I've been thinking about how I would name my bombs. If it's a girl bomb, then something like Poppy, or Lolly. Mabel if I was looking to be retro, and make my bomb Kitsch before she could even know what Kitsch is. A male bomb is a Steve, Phillip or Arnold. Nothing else. I await the day that my own Bomb is born. When it comes tumbling out from the Vagina of it's mother. The Mother of all Bombs, who has been so heavily publicised lately.
It seems that giving heavy weaponry domestic, colloquial monikers is a way of trying to normalise what they represent. This Mother of all Bombs that Trump has been plugging is perhaps the clearest example of this strange weird kind of linguistic influence; to name something a Mother is to suggest it provides, or births. Providing and begating is perhaps the opposite of the Bombs function, though surely this is a matter of perspective? After all, people like Donald thrive on turning the world upside down, operating in headstands, thinking what they see staring back at them in the mirror is in-fact the truth. Perhaps he truly does believe that Mass Destruction is the birth of something new. An act of divine creation.
I can see him now, resting his back against the white house wall, face plumming, head filling. Lardy tum folding into his eyelids, having been dragged down by the gravitational pull of the planet he seems hellbent on destroying. As he rests there in headstand, it must seem sensible to him to link Atomic warfare with his own, clearly traumatic childhood. What happened back then to create him, and people like him? It's no wonder he's naming bits of explosive metal after close relatives - like an Orphaned child who calls his pet corn snake "Daddy"
Then in comes Vlad with his own, depraved abandonment issues; Mother no where to be seen. He chose the single parent route, a patriarchal way of life that has stained every motion of 'Progressive' Russia since the day he was born. The Father of all Bombs, was his retort, his offer. This time not a giver, or a birther, but a provider, a guardian. Father.
Another fragmented member of the Nuclear family, dragged back to the dinner table. Elbows off the cloth. Imagine them all sitting there, waiting for all the plates to hit the deck so they can do away with etiquette, and gorge.
Come December, their may well be a whole cosmopolitan family of febrile destruction to contend with. Beside Mother & Father, all gathered around the table, is The Sister of Chemical Agents, Uncle Orange, The Nephew of Mortars shovelling mulched banana into a Newborn A-Bomb.
They await Aunty Nerve Gas, and Frail old Grampa Shrapnle, who spits when he eats and won't stop talking about Gerry's. Too many to contend with; spare chairs have to be brought in from the shed. They creak beneath the family's fat, tinny, fizzing frames.
Imagine the Christmas morning? Whatever you do don't look ungrateful when you unwrap your third Lynx Africa Box Set, otherwise the entire town might soon be a big, festive mushroom. Silent Night, and all that.
But then again, is the family unit not the cause and root of all Psychological trauma, and personal sabotage? Mother & Father, without even knowing it, spark personal Wars on a daily basis. It's not a big leap to imagine that actual, international war could be influenced by the one thing both sides have in common. Family, birth, and death. Childhood's missing love, son's hating fathers, Mother's resenting the burden of childbirth.
Is this why missiles are falic? No. its due to aero dynamics. But it's an interesting thought. Those little crosshairs on the computer screen, the little Target. It's an egg waiting to be inseminated, or a Clit looking to be stimulated. Babies mushroom in the womb. They grow and grow until they cannot be sustained, and then all Hell is let loose on the host. The Violent evisceration of the noble female anatomy through the act of childbirth is never held in the same esteem as our 'Brave' Armed forces on the front line.
Mother's don't get medals for giving life, but they do get Bomb's named after them. And the people that use those bombs, get medals for Exterminating life. No wonder birth rates among modern couples are falling. There's just too much Baggage, and far too many Bombs.