Talking World War Three Blues

Mountain Musings with Uncle Mott
Talking World War Three Blues

Ever since Putin started waving his nuclear sword, threatening to unleash the Genie in the bottle and use tactical nuclear (or “nucular,” as George W. Bush would say) weapons in Ukraine, I’ve been having dreams about Armageddon. Well, we’ve all gotta go someday, I figured.
One time ago a crazy dream came to me, I dreamt I was walkin’ into Word War Three. I went to the doctor the very next day to see what kinda words he could say. He said it was a bad dream, I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, though, them old dreams are only in your head. I said, hold it Doc, a World War passed through my brain. He said, nurse get your pad, this boy’s insane. He grabbed my arm, I said ouch as I landed on the psychiatric couch. He said, tell me about it. Well, the whole thing started at three o’clock fast, it was all over by quarter past. (Talking World War Three Blues – Bob Dylan – 1963)
It seems to me that old man Putin (or “Pootty,” as Dubya would say) is off his rocker, if you know what I mean. I mean, you’ve gotta be nuts to do such a thing. I guess that’s why lots of Russians are catching the next plane to anywhere to avoid being drafted into the Russian Army, only to become cannon fodder for Putin’s war. “Hey Pootty,” I said, “why don’t you hop on your white steed and ride it down Kremlin Blvd. with your shirt off to demonstrate your masculinity…Not!” He retorted, “Get off my back, Uncle Mott.” That’s strange, how did he know my name? He must have seen it in The Alpine Mountaineer. “Hey Aaron, cancel Pootty’s subscription, please.”
I think it may be time to start digging a fallout shelter beneath the grassy knoll in my backyard. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt. Guess I need to head down to Goodwin’s and stock up on frozen pizza, string beans and beer, lots of it, until the coast is clear and the nucular… opps, excuse me, I meant to say “nuclear” fallout subsides. In case I get locked out of the shelter, I had better go down to Ace and get a certified fallout shelter bell with a lifetime guarantee.
Well, I rang the fallout shelter bell and leaned my head and gave a yell. Give me a string bean, I’m a hungry man. A shotgun fired and away I ran. I don’t blame them too much, though, they didn’t know me. Down at the corner hot dog stand I seen a man, I said, “Howdy friend, I guess there’s just us two.” He screamed a bit and away he flew; thought I was a Communist. Well, I seen a Cadillac window uptown and there was nobody around. I got into the driver’s seat and I drove down to 42nd Street in my Cadillac. Good car to drive after a war.
Keep it flyin’,
Uncle Mott