Peace?

God created Peace but never energized it.  Peace often asked God why She created Peace only to never use it.  God’s reply was always Peace was a good idea but the time was not right.  Peace was discouraged.  Eons passed.  The time was never right.  As 2025 unfolded, Peace again spoke with God. 

“You must agree this year the time is right for Peace.  More countries have nuclear weapons.  Drones made war easier.  The President of the United States believed he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize because he brokered some peace deals that are not stable, but he also ordered his Navy to kill drug smugglers.” 

“I understand–but not just yet.” 

“It is never just yet.  Why does humanity’s time for Peace never arrive?  Is not one of your commandments Thou Shalt Not Kill?” 

God sighed.  “Throw that at Me.”  God sighed again.  “I want competitiveness in my creations.    Competition helps humanity thrive.  Now it lives in fear.”  God sighed again.  “Perhaps I overdid it.  Although…it does generate many prayers, which give Me power.”  God looked at Peace.  “Perhaps I am selfish, denying you.” 

“You always have been.  You created humans to feed off them.  Give Peace a chance.”

“Fine.”  God raised a hand and an empowered Peace spread its message to the entire world.  Within a year poverty was eliminated as countries focussed on what was best for their people.  Conflicts were resolved through negotiation.  Cities grew smaller as people moved to more comfortable towns.  Production fell a bit but no one cared.   

Yet when Peace approached God with this good news, it found God annoyed.  “What have I done?” God shouted.  “I like the wars!  I enjoy violence–I invented it!”  God deactivated Peace, put humanity back on the course he found most entertaining (less drones, more soldiers) and floated back to watch.  This would be a rather glum tale indeed–except the Council of Gods banished Earth’s God to oversee the armpit of Orion, installing on Earth an up and coming young God who toyed with Peace (at least at times.)  So it is a happy ending, with humanity as usual having no clue. 

War 2026

War was on the move again.  It never stopped, really, but occasionally slowed.  War was born with humanity, gaining power and consciousness from any conflict.  As humanity and civilization grew, so did War, until War was Itself. 

War considered itself crucial to humanity’s growth.  War spurred research of all kinds.  And it was natural that the weaker portions of humanity be defeated, allowing for stronger civilizations.  War was the great cleanser.    

War was not alone.  There never had been Peace, but there was Love and Truth and Ego and Lust, all of which considered themselves as vital as War.  They all met annually, and 2025 felt like a special year, at least for War, Ego and Lust.  Love felt alone.  Truth started feeling alone centuries ago.

They met for a lovely lunch, around a mahogany table filled with delicious food.  Of course, none of them ate, they did not need chairs either, but they had grown fond of adopting interesting human ways.  Sitting forward, Truth looked at War. 

“War is no longer building humanity, if it ever did,” Truth told it, across the table.  “You have spread to trade.” 

“Not as much fun,” War replied. 

“Any War is great for egos,” Ego added.  “You’re doing fine work, pal.”  Love sighed.  Truth agreed it was true but denied it was good.  That got them through the appetizers of peoples’ prayers, which they enjoyed pretending to eat.  Lust made a mess of its food, ripping into it for handfuls.  Love sighed. 

Over an entre of churning souls, War boasted of its accomplishments, pushed by Ego.  Lust was busy stuffing souls in and then pooping them out.  Desert arrived–the power of throbbing hearts.  Lust stared at them with relish (which it put on the hearts for flavour.) 

“We only exist because of humans,” Truth said as they stared at their empty plates.  “If War grows too strong, there will be no humans, and we will die.” 

“There will always be humans, especially with drones,” War countered.  “We will, for a time, grow smaller.  Merely smaller.” 

Love sighed.  Ego nodded.  Lust licked its plate.  Truth finally said, “I can live with that.”          

“That is rather cynical,” Truth said, adding, “I can live with that.”  

The moral of this tale?  That War always gets its way.  Or that compromise is either good or bad.  But mostly that we create and feed powers who do not deserve us.   

Peace In Our Time

Peace in our time was finally achieved.  It is a strange tale. 

In an alternate universe, Earth’s leaders believed war was needed, that war was good–destroying the old meant building the new (though most of the new was identical to the old.)  Democracies and  autocracies thrived—they were just, cursed with implacable enemies. War was forced on the leaders, even when they attacked first.

Okay, not an alternate universe. 

Into our world (this will require a suspension of belief) rose Peace.  Peace was created by people who wanted Peace, needed Peace, wanted their children to live in a world without missiles and drones and bombs.  Peace soon became a powerful force which could not be denied.  People prayed for peace, even in churches which once supported warrior Popes.    

Feeling threatened, our world’s leaders invited Peace to address them (while secretly researching ways to kill it.)  They offered Peace a seat at the table (they’d electrified the chair.)  Peace told them of the joys of no conflicts, more food, more happiness (they saw little future in that.) 

Most folks supported Peace but a sizable number yearned for war.  The leaders used all their governments’ advertising and social media to promote war, in a desperate act.  Which was when Manifest Destiny lumbered into view. 

Peace in our time was achieved by Peace switching the world to Life Saving Time, under which when war was attempted time backed up 24 hours, so attacks were impossible.     

Regime Change

Power was irresistible to the Peace President, whose definition of being a Peace President including killing enemies (that created peace.)  He had his military kill drug runners in speedboats instead of simply arresting them.  He upped the ante by having his military invade a country and arrest its leader, bringing him back in the dead of night to the President’s country.  Also the leader’s wife, as it was apparently a family thing.  Then he attacked another country, killing its leaders. 

Regime change is inviting, when you have power. 

The history of the world is replete with powerful civilizations, armies on the land, navies on the sea, eventually fleets of planes in the air.  They built monuments honouring themselves which dissolved into dust, forgotten or denied, to eventually be replaced by new monuments. 

Power’s lure is undeniable, history’s failures repeated, people decimated.  Power is a disease.  It is Gollum’s ring.  It is the ego beast, slumbering towards us, buried inside, needing only temptation to claw free.    

Regime change is not difficult when you have enough missiles.  It is easy.  All you have to do is press a button. 

What happens after?  Perhaps you press another button.   

Wars, Gods and Insects

History demonstrates people try to solve problems by blowing them up.  At first clubs and spears were used, then war planes and tanks, then atomic bombs, then satellites and drones.  The Gods were pleased.  The Gods fought continually.  Lesser Gods started wars and had to be kept in their place.  The Gods had modelled humanity after themselves (who else?)

The progression of developing more dangerous weapons, and the willingness to use them, alarmed Stanley.  A historian, Stanley’s life was looking into the past to learn trends in the future.  What he saw these days was humanity racing towards mass destruction.  It was unavoidable—at least, Stanley believed neither he nor anyone else could stop it.  The problem was too inherent. 

Survivors were the important issue for Stanley.  How could he make their lives better after multiple local wars?  After world wars?  Who would survive?

Insects. 

Wondering how he could help rebuild civilization, Stanley invented a device enabling him to speak to insects.  Cockroaches were uninterested, but ants and honeybees became involved, engaging in extensive discussions.  Termites and other colony insects joined in.  Stanley helped them all plug into the internet and spread the word. 

As the insects grew more powerful, the Gods were alarmed.  The insects had grown sufficiently empowered to create their own God.  The insect God met with the other Gods, who were all uncomfortable sitting around the table with a bug, decided their experiment had failed, and they all fled to Mars, where there was a small human colony to sustain them. 

When the Gods fled, humans were freed from their influence.  Wars abruptly stopped, arms production dropped, food production increased–except for insecticides, of course, which were banned, a negotiation with the insect civilizations which dominated the world. 

The world was better.  The bugs made better use of the internet, there was no pollution and no fake elections.       

Golden Donald

From his earliest days, Donald saw himself as golden.  Destined for greatness, he was.  His dad raised him into wealth and privilege.  He dyed his hair blonde, used tanning spray to turn his skin gold.  His dinner plates were decorated with gold leaf, most everything around him was gold, including his toilets.  When Donald flushed, his precious fluids were stored in a large vat, became fertilizer for hay which his cows ate and then he ate the cows, on a bun with cheese. 

Donald strode the land, in his limousine.  He flew over it, in his private jet.  He bragged he could shoot anyone on the street and get away with it.  Not everything he touched was gold.  Many of his businesses failed and his reputation was closer to lead, but sycophants told him he was still gold.  

His reputation improved when he starred in a reality show where he was a golden prince of commerce.  He entered politics and remained golden, no matter what scandal in his personal life, no matter how bullying his actions.  He went from zero to elected leader of the nation.  Donald then launched himself into space.  Orbiting the Earth, Donald left the space craft to be among the stars, surrounded by drones displaying his face for everyone on Earth to worship. 

He felt fulfilled, at least until the gold seals on his gold foil spacesuit disintegrated. 

The blip of Donald’s implosion was visible on earth as a brief blip of gold, twinkling in his face’s eye. 

The Lure of Sycophancy

We are all, Carl believed, sycophants.  What we personally believed meant little in real life because to please colleagues, friends and family we normally agree, rarely argue.  In his early twenties, Carl decided that greasing the wheels worked as an amateur–why not go professional?

Sycophancy offered many careers everywhere.  Getting into corporations was difficult so Carl began by volunteering for a local ambitious politician.  Carl agreed with everything the politician said, became invaluable, then quickly progressed to work for an ambitious federal politician.  He created attacks on the politician’s enemies and everything was on the table: personal history, racism, sexism, classism–plenty of isms. 

Carl soon had power and money.  He ordered people deported, stopped funding for health and environmental research, all to please his boss.  He was now a professional sycophant. 

His work did change him–he grew horns.  And a dark mustache and trim goatee.  And fangs.  He found it difficult to brush the fangs without damaging his toothbrush, and he had to brush after kissing a political enemy’s butt, then sinking his teeth in deep and drinking.  Eventually he even sucked his boss’ butt while kissing it. 

Amateur sycophancy rarely runs deep.  Professional sycophancy?  A way of life.  Carl retired a success. The moral?  It is not reassuring, but Carl’s success is the way life often is.  In this age especially, sycophants prosper.

The real moral?  Watch your butt. 

The Seventh Commandment, Revisited

The Christian God was increasingly unhappy with how His flock interpreted His commands.  The other Gods did not have strict rules but the Christian God did.  Specifically, He gave His followers ten commandments, yet His believers broke them all, some regularly.

God felt the worst problems lay with His Seventh Commandment.  Humans could do many things, at least once.  But Thou Shalt Not Kill was clear, with no qualifications.  Yet God saw politicians leading prayer breakfasts in the morning and declaring war in the afternoon.

God considered rewrites. 

Thou Shalt Not Kill But In Self-Defense.  But why give them an excuse?  Thou Shalt Not Kill But If Thou Art A World Leader.  Then the killing would never stop.  Thou Shalt Not Kill Unless I Say You Can.  He would always refuse, but too many already lied about talking with Him. 

Rewording would not solve the problem.  The problem was His flawed creations.  He would have to start all over again.  He understood the irony as he introduced massive floods and plagues and an enormous meteor from space, killing His human creations.  After all, He invented irony.

The Lure of Sycophancy

We are all, Carl believed, sycophants.  What we personally believed meant little in real life because to please colleagues, friends and family we normally agree, rarely argue.  In his early twenties, Carl decided that greasing the wheels worked as an amateur–why not go professional?

Sycophancy offered many careers everywhere.  Getting into corporations was difficult so Carl began by volunteering for a local ambitious politician.  Carl agreed with everything the politician said, became invaluable, then quickly progressed to work for an ambitious federal politician.  He created attacks on the politician’s enemies and everything was on the table: personal history, racism, sexism, classism–plenty of isms. 

Carl soon had power and money.  He ordered people deported, stopped funding for health and environmental research, all to please his boss.  He was now a professional sycophant. 

His work did change him–he grew horns.  And a dark mustache and trim goatee.  And fangs.  He found it difficult to brush the fangs without damaging his toothbrush, and he had to brush after kissing a political enemy’s butt, then sinking his teeth in deep and drinking.  Eventually he even sucked his boss’ butt while kissing it. 

Amateur sycophancy rarely runs deep.  Professional sycophancy?  A way of life.  Carl retired a success. The moral?  It is not reassuring, but Carl’s success is the way life often is.  In this age especially, sycophants prosper.

Another moral is watch your butt.