One Tired Script

As my wife and I were taking a walk the other day, the simple pleasure of being outdoors on a calm, crisp, and cold winter afternoon was interrupted by the thought of Vladimir Putin, of all people. And others like him.

While we were just taking a stroll on quiet streets enjoying the bright sunshine and blue sky, the revelry was spoiled by the thought of that little beady-eyed twerp plotting an assault, threatening to invade, to visit destruction and heartless chaos on millions of people who, for all I know, also want to know the joy of taking a walk on peaceful streets or country roads on a cold, crisp winter afternoon. People who want to live their lives without the specter of interference and war and death hanging over their heads.

It’s difficult to find the words to describe how wrong this seems. How totally unacceptable it is for anyone to arbitrarily decide, with no thought of consultation, to make life a living hell for others who just want to make it through another day, to find some level of contentment and joy and happiness. How dare he think he has the right to ruin so many lives. It’s an abomination, evil on a cosmic scale.

The world should be tiring of violence, and the world is watching, but of course Vlad doesn’t care. It’s all about playing the great hits of the 50s and 60s for him. Pure power play, a twisted trip down memory lane. Dead bodies and ruined lives apparently mean nothing to him, the son of a bitch.

What do the people in his own country, or the soldiers poised on the front lines, really think of all this? What are they being told? Does he really think that invading Ukraine will make him look like a strong man? He’s just the latest in a long line of petrified delusional anachronisms who rule by fear, who think skewed, selfish thoughts.

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