Property of Brandon Stahl. No riding allowed.

If I Only Had Weapons of Mass Destruction

I like to think that if I had weapons of mass destruction, I wouldn't hide them. I'd brag about them constantly. I'd tell my friends "hey, friends, I've got weapons of mass destruction." I'd invite them over to my place to drink beer and play poker. Later, I'd show them my weapons of mass destruction, describing each one in detail. "This one gets 1,000 miles to a gallon." I'd even ride one like that guy in Dr. Strangelove. "Wah-Hoo!" I'd yell, waving my imaginary cowboy hat. They would get jealous and ask, "hey, can I ride that, too?" But I'd tell them no, and make up some sort of excuse as to why they couldn't. "The seat is custom built for me. It wouldn't fit you."

They would go home in awe and envy of my weapons. That would make for a successful evening, regardless of how I fared at poker.

I would probably have to buy a very large house or maybe even a warehouse to store my weapons of mass destruction. I'm guessing an acre or two, because I wouldn't want just one, but more like 50 or 60. I'd want all kinds of weapons, from biological to nuclear, so I'd probably even have to have several warehouses, and perhaps even dig a large moat to surround the warehouses, just because I'm keen on the medieval classics.

The cost to keep these warehouses and the moat wouldn't be cheap, as you might imagine. I bet you'd need a team of security experts to makes sure that no one breaks into the warehouse and rides the weapons of mass destruction like that guy in Dr. Strangelove.

You also have to figure that the security experts would want food, heat and air conditioning in the summer, to keep them comfortable while they're guarding my beloved weapons of mass destruction from unwanted bomb riders. They'll also likely want guns and ammo, and a subscription to Guns and Ammo magazine that would graphically illustrate how to use their new equipment.

And if I'm going to spend all this money on all these things, god dammit I'm going to publicize that I've got all these warehouses of mass destruction. I'm going to take out full-page ads in the New York Times, buy airtime on the Super Bowl, put up billboards telling passing motorists that "Weapons of mass destruction are just five miles away! Exit 421, right next to the Waffle House." Yes, I would build my weapons warehouse right next to a Waffle House, because I think the irony would only be too fitting.

I would hold circuses and carnivals for my weapons of mass destruction. I'd charge admission so that everyone could see them. Outside of the moat and warehouses I'd give little kids rides on elephants, and they could ride those like bombs. I'd hire the weapons of mass destruction dancers, and have at weapons of mass destruction fireworks show at night. Later, when all the tourists go home, me and my special lady would make sweet, sweet love atop the weapons. We would not stop until dawn, though I would constantly wonder: does she love me for me, or does she love me for my weapons of mass destruction?

It's times like these that I can't help but wonder about Saddam Hussein and his weapons of mass destruction. The United States, nay, the rest of the world has been searching for them for months now and thus far they haven't found so much as a paint can full of anthrax. There have been no gigantic warehouses, no fairs or circuses or billboards announcing their exact whereabouts. The world sits in breathless anticipation, awaiting their unveiling, hoping to catch just a small glimpse of their splendor.

I'm not doubting that Saddam has them, I just have to wonder: why did he never tell anyone about them? Why not celebrate them like I would?

I bet he just got greedy and paranoid, worried that too many people would want to ride them like that guy in Dr. Strangelove. Maybe he figured if people never knew about them, then maybe he wouldn't have to be saddled with that burden.

Something like that could drive a man crazy. I hope that never happens to me.

-Brandon Stahl
This article previously appeared on Knotmag.com