The true story of the mystery missile launch in California
Without warning, a missile just goes off in the sky over California? What makes a missile just let itself go like that? Some people are saying it's a jet. But I know better. Admittedly, I'm no missile expert, but I did watch "American Beauty," so I have my theory as to how this went down.
So you're a missile. You go to your daily work of non-proliferating in your special, secure briefcase. You sit there with the other missiles, Fat Man and Little Boy, talking about your Cuban friend's mid-life crisis. "Embarrassing," you mutter, "almost going off like that."
You never go off. You aren't that kind. You aren't excited for your annual inspection -- missile inspections, for missiles, are about what colonoscopies are for people -- but you tough it out. You try to encourage yourself to develop a longer half-life by staying fit and in shape -- well, missile-shaped, anyway.
Sure, being a missile is like being an American -- not nearly so exciting as it was during the Cold War era. You used to feel big and important and only scared of the Soviets. Now you hardly feel special at all. "All the jobs are going to India," you mutter. "Or maybe Pakistan and Iran."
You sigh. "Am I rusting?" you ask your wife, Little Fat Woman, when you get back home to your silo. "Of course not, dear," she responds. She used to be Attractive Girl, but that was back in the Soviet Era, when things were different and you felt like your work had real meaning. "Are you a fully armed nuclear warhead, or are you just happy to see me?" she asks. "Neither," you respond.
"I'm going to the pub," you say. "Don't wait up." You get to the pub and regale the other missiles there with that story of the time you all showed up at a mixer for Catholic prayer books. "That was awkward," you murmur.
"Things aren't good now like they used to be," you say. Everyone agrees. "Did you read the new George W. Bush autobiography?" someone asks. "Not yet," you say. "I miss him, though. He appreciated a good missile."
"Did you see that Barbara Bush showed him her miscarried fetus in a jar when he was in his teens?" Large Dominant Male asks.
"What?" you respond. "That--I--I think my head is going to explode."
Lacking any better way of dealing with this information, you start taking shots. You and the other missiles decide to compare who has more launch capacity. Large Dominant Male starts aiming pointedly at North Korea. Your friends subdue him. You take more shots, this time injuring a womp rat who happens to be passing. You call up missile command and yell excitedly that they are not the boss of you now, and, furthermore, they have never been! "Missile command is a misnomer!" you yell. "And I demand my share of the proceeds from The Spy Who Loved Me!"
"Sure," Missile command says. You sense that they are tired of your antics and are sending people over to break it up.
"I'm a mystery missile!" you yell. You have become very excited. You run outside and get onto a launch pad.
Missile command shows up. "You're fired, Jeff," they tell you.
"Yes, I am!" you reply, launching yourself off into the night over California. "I hope you all get SMDS!"
| November 9, 2010; 6:16 PM ET
Categories: Epic Failures, Petri, That's awkward | Tags: Missile, Star Wars
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