Tick Tock Tick Tock

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I'm sorry, I don't have time for a column today. I just found out I have fourteen days to live.

And really, you don't have time to READ the column. You've got fourteen days to live, too. We've all got fourteen days to live. And none of us really want to spend the last two weeks of our lives fucking around on the Internet, do we? I know I don't. Two weeks to live and you think I'm going to spend it writing a web-column? I think not.

And we all have Stephen Rademaker to thank. Were it not for him, we would spend the next fourteen days worrying about global warming, arguing over evolution, trying to keep gay people out of college, and wondering if the Playstation 3 will really be worth six hundred bucks. But none of that matters, because Iran's going to nuke us in fourteen days.

Now, some fo you might think that trusting the Assistant Secretary of State for International Security and Nonproliferation, in the Bush administration to be a bad idea. And it's true that these people have been a bit off in their time estimates in the past. But with only fourteen days left to live, we don't have time to quibble over details.

You see, Iran needs only 54,000 centrifuges to produce enough uranium to build a nuclear bomb. And according to Rademaker, the Iranians have already constructed a facility big enough to hold, you guessed it, 54,000 centrifuges. And with those centrifuges, it would take just sixteen days to enrich enough uranium for a bomb. The story appeared two days ago, which gives us all a scant TWO WEEKS TO LIVE.

And in the spirit of the limited time we all have on this soon-to-be irradiated country, where the few mutant survivors will be forced to convert to Islam and fight off twenty-foot cockroaches while facing east five times a day, I would like to apologize for time I would not have wasted had I known how close we actually were to obliteration.

For example, I would not, had I known they were my last days on earth, spent any of them watching "Yo Momma" on MTV. No Wilmer Valderrama, no ratio of one funny joke to ten retreads from Don Rickles Book Of Snaps, no Rockstar-oughta-sue opening credits. None of it. If I've got another forty, fifty years in me, that's one thing. But as 0.14% of my remaining lifespan? There's better ways I can spend that half hour.

Similarly, that Filet O' Fish I had the other day? Had I been carping one fourteenth of a diem, I would have replaced McDonalds' favorite Lenten promotional item with something actually made out of fish. Without chees eon it. I didn't know, because I hadn't been enlightened on the imminent threat that is Nuclear Iran, but still. One Filet O' Fish has a lifetime's worth of tartar sauce on it.

And that's a normal lifetime, not an "oh shit Iran's got an empty Home Depot they've converted into a secret nuclear bunker and it's big enough to hold all the centrifuges they'd need to get the materials to make one small bomb they wouldn't dare lob at the United States because while they may be crazy fundamentalist motherfuckers they can still count warheads and anyway they still need 53,820 more centrifuges and the last time I checked Iran wasn't exactly crawling with Centrifuges 'R' Us outlets but still we're all gonna die unless Big Daddy Dubya whips his big military hwang out sometime in the next thirteen days" lifetime.

That's a lot of fucking tartar sauce, is what I'm trying to say here.