AP, 15 February 2008: Taking a page from Hollywood science fiction, the Pentagon said Thursday it will try to shoot down a dying, bus-size U.S. spy satellite loaded with toxic fuel on a collision course with the Earth. The military hopes to smash the satellite as soon as next week—just before it enters Earth's atmosphere—with a single missile fired from a Navy cruiser in the northern Pacific Ocean. Military and administration officials said the satellite is carrying fuel called hydrazine that could injure or even kill people who are near it when it hits the ground.Left alone, the satellite would be expected to hit Earth during the first week of March. About half of the 5,000-pound spacecraft would be expected to survive its blazing descent through the atmosphere and would scatter debris over several hundred miles. If the missile shot is successful, officials said, much of the debris would burn up as it fell. They said they could not estimate how much would make it through the atmosphere. They said the largest piece that would survive re-entry would be the spherical fuel tank, which is about 40 inches wide—assuming it is not hit directly by the missile.
I’ve read three or four articles about this in the last couple of weeks. . .each time I read about it, I think: you got this satellite orbiting around up there, and there’s a little chunk of it, maybe a piece of the fuel tank or whatever, there’s this little chunk of it that has somebody’s name written on it. . .there’s somebody out there, going about their life, maybe right now sitting on the crapper, bowels aching, and they only have a few days left. . .their world will end when a chunk of that satellite finds them. . .makes its way through the atmosphere, survives the re-entry, and finds that one unlucky soul. . .
Sure, the odds must be pretty high. . .I’m no mathematician. . .most of the debris will likely fall into the ocean. . .and even most of our landmasses are unoccupied. . .but there’s a chance, however slight, that right now somebody’s days, hours are numbered.
Sure, we all are going to die, we all live with no certainty tomorrow will come. . .but stories like this, stories about dying satellites crashing to earth, make me stop and really ponder the fact.
That satellite up there is circling around. . .like a buzzard circling around. . .that satellite might be somebody’s own personal mechanical buzzard.
After giving it some consideration, I am pretty confident that robot buzzard isn’t circling me. I’m ready to die. I have certain beliefs—whether they are right or wrong isn’t even an issue, anymore, for me. . .I am convinced of them—so I am ready to go. So I figure that metallic monster up there, that worn-out *All-Seeing Amerikan Eye* up there, a little piece of it is going to fall on somebody who ain’t ready to go. . .
I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven. . .
There is an undeniable cruel cosmic poetry that dooms most to an unfortunate fate. Do not misunderstand, I lay no charge against God. . .man writes his own poetry. . .the Poetry of The Fall. . .now man’s broken-down attempt at omniscience, the spy satellite, may be about to come crashing down on someone. . .
What if it is someone who is reading these very words?
Satellite or no satellite, anybody we meet may be mere moments from death. Turn your head and look at somebody. . .they could be dead in the blink of an eye. . .and yet it doesn’t really seem to be that important, does it? We feel more angst if our team loses the *Big Game,* or if we get a hole in our favorite shirt. . .ha ha ha. Strange.
It may be people’s fear of death is so great, all consideration of it is repressed to such a degree it cannot be processed. Or, it may simply seem too unreal to the living. For some, life may be so disappointing, death doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Who knows? For whatever reason, death is largely ignored by the culture.
People, at least people here in our Leisure Class, are very interested in even the smallest details of their own lives. . .they make so many plans, want to achieve certain things. . .they are careful for money. . .they take their jobs seriously. . .some of the Leisurely are even careful for the planet. . .the Green people. . .contemplating the death of the planet seems to agitate them. . .but their own deaths?
Maybe some people, every now and then, before they fall asleep at night, when they aren’t in full control of their thoughts, maybe for a second their death escapes from their subconscious. . .and they shiver. Maybe.
But what if it’s somebody reading these words right now? What if a section of that satellite is zeroing in on them? What could I say to such a person, to help them ready themselves for their death?
I don’t know most of the people who stumble across this page. As far as I know, there is only one person who reads this thing that I have actually met in person. . .and I haven’t seen him in over twenty years. There’s maybe a dozen I know a little bit about through email. . .
To these people, what can I say?
I hope the satellite doesn’t hit the Bronx. . .there’s a real nice Satanist over there, and I hope she’s spared. . .but, friend, if you’re walking back to your apartment Monday or Tuesday, and you happen to look up at the sky and see a little fireball headed your way? I don’t know. . .what was it Jim Jones said? To me death is not a fearful thing. It's living that's cursed.
You there, in North Carolina. . .if it’s you, for your sake, I just hope that piece of satellite tastes like Rosario Dawson’s feet. . .
A little further south, in South Carolina, well, at least you won’t have to see Obama in the White House. . .
Over in Denmark, man, it would be kind of ironic, no? You do the right thing, flee Amerika, only to have her *All Seeing Eye* track you down. . .
The rest of you? I have no idea who you are. . .though I know about 40% of the people who come here want to see Susan Sarandon nude. . .
Maybe some of you, after you’re done doing what you do with that picture of Sarandon, after you’ve cleaned up and maybe had a little snack or whatever, maybe some of you will actually visit the current page. . .what can I tell you, if it’s one of you? What can I tell you, if it’s one of you about to become a human satellite receiver?
I was actually in Denmark, once, myself, many years ago. I was 17 years old, in Copenhagen. . .walking toward Tivoli Garden. I saw a truck hit an old man on a bicycle. The poor old bastard went flying. I was the first person to get to the old man. I can still recall every detail. He had a huge crack in his head, blood flowing out at a deathly rate. The old man looked at me. . .what a sad expression on his face. . .he had to know it was all over. . .the old man never cried, never even whimpered. Soon a lot of other people gathered around. . .they started squawking in Danish. . .I don't know what the hell they were saying. An ambulance came. . .they loaded the old geezer on a stretcher. . .as they began to cart him away, he looked at me and said something, barely audible. I just nodded at him as they loaded him in the ambulance. . .then he was gone. I was probably the last guy on earth he ever spoke to. I have wondered for years and years what the old guy was saying. The sound waves are still probably out there somewhere, traveling through space, waiting to be understood.
I would have liked to have told that old guy in Copenhagen something before he was carried away, carried over to the other side. Of course, I don’t speak Danish, anyway, so what could I have said? Then again, don’t doubt the supernatural. . .he could have heard whatever I said in his own language. It would have been a trifle, for God. But, I had nothing to say. Now one of you may be about to be flattened by a dead satellite’s fuel tank, or drenched in hydrazine. . .what can I say to you?
When Jesus was on the cross, three hours or so from His own death, there were with him two others being crucified. . .one of them laughed at Jesus, as most do. It’s understandable, really, the leap of faith is beyond most. But the other fellow looked at Christ. . .he looked at Christ out of the shadow of his own death, and he saw something. . .he saw the truth. . .it was as if a satellite were beaming the truth directly into his brain. . .he looked at Christ out of the shadow of his own death, and he said:
Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom. . .
So, if you look up at the sky Monday or Tuesday, and see a fireball heading your way, I hope you see, out of the shadow of your own death, Jesus on the cross, and I hope your last words are:
Lord, remember me. . .
I was actually in Denmark, once, myself, many years ago. I was 17 years old, in Copenhagen. . .walking toward Tivoli Garden. I saw a truck hit an old man on a bicycle. The poor old bastard went flying. I was the first person to get to the old man. I can still recall every detail. He had a huge crack in his head, blood flowing out at a deathly rate. The old man looked at me. . .what a sad expression on his face. . .he had to know it was all over. . .the old man never cried, never even whimpered. Soon a lot of other people gathered around. . .they started squawking in Danish. . .I don't know what the hell they were saying. An ambulance came. . .they loaded the old geezer on a stretcher. . .as they began to cart him away, he looked at me and said something, barely audible. I just nodded at him as they loaded him in the ambulance. . .then he was gone. I was probably the last guy on earth he ever spoke to. I have wondered for years and years what the old guy was saying. The sound waves are still probably out there somewhere, traveling through space, waiting to be understood.
I would have liked to have told that old guy in Copenhagen something before he was carried away, carried over to the other side. Of course, I don’t speak Danish, anyway, so what could I have said? Then again, don’t doubt the supernatural. . .he could have heard whatever I said in his own language. It would have been a trifle, for God. But, I had nothing to say. Now one of you may be about to be flattened by a dead satellite’s fuel tank, or drenched in hydrazine. . .what can I say to you?
When Jesus was on the cross, three hours or so from His own death, there were with him two others being crucified. . .one of them laughed at Jesus, as most do. It’s understandable, really, the leap of faith is beyond most. But the other fellow looked at Christ. . .he looked at Christ out of the shadow of his own death, and he saw something. . .he saw the truth. . .it was as if a satellite were beaming the truth directly into his brain. . .he looked at Christ out of the shadow of his own death, and he said:
Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom. . .
So, if you look up at the sky Monday or Tuesday, and see a fireball heading your way, I hope you see, out of the shadow of your own death, Jesus on the cross, and I hope your last words are:
Lord, remember me. . .
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