Remote control saber rattling

If so many people’s lives weren’t at stake, the recent standoff between “Fatboy Korea,” whatever his name is, and “Golf and Cake” POTUS, would be pretty funny.

First, we had Jong-un’s failure to launch, an issue I’m pretty sure crops up often in his life. I felt his pain. You’re almost there, about to prove to everyone how big and bad you are, and then…

… that embarrassing moment when things just don’t work, and everyone nervously giggles and assures you that it’s okay, you’ll do it right next time.

Second, we had the Donald and his big Armada. What is it with size and this guy? I have to admit that a carrier air group packs a lot of firepower, and our naval personnel are top notch at what they do, but Armada? We haven’t used that word since we studied the Spanish Armada in Junior High School. And what “Big Boy” failed to mention was that the Carl Vinson and its escorts are 3000 nautical miles from Korea on a war games in conjunction with the Australian Navy, another first rate naval presence in the Pacific.

What was the intent here? To be able to jump up in the oval office and yell “Psyche!” And what about “Chub Boy Slim,” what does he really intend to do with a Nuke? Fondle it? If he ever used it (and from the missile tests, I’d hate to be the scientists trying to build him one: incineration anyone?) all the nuclear nations of the world would line up to nuke his ass, like the famous scene from the movie Airplane, when the nun goes crazy.

So what we have here is two basically impotent nerds threatening each other and using us as pawns in the confrontation.

Lame.

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