If President Donald Trumps ends up calling for a pre-emptive nuclear strike on North Korea and World War III begins, at least we will have had one more perfect summer evening out on two wheels to savor before we kiss our asses goodbye.
As the bombs rain down, at least we’ll be able to recall, (fleetingly), how swell it was to careen wildly atop the Chief Sealth Trail as a tangerine moon rose before us. We’ll be able to savor the thrilling sensation of flying over hill and dale and under powerlines even as we duck and cover after the initial atomic blast.
While nuclear winter dawns, at least we’ll have in our memories (until they are extinguished) the feel of night swimming in lake water so warm that it’s warmer to stay in than sit on the dock, although the air is so mild you hardly even need a towel to dry off, even after dark.
In the last few moments of civilization as we know it, at least we’ll be able to reflect upon how grand it was to live in a world where a city park accommodates several dozen happy human-powered travelers, reclining on the grass, sitting in lifeguard chairs, standing in lively groups, drinking beer, sipping leftover vodka, and dining al fresco on Dreamsicles and candy.
When it’s all over and only cockroaches are left to skittle about, perhaps they will enjoy the Blattodean version of the characteristically homo sapien pleasures we were able to enjoy: conversing with friends and acquaintances, sharing libations among like-minded revelers, swimming way out into the lake, far enough into the deep, as did Topher with his steady crawl, that the milfoil no longer tickles your arms and legs with each stroke.
As the Doomsday Clock strikes midnight, perhaps we can take some measure of comfort in knowing that there was time when such simple joys were available, simply by launching the atomic energy of bikes, not bombs.
As the bombs rain down, at least we’ll be able to recall, (fleetingly), how swell it was to careen wildly atop the Chief Sealth Trail as a tangerine moon rose before us. We’ll be able to savor the thrilling sensation of flying over hill and dale and under powerlines even as we duck and cover after the initial atomic blast.
While nuclear winter dawns, at least we’ll have in our memories (until they are extinguished) the feel of night swimming in lake water so warm that it’s warmer to stay in than sit on the dock, although the air is so mild you hardly even need a towel to dry off, even after dark.
In the last few moments of civilization as we know it, at least we’ll be able to reflect upon how grand it was to live in a world where a city park accommodates several dozen happy human-powered travelers, reclining on the grass, sitting in lifeguard chairs, standing in lively groups, drinking beer, sipping leftover vodka, and dining al fresco on Dreamsicles and candy.
When it’s all over and only cockroaches are left to skittle about, perhaps they will enjoy the Blattodean version of the characteristically homo sapien pleasures we were able to enjoy: conversing with friends and acquaintances, sharing libations among like-minded revelers, swimming way out into the lake, far enough into the deep, as did Topher with his steady crawl, that the milfoil no longer tickles your arms and legs with each stroke.
As the Doomsday Clock strikes midnight, perhaps we can take some measure of comfort in knowing that there was time when such simple joys were available, simply by launching the atomic energy of bikes, not bombs.
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