. He is ready to pick up that lead pipe and take a swipe at any old lamp herder. He is willing to steal your Casper wench, and lead the STROHGLIN-VOLK to safety, where she is, in the storm drain.
Hobos sing songs of forever time …
He hears the whispers of dying hooker soldiers, all tired from the battle and awaiting Valhalla …
He gets into swordfights with the pirates of Slyb, as the ever changing coordinate system wreaks havoc with his navigational beacon … tiger-swamp women are still after him, dressed in stripper uniforms and carrying dildos covered in lube.
The hobo knows how to speak dog and cat.
The hobo holds meetings and the pigeon and wolf attend.
At the great turning of night to day, when space captains find darkness in the dawn? – the hobo wanders the FEAR DESERT and haunts the boomers at WALMART and HOME DEPOT. He gives you that LOOK, and you clutch your purse, your wallet, and you keep walking … “just keep on walking”, is what you hear the hobo say … as his face crinkles, and the sadness glows.
HOBOS are CLEAN by being UNCLEAN.
They have the flesh of leather and dirt. Monkey-fungus fills their bones and their minds are filled with ant larvae and tardigrade stink bugs.
Their hands shake from drinking, and thinking, at last they might find a place? A home?
But they roam because they cannot stay, and their day will come when the earth opens up and the demon army rides on crystalline rivers and armored hippos.
So don’t spend time waiting for hobos to SAVE YOU – they got time for no one, and not YOU ever.
They will form clunket-armies soon, not far from where you shop for whale supper.
They will sharpen sticks, and pick their noses, and build campfires of Styrofoam and treated wood.
You will hear them howling minutes before they come, you will see them scowling as you grasp your fancy gun, the sun will shine one last time for frolicking code monkeys and stern looking house maidens …
But nothing will be heard as the fire spreads, and no more time for chicken McNugget heroes.
Can you find some time for fresh water living?
Can you cook a soup of marrow and snake?
Can you grow possum-fruit in the gutter, because your mutter is no longer here? – she drank too much beer in the bowery with pops …
