Because I am a scientific genius to which the word ‘morality’ is only associated with some second grade spelling difficulties, I have come up with ideas for weapons that can further increase the destructive capacities of modern warfare. Because some men just wants to watch the world burn in a storm of penguin intestines, exploding chainsaws and flying trouts, I am making some of my ideas available for the general public, who should feel encouraged to apply them at will.
This one is so simple, yet devastatingly genial, that it is a wonder that no military has adopted it yet. The premise is as follows: You take a rocket. You attach chainsaws to those rockets, or find a way to load a rocket with chainsaws. You start the chainsaws, and invent a contraption that ensures they keep on running. You fire the chainsaw-rocket in the general direction of the enemy. You lean back and watch the chainsaw-rocket do death. You light a cigar.
Penguin Minesweepers/Suicide Bombers
Anyone who has watched penguins waddling about can testify that even though it’s their only skill, they do it well. So, when faced with a minefield, who better to send than a bunch of mindless, wandering penguins across. Granted, a few will perish due to a bad case of being exploded to death. But then again, a few will also make it across. Upon which your enemies, who’ll no doubt find them absolutely adorable, will greet them enthusiastically. At which point you say to yourself, possibly aloud: ‘Surprise, bitch,’ and push the detonator button that triggers the explosives attached to the penguin.
Plus, they’re adorable to look at when they walk, bringing a sense of aesthetics and beauty to the brutal, senseless carnage that is war.
Imagine yourselves in the heat of battle. The blood, the noise, the terror. All you can see and hear is a mix of mud, intestines and loud bangs. Your comrades are screaming and flailing aimlessly about after flying chainsaws has cut off their limbs. An ex-penguin’s insides are smeared all over you after one of them exploded in your face. The word ‘humanity’ has lost all meaning to you, all that keeps you going is the fear-induced rush of adrenaline and the code of loyalty that has been hammered into your skull. Imagine that you in this state of physical, emotional and existential agony and devastation are hit in the face by a flapping, wet trout.
There is no keeping on fighting after that. Faced with the most explicit statement of the pointless and surreal nature of existence, one does not simply carry on. Being on the receptive end of a flying fish will Oh no. You can merely stare blankly into space, realizing that the only reasonable sentiment is ‘fuck it’, and go home your mother.