8 years, 1 week, and 4 days ago, a petulant, shirtless cowboy stole a part of the world. 8 days ago, in the sucking vacuum of accountability, he grinned, and stole peace itself.
I am afraid that if we fail to act now, perhaps even if we do, Crimea will become my generation’s Alsace-Lorraine. The Helt may be our Lusitania. I pray to God my generation will have no Ypres, or Stalingrad. Because my generation will have no Hiroshima. Our Nagasaki will be called Armageddon.
A mollycoddled tyrant’s ego, bruised by the threat of being forgotten, scribbled his name in the wet cement of history by plowing fields with bombs in order to take what never was his. Like an ornery child twisting the plastic legs of his toy soldiers, he grinned as we braced.
While the caravan is blocked, while the line is thin, while the front is manageable, we must end this dough-faced tantrum. If history has taught us anything, it should be that appeasement, toothless threats, and all the milquetoast awareness in the world is nothing but a glass sword. When murderous entitlement snuffs out the lives of school children, when an incorrigible blowhard pops the skulls of his own soldiers for nothing more than recognition, when the world itself is strangled thin by the loaded threats of one frightened philistine, what is freedom then?
From what am I free? What is personal sovereignty in a world where a single pale milksop can shake his fat knuckles at a peaceful sky and threaten to rain nuclear death across the globe because we grew bored of his endless brinksmanship.