Symbolic collisions

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of: Things are symbols of themselves.

People pretend to be exactly who they are. Infinite diversity through infinite combinations. Somewhere in the world a woman is carrying the planet on her back.

It was a Sunday and The Big One (Supreme Deity) rested. They took out their slingshot. They looked at Earth. They witnessed very stupid humans practicing REVENGE. This made them unhappy. They decided to send them a message to stop the foolishness, learn how to play together and how 2 share.

They picked a country at random after analyzing levels of violence, fear and intimation. (Fill in the blank_____) They sent a message. I will give you 24 hours to cease your revenge actions, war and reciprocal suffering. It's a waste of lives, time and money.

If, after 24 hours, I see you are continuing your collective madness, I will send you a little message. I will destroy part of your civilization to teach you a little lesson. Do you read, over?

Naturally, the ego-manics running the country ignored this message. They persisted in war-like behavior with weapons of mass destruction. They persisted in starving people to DEATH. They persisted in their greed and stupidity.

The BIG ONE had infinite patience. 24 hours for talking monkeys is a long now. For The BIG ONE it's a blink. They sent another message.

I gave you a chance. You ignored my request for peace, harmony and equality.

The BIG ONE loaded a rock the size of a small planet into their slingshot, took aim and let it fly toward a specific, particular location on Earth. It flew through the atmosphere at light speed. Meager powerless humans attempted to divert it with ultra-sonic flyswatters. It was useless. 

The rock zeroed in on a city in a country on a continent. It was a direct hit. Millions died. Vaporized. The leaders said it was only a freak of nature. For domestic consumption they blamed their imaginary enemies because they ate and worshiped Revenge. Sweet revenge. Survivors rolled the dice. 

Metta.

Poets & Writers...

Grease Monkey

On my space walk to fix a joint while smoking a joint having a look at the joint my grease gun exploded.

It went off in my backpack. Whoosh! 

When you are connected to your module by a thin thread of hose fed air and electronic gizmos wearing a pack and floating in deep dark infinite space, an exploding grease gun sounds like a watermelon being flattened by a truck traveling at the speed of light.

Whoosh!

So the grease gun exploded spraying grease all over my goggles. I was blinded by grease. Am I a grease monkey?

Oh on, not another ancient simian tale. Spare me the details. Just get to the verb. 

My goggles covered in grease, I attempted to wipe off the gunk. Loose space grease acts weird. It congeals in millions of small miracles, losing it's viscosity. I began wiping and swiping with my handy-dandy gloves. I cried for my mother. She'd know what do but she wasn't here with me floating outside the capsule.

Then, the grease played a trick on me. My greasy gloves couldn't hold my tool bag and it slipped out of my greasy grip. Whoops! Off it went, curling slowly, doing a space ballet. Bye-bye tool bag. 

The dudes down in Houston are not going to be happy about this. Believe you me.

Have bag will travel.

What's a poor space walking scientist to do?

Metta.