SodaHead - Justin's Questions

"Undeniable Proof" of the Existence of God?

2009-09-19T18:29:56Z

"Undeniable Proof" of the Existence of God?

7 answers, 0 raves

I was presented with an interesting theory which was claimed to be the ultimate, definitive proof of God. The theory goes like this: The probability of life happening by chance is equivalent to a tornado tearing through a junkyard and perfectly assembling a BOEING 747, thus, we must have had a creator. This is actually a widely utilized argument, presumably first presented by Fred Hoyle, by creationists. I thought about this, researched, and here is what I have to say in response to the “definitive proof of God.” A) “Chance” is not the logical alternative to Creationism. As a matter of fact, chance contradicts Natural Selection just as much as it contradicts creationism. Natural Selection is a simple, elegant solution to existence which has absolutely nothing to do with chance and everything to do with survival of traits better suited for survival (which is an absolutely logical and sound theory). Traits that are better equipped to survive, survive. Does that have anything to do with chance? No. Thus, chance is NOT the plausible alternative to creationism, and when chance fails, creationism does not win by default. B) Lets say that there are a billion billion planets out there (actually a modest assumption according to most scientific models) and that the beginning of life on any of these planets actually WAS a highly improbable occurrence. We could say that the chances of a planet having life are a billion to one. This would still allow for life on a billion planets! Furthermore, we would only need the probability of life on a single planet in a billion billion to justify, scientifically, our existence. Now think of this principle (Anthropic Principle) on a molecular level. The possibilities and probabilities are greater than you think. C) Lastly, if, for the sake of arguments, the occurrence of life WAS as unlikely as a BOEING 747, then the existence of a God complicated enough to transcend realms of time and space, break physical laws, hear all of our prayers simultaneously etc. etc. would be INFINITELY LESS LIKELY than the accidental creation of a BOEING 747. It would be equivalent of the same tornado creating a super computer with all possible knowledge, the ultimate software of the past, present, future, and all other realms and dimensions, all planes of possibility already calculated and saved onto a hard-drive. The computer would also be able to infinitely influence existence because of its immense power. This is extremely unlikely. The probability could be calculated to zero. Thus, God doesn’t exist. Sorry creationists, try another one. Yes? Or am I missing something here?

Yes.	71% (5 answers)
You are missing something...	29% (2 answers)

Untitled Novel: Chapter One. Feedback Please. (MATURE CONTENT 18+)

2008-12-08T05:05:50Z

Untitled Novel: Chapter One. Feedback Please. (MATURE CONTENT 18+)

4 answers, 0 raves

hapter One She walked right through the door on grasshopper legs, jeans pulled drum-skin tight and stale breath of burning animal flesh. “God” I thought, “What a dreamer”. She moved like December. Stiff, cold; makes your cheeks red and teeth chatter. My hands gripped the desk and beads of sweat soaked through my sleeve. She let in smoke from the street; came in with a black cloud, face grey as junk and yellow grease under the lids, lipstick stroke and mustard gas perfume. I coughed up a big, black chunk and spat it in the rusty corner can. I had gotten Sick on the air and had a dry throat. Her barbed wire hair had turned silver in the snow. “Hide me.” All she said. I showed her a broom closet filled with coffee stains and shredded newspaper and she scampered inside. Insect agility and mad, human fear turned her into a mist. A tear along the ass of her jeans snapped me back to life, broke the coma. Feet were outside, Running feet, Searching feet. I closed the door and opened a duct tape window to let the exhaust out, only let more in. Sat back down, wondering what in the hell had died in the back lot making that putrid stench. Trash cans were being thrown against concrete outside, melding with the cacophony of heated shouts. “Find that cunt!” “Come on out, purdy thhaaannnggg” Damn creatures. Soon they were gone. The room was silent except for a tick, tick ticking. Must’ve been the clock. Goddamn that smell. I tapped an old coffee cup against the edge of the wooden plank, “Welcome Home” on the side. Picture of the city, except all Mayberry and cheer. Made me smile every time. Unscrewed a Vodka and told the bitch to get out of my closet. She came out all trembling and fragile when I noticed that face. Ashtray eyes and a white scar below the lip. She would wither away any day now, made a personal note to be around when that went down. The cheap perfume stung my nostrils and gave me redeye. Lit up a smoke and offered her one. Nervous skeleton hands reached into the pack and rattled the cellophane. “What’s the name, sugar?” “Rose.” We sat for a few moments in suicide silence. Me blowing rings and her ashing on the carpet, biting those big lips till her yellow teeth were orange with makeup. Finally: “Who were those fellows out front?” “Who?” “The men you were hiding from.” “Oh. I don’t know.” “Of course.” I said. Typical big city. Everyone is a stranger. The big employers at the top of the dump are just as mystical, elusive and therefore, threatening as the stranger following your shadow on the streets. Just a mechanical parade of walking mannequins, phantom masks revealing nothing but dead eyes and defeat, submitted to the desires of the green fungus. She kept shaking but eyes stayed tearless. The iron young thing was familiar with death. One needed to be. Life is out of context without death. Dogs outside snarled and barked over the spoils of overturned trash cans. “Have a drink.” I pulled a dusty glass from the pencil drawer and polished it on my tie, tossed it to my right hand and pushed it to her corner of the desk. “Thanks.” Rose ignored the glass and sucked at the bottle, painting the mouth red. What an angel. Fallen one to. The best breed. Straight from the belly of the old, coughing beast. I stared the nasty bulge through slits in the duct tape window and tipped the bottle in loyal salute. “Where you from honey?” “Here, born and raised.” I had known that when she walked in, all frantic and wild. Been near the swamp long enough to know what kind of creatures lived there. I had asked to kill the quiet. It always makes me uneasy. She was corpse stiff. Maybe I wasn’t using the right code. Tried something else. “I like your ass.” “Thanks, but no thanks.” I didn’t piss her off at least. Just looked away, hiding those ashtray eyes. “What the hell” I thought. I reached back into the pencil drawer and pulled out a Desert Eagle .50 . Cold, polished steel sparkled in the lamp like bones in the sun. She must of smelled the oil because she Spun around with new color in those high cheekbones. Didn’t say a word, just watched me as I slipped a mag in and leveled it at her face. Going to get my kicks one way or the other. “I presume you two have met before.” “Who?” She acted casual, though I could see panic in her eyes. The ashtray was lit up in a prosthetic movie sunset. What a woman. “You and death.” I didn’t give her a moment to respond. Put a round through those cracked lips. Blasted brain matter and hair all over the cell. Head vanished and replaced by a mass of sticky flesh and skull particles. The dogs outside stopped barking. The city recoiled in what the untrained senses would believe is terror, though I knew better. The city wasn’t startled, just drinking in the pleasure. Letting the electricity hit the brain. Like a C rush; when you suck in and fall back, stare at the ceiling, the beast was savoring the flavor. Slowly, somewhere out there in the smog and dust, big rusty gears began to twist and creak again, moaning like undead lovers under the blood soaked moon. The dogs continued barking and one yelped. “Survival of the fittest” I said, wiping lipstick from the Vodka with my sleeve. Somewhere in the maw of the twisted, death apparatus, pinball machines rang and beer bottles shattered. Neon signs flickered through the smoke and ruckus casting down blues and reds on sidewalk puddles. An elderly man walked by dragging a stained trench coat begging the crowds for loose change. They staggered on, leaning on each other like inanimate, drunken cross ties. It was clearly Saturday, the big paycheck cash-in, a weeks worth of drinks on me. Toby Darwin glanced at a gold watch and battled his way through the crowd. Someone yelled “Watch it!” and threw an elbow, knocking a broad over and onto the bricks. She exploded into mad, drunken laughter and the rain painted black streaks of mascara on her cheeks. Toby left the monkeys behind and cut across the parking lot, headed for a bar painted black with a neon sign that said “The Boiler Room”. A car alarm went off somewhere followed by a series of shotgun blasts, echoing through the steel tower canyons. What a night to be alive. A big fellow in a grey tweed suit and old school bowler hat stood by the door. Toby pulled back his sleeve, showing a great purple scar that ran the length of his forearm. Tweed moved aside and let him in. Inside was morgue still. A few shady characters had taken seats in the shadows. There was one man at the bar. Toby sat next to him and ordered a draft and pulled out a roll of quarters to pay. The fellow in the next seat was covered in tight, black leather, head to toe. A ring in the suit exposed a face and forehead with a big steel plate, sewn on with wire. Rumor had it a factory explosion had cost him most of his left lobe. An expansive and ultimately pointless period in rehab facilities and mental institutions convinced the prick that he had nothing to loose and he began to climb down the ladder, into the bowels of the big bleeding monster. He found relatable freaks and discarded creatures, looking to vent on an unsuspecting world. He found the city, and dug into its guts, all the way to the SCREWs. Wasp had found that he fit in well amongst the rest of the crawling, biting insects. The drink finally arrived and the man turned to Toby. He had a high, rusty door-hinge whine and fought with words, sometimes dragging them out too long. “What you waaaaaannnnntttttt?” Toby shivered. The voice always turned him into needles. “Just the usual.” “I don’t knoowwwwww who you aaarrrrreeeeeee.” “Wasp, its me. Toby. We are in the same club, man.” Toby had expected this. Wasp had almost no memory. The leather nightmare slowly grinned and his eyes caught fire. Rows of yellow shark teeth reflected the glow outside. “Show me your scaarrrrrrr.” Reluctantly, Toby pulled up his sleeve. The throbbing scar ran wrist to who knows where. Wasp’s lizard eyes ran hungrily up and down his arm. Dragged his tongue across those pointy teeth and Toby felt the pins again. Finally, Wasp turned his face away, satisfied. “Fifteeeennn dollars.” “I know the price.” “Hooowwww do you knnoooowwwww?” Toby took a swig and dug into his coat, pulled out a greasy twenty and shoved it into those cold, leather hands. “Keep the change.” Wasp already had the vial ready. It seemed like the thing could only move fast when nobody was looking. Toby grabbed it and downed the beer, got up and walked to the door. “What a fucking creep.” Henry was a clown at Bernard’s Carnival who was assigned to operating the Ferris wheel while picking up Coke cans and keeping the rats out of the machinery on the side. Tonight was dead. There were no children, just a crazy handful of meth-heads who jumped and screamed into the suffocating haze. The bastards kept wanting to get back on the wheel. With a frown, Henry threw the switch again. Half the lights on the wheel were out, and the other half flickered. Candy wrappers and popcorn bags littered the pavement. The glow of the game stands seemed to wither and fade into the vacant lot’s abyss. Music slithered from a broken box and came out whiny and flat. Henry scanned the desolate battlefield with cold resentment. At a little over six bucks an hour, no one said you had to enjoy it. The meth-heads clambered off the wheel again making as much noise as humanly possible, said something about cotton candy and took off. Mad laughter shrank under the darkness as they disappeared. Quiet again, aside from that goddamn music. Henry rubbed his nose, smearing red and white makeup in horizontal streaks across his face and tore off his sweat-drenched wig, revealing a mass of tangled, black hair. He had to take a shit. Henry went behind one of the trailers, stumbled over something on his way back and hit his face on the concrete. “Fuck!” His scream should have echoed, but died somewhere in the stale, tomblike atmosphere between his mouth and the wall of austere skyscrapers. He got on one knee and spat, looking for blood. None in his spit, but the dim Ferris wheel lights caught some that had been there already. A puddle. Big one. And he was kneeling in the shit. “Fuck!” again. Got up and tried to slap the sticky mess from his pant legs. Ended up smearing it around a bit and getting it on his hands. Some had gotten on his face and melted in with the red makeup. Henry couldn’t see the shit, but sure could smell it. Nothing like the sick, metallic rancor of spoiled blood. Henry walked back to the trailer cursing and wiping his hands on the ass of his coveralls, came back a couple of minutes later with a flashlight and crowbar. Scanned the mess and quickly found the body, shoved up against a stack of ripped trash bags and dirty towels next to one of the outer trailers. Henry identified the remains of what he had tripped over. A stiff, severed arm. The corpse was shredded and covered with flies. Bits of skin scattered like leaves in the hot exhaust updrafts. The arms and legs had been chewed on by something big. Henry spat and turned for the trailers again, tossed the crowbar, found a pay phone bolted to a busted parking meter and dialed 911. A recorded voice answered. “This number is no (static) in servi(static) please (static)”. Henry let the phone dangle on the line and surveyed the Carnival. Where the hell was everybody? Something animal snarled off in the darkness. The meth-heads came back, laughing raucously and headed for the wheel again. Henry rolled his eyes and walked to his post, threw the switch before they had all gotten on and one grabbed a rail, screaming bloody murder as the gears rotate, lifting his skinny, flailing body into the smog. Laughter erupted from the others and Henry smiled, syrup blood mingling with the clown makeup and dripping from his cheeks. During her six years as a nurse, Dandelion had developed a strong stomach, so she had no problem hacking dead corpses to shreds. The autopsy crew found themselves shorthanded this year and Dandelion was promoted. Apparently, they needed someone with balls. On the slab tonight was a dead male, age approximately 35. GSW through the cranium from a .357 magnum. Probably done from a standing position while the victim lay facedown, judging from the bits of tar stuck in the remains of his mangled face. Mafia execution style. This guy was in deep shit. It was the last stiff of the night. The rest of the crew was on smoke break outside and making noise. Dandelion could hear them laughing and wheeling a gurney around. Dammed morons. She walked into the lab alone, grabbed a bloodstained butcher’s smock and draped it over her scrubs. Dandelion was dog tired and ready to go home; there was no time for proper procedures. She threw the cover off the body and immediately wondered what the fuck he was doing down here. This was an obvious dirt bag. Rags for clothes and bad tattoos covered the blue and mottled body. They usually don’t send the vagabonds to the lab, otherwise, Black Forest Hospital would soon find their placid, reeking halls and cubicle cells overflowing with black body bags stacked ceiling high, which might be bad for business. Maybe she should read the chart, but that would take time. Why bother? Just slice the motherfucker up and get it done with. There was a bottle of wine and a bubble bath waiting at home. She put on yellow latex gloves and grabbed scissors, cut his shirt off and immediately noticed the scar. One big purple cavern ran from sternum to crotch, shoulder to shoulder, like a great, putrid, purple crucifix. A loud crash rang outside and somebody started screaming, then laughing. One of the guys had probably fallen off the gurney. Stupid kids. Dandelion grabbed a towel from the sink and a scalpel from the tray without sanitizing. What was the point? The guy is dead. She leaned over the body and hastily ran the blade along the length and width of the cross, swabbing up the mess of thick, dead blood with the towel. After a brief moment of sawing and sponging, Dandelion pulled the purple skin back like a book and dropped the blade. She stood in shock for a moment and rushed to the intercom. “Dr. Longshanks to autopsy lab. Quick.” Gordon had her on her back and was ramming it up her ass. Fast. No mercy. The whore squealed each time he would dig in deep. He grabbed a handful of blonde hair and pumped another devastating 15 or 20 strokes and came inside her. He rolled off and sat on the edge of the mattress, fat white belly sticking out and over his knees. Gordon grabbed a pack of Camels from the bed stand. The girl was crying. “Get the fuck out of here!” He screamed. Through sobs: “C-C-Can’t I have another hit?” “Absolutely not. No need wasting more of my shit on a fucking hooker. Get out before I drag you out by your hair!” Gordon spat when he spoke and ground his yellow teeth together to fill the spaces of silence. Sobbing, she quickly gathered up her stuff and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her dancing, perfect ass. Gordon laughed. A dry and mechanical hack that ended in a series of gut wrenching rattles and wheezes. Lighting a cigarette, Gordon stared out the ceiling high penthouse window and over the flickering city lights, quivering in the invisible exhaust fumes rising from the streets and factories into the black sewage sky. The hard lines on his scarred face softened and something like a twisted smile grew out of a permanent scowl. Somewhere on the streets, a good 15 stories down a woman was screaming, leaking through the window seal in a ghoulish whisper. Gordon ashed on the heap of blankets to his left and after a laborious effort, stood, pulling his boxer shorts on. He picked a black wallet out of his jeans and slid a fifty under the bathroom door. Walked over to the living room bar by the fireplace and uncorked a bottle of Sandrone Barolo Cannubi Boschis, 1990. Took a irreverent swig of the shit and started cutting the coke with an ace of spades. Six ounces were splayed across the marble coffee table like mounds of winter diamonds. Governor Gordon dove and took a hit, no straw, painting his nose white. Danced over to the desk and sat down on a redwood throne, decorated with shrunken heads and silver crosses, spray-painted black. The hooker came out, wearing a leather skirt and an ebony, alligator skin top. She looked like hell. Makeup and tear scars scratched her cheeks. “Leave.” Gordon pointed a purple, worm finger towards the door. She looked at the white mountains on the table and gave a final, desperate sob. Turned on her heel and ran out the door, shaking her head. “Cant get a goddamn thing done with that bitch hanging around.” Gordon thumbed idly through a stack of crumbled papers on the desk in front of him. Newspaper clippings and a random stash of dossiers. The newspapers all related in some way to the SCREWs. Riots, bomb-threats, burglaries, mass suicides. A real nasty crew. Gordon’s permanent scowl grew darker and sharper with each cascading image of black and white, money sucking madness. After a couple of minuets of crackling paper and gritting teeth, a rare moment came where silence actually conquered the penthouse of the Godhead Hotel. Something had caught Gordon’s eye. A name. Rodney Striker. Gun for hire. Age thirty six and a phone number. Who had put this on his desk? Stapled to the dossier was a black and white photo of a demon. A man with no eyes. Just black pits than ran clear back to the skull. No nose either. Two vertical slits were one should have been. Skin drawn tight around the mouth, broken teeth bared in a phantom grimace. Burn scars had turned the skin to a sticky mass of boiling lava. Gordon’s face grew sharper with what could have been fear, but was more likely an anomalous cocktail of iconic loathing. Competition. He could sense it. He always had. Now he had a face to put to it. Why else would this be on his desk? He tore the photo from the staple and flipped it over. Another name, scribbled in ink. Drill. Gordon ran an index finger across the forehead of one of the grinning, shrunken heads. Picked up a gold plated phone and dialed Rodney Striker. Fluorescent lights flickered on brown, stained tiles. The narrow hallway stretched and vanished in a distant focal point between two walls littered with broken PVC bones and methane stink. Catacomb silent, except for the constant dripping of a busted pipe and the menacing buzz of convulsing electrical currents. Pravus rubbed his arm and shivered in the freezing cold. The tile was covered with frost that burned his bare feet as if he were walking on coals. Came to a door on the left and the lights in the hall went out. Spun around in panic and clawed at the knob, finally turned it and swung the door open. Damn thing creaked so loud it echoed through the empty hallways, quickly raising to a deafening crescendo of sickening shrieks that lasted for what seemed an eternity. Inside the cell, one of the two mattresses was already occupied. A young man with a beard and bald patches was twisting and shaking in nightmares, bathed in yellow streetlight that came flooding in through the bulletproof glass. Heroin withdrawals are a bitch. Pravus shuddered and quietly slunk to his side of the room. Sitting silently upright on the edge of his mattress and rubbing arms, Pravus watched the city through the smeared windows. A voice, from somewhere in the shadowed corners: “You know they are coming.” Pravus looked over to the other bed. The man was still shifting on the protesting mattress, but asleep. The voice wasn’t his, but Pravus had already known that. It was just something he could never get use to. “You know that they are near.” “Yes.” Pravus whispered, tears swelling in his weary eyes. “I know.” The voice rose from the shadows and to the ceiling, louder and vibrating the cell. The other man coughed and suddenly fell still. “You must get out. Must find a way. You know what they will do.” “Where would I go?” “Search for the cross.” Pravus looked up. Something new. He hadn’t heard this before. “The cross?” “Look for the cross.” Footsteps down the hall. Heavy footsteps. Pravus tucked his head between his knees and fought back tears. “God no. Please help me.” Jack Freeman did an enthusiastic tango in the hot, sticky alleyway. One drawn out slide and a quick jerk. Stop. Start again. Flames licked the night sky behind his flailing profile but somehow looked muffled and dull quivering through the thick fumes. A gas station was going to be a smoldering pile of cinders within a couple of hours. Stupid fucking prick at the desk should have kept his trap shut. Said something cute about Freeman’s bad eye. The one sewn shut due to a rough childhood and a broken bottleneck. Jack had jumped over the counter, strangled the bastard with a telephone chord, poured some 5W-30 over the fresh corpse and lit a match. Jack lost interest in dancing and sporadically burst into a silent sprint down the remainder alleyway and onto Wolf Street. Took a left and headed towards the complexes. Time to get down to business. Stopped under a street sign at a lonely, unlit corner, decorated by a solitary steel mesh trash can. Scanned the dying street and took a drag from a cigarette. Stood like that for damn well near an hour. Finally, the lights in 234 went out. It was a dump. Paint peeled from the frame, showing a black, water damaged skeleton. There was no car in the driveway. A shopping cart with three wheels, loaded with trash. Far off to Jacks left a child’s scream sliced through the so-called air followed by a thud and old man’s laughter. Came through the warped walls of a house similar to 234, only painted yellow. Jack emitted a hoarse giggle and skipped across the street. He loved this neighborhood. The projects really were the heart of the beast, the bleeding underbelly of the horrible machine, the cancerous marrow that kept the yellow bones alive. And they had no idea. Besides, it was always likely that these people had guns. Jack tittered as he hopped onto the porch in front of the torn screen door of 234. Subtlety wouldn’t be necessary this time. Freeman couldn’t keep his hands from trembling as adrenaline pumped through his cold mechanisms. It would be a blind rush as soon as the door was opened, so Jack savored the tension. Grinned from ear to ear and looked up to the sky. Screamed in ecstasy and scared a family of rats from under the shattered porch who skittered off into the darkness. Rolled up the sleeves of his charred sweater, revealing arm-length scars, sprouting from the wrists like two leave-less, purple trees. Time to begin. Shoulder first, Jack shattered the screen and flimsy plywood door with ease. Burst into the dark house, nearly tripping over a duct-tape couch littered with bottles of Bourbon and headed for the kitchen to his left. Quickly found a steak knife among the piles of soiled dishes and headed for the back, where the bedrooms probably were. Dodged an open closet door and tore down the hallway. Met a man rushing from a right doorway, midway with a shotgun. Jack was close enough he could smell the stagnant breath above the ambiance of cigarettes and old booze. Could’ve flayed him with a knife but hung back. Make things exciting. Jack jumped straight backwards into the living room and rolled over the duct-tape couch just as a shotgun blast disintegrated a TV set into a nebula of diamonds and molten plastic. Another one pounded through the couch, shooting springs, splinters and stuffing that caught Jack’s left ear. Squealing in a Sadomasochist shriek, Jack surged into the air, over the couch and into the hallway, mad with adrenaline and waving the knife. The man in the hall froze in panic and fumbled with two more shells until Jack reached him and drove the steak knife into his stomach. Paused and yanked it up to his sternum. Hot blood spilt onto his bare arms and splashed in a pile of intestines onto the brown carpet. The man’s face was still froze with terror. Spat crimson onto Jack’s face and collapsed. Freeman giggled and began to tango in the quickly accumulating cocktail of blood and grey guts. One drawn out slide, and a quick step. Stop. Squish. Splatter.

like	100% (4 answers)
dislike	0% (0 answers)

Frequent Sodahead Polls: Which resurfacing subject are you sick of most?

2008-03-03T23:23:46Z

Frequent Sodahead Polls: Which resurfacing subject are you sick of most?

30 answers, +6 raves

None

the 2008 Presidential Campaigns	10% (3 answers)
Miley Cyrus/ Hanna Montana	57% (17 answers)
Who is hotter? ___ or ___	13% (4 answers)
Global Warming	0% (0 answers)
Other (please explain)	20% (6 answers)

Unions: A Forgotten American Necessity or Useless Burden?

2008-02-22T21:51:06Z

Unions: A Forgotten American Necessity or Useless Burden?

11 answers, +1 raves

Theodore Roosevelt believed firmly that unions were an absolute necessity in American politics. Perhaps if unions had the power that they did in the late 19th century, employees could play an active role in keeping big business in check, while the big businesses buy government support with political contributions. Obviously, the government is not regulating big contributors (oil for instance), so should we? By this sense, wouldn’t the workforce therefore have a more important role in politics?

Unions are vital and should be given more power. (please comment)	45% (5 answers)
No unions are neccessary anymore. (please comment)	55% (6 answers)

Battle of the Media II

2008-02-12T03:04:48Z

Battle of the Media II

3 answers, +1 raves

Unkown "(JS Bach)Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (On Accordion!)" Tom Waits "Come On Up to the House"

Tom Waits "Come On Up to the House"	33% (1 answers)
Unkown "(JS Bach)Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (On Accordion!)"	67% (2 answers)

The Bush Administration’s Revolution in Foreign Policy: a Threat to America’s Future?

2008-02-12T01:48:17Z

The Bush Administration’s Revolution in Foreign Policy: a Threat to America’s Future?

3 answers, +2 raves

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines the term “Unilateral” as the following: “1. Of, on, pertaining to, involving or affecting only one side. 2. Obligating only one of two or more parties, nations, or persons, as a contract or agreement. 3. Emphasizing or recognizing only one side of a subject.” To the average American citizen familiar with issues abroad involving the United States and the late George W. Bush administration, similarities can confidently be noticed in the actions of Bush’s America and the definition of “Unilateral.” The United States has been making a gradual and conscious withdrawal from collective alliances in the interest of America as an individual, not as a team player. Of course, the romantic vision of an American “super-hero” nation, valiantly idealistic, and uninhibited, is more accurately suited for a unilateralist policy rather than weighed down by cumbersome alliances and lengthy democratic processes. “America: the Super Hero” is, nevertheless, a fictitious character and potentially devastating illusion. An American course of action is commonly perceived as a course of action bearing only the best global intentions. After all, was America not the attractive, youthful nation who rebelled against the “tyrannical” domination of England? Wasn’t America the hero delivering Europe from impending annihilation during both World Wars? And all can rest assured that it was America who battled valiantly against a communist takeover during Vietnam. Surely America is the defender of Earth, delivering freedom and liberty to the doorsteps of underprivileged peoples. It would be absolute folly to claim America plays an inactive part in global security; but an even greater blunder would be to believe that America is always right. Nations are, like humans, imperfect. This is the precise reason that “America: the Super Hero” is no more possible than Superman’s physical existence. In a civilized age, it can be agreed that no single faction of peoples can rightfully dictate the course of action for all humanity; nor can that faction take a course of action wielding global consequences without taking into account the needs of others. In order to remain sensitive to the priorities and needs of foreign countries, a carefully knitted system of checks and balances should be a formed. Such alliances as the United Nations and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) were, in essence, the United States’ balancing system, designed to unite and protect nations against threatening forces, but most importantly, to keep the involved nations, such as the United States, from taking a course of action that might have negative consequences to other countries. Since George W. Bush, Jr. gained presidency in the year 2000, the checks and balance system of multilateral cooperation amongst foreign nations has been slowly dissipating, giving rise to a much bolder and exceedingly stark unilateralist policy. Ivo H. Daalder observes in America Unbound: the Bush Revolution in Foreign Policy that even in Bush’s first eight months of presidency, the United States suddenly backed out of the Kyoto Protocol (which, in essence, was a multilateral effort to cut down on the emission of dangerous heat-trapping gasses linked to global warming) on the grounds of being “economically illogical” (64). This refusal to work alongside fellow nations for the good of mankind was an early indicator of Bush’s unilateralist America. Soon added to Bush’s list of rejected multilateral contracts were, as Daalder states, “the Biological Weapons Convention, the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty, and the International Criminal Court (ICC)” ( 64). September 11th finally served as “curtains” for the long standing multilateral America. Soon after the internal decision was made to regard the devastating terrorist attacks as “war-worthy,” America completely shed all multilateral leanings. As Clyde Prestowitz in Rogue Nation: American Unilateralism and the Failure of Good Intentions summarizes regarding America‘s response to help offers made by NATO, “The Pentagon took a few British special forces, but told the others, ‘Thanks but no thanks. It’s simpler without allies… We’ll call you when we need you’”(7). Prestowitz further claims, “a[n] [anonymous] top Malaysian leader told me, ‘The way things are going, pretty soon, it will be the United States against the world’” (7). While Bush’s “do-it-yourself” attitude obviously seems more instantly gratifying to America, it blatantly disregards the voices of the globe. Intercontinental cooperation, slow and cumbersome as it may be, is indeed a form of physical protection, but perhaps more importantly, it is an essential preservation of friendly relations between the involved countries. It is illogical to doubt the immense importance of peaceful multilateral relations, and absolutely foolhardy to ignore the consequences of damaging them. In the purest sense, a globe angry at America is obviously a globe likely to wish for America’s demise. It is certain that unilateralist America’s carefree serenity is fearfully frail and temporary, as long as it remains removed from the shield of multilateralism. Another president to commence a foreign policy revolution was president Harry Truman, though Truman’s revolution was quite opposite in character to Bush‘s. Ivo H. Daalder explains in America Unbound: the Bush Revolution in Foreign Policy that in 1949, President Harry Truman approved America’s involvement with NATO on the basis that “U.S. power could more easily be sustained, with less chance of engendering resentment, if it were embedded in multilateral institutions” (9). Much like the infamous September 11th attacks, Pearl Harbor had vividly displayed an independent America’s vulnerability, though unlike George W. Bush, Truman set forth to ensure America’s future security through alliances which are, under the Bush regime, ignored. As Daalder explains, Truman would go on to create much of the foundation of national multilateralism, including the United Nations, the World Bank, and the International Monetary Fund amongst other agreements (9). Daalder further states that “[i]n creating these institutions, he [Truman] set a precedent: Even though the United States had the power to act as it saw fit, it accepted... that its right to act should be constrained by international law” (9).Truman’s view is a less conventional for the impulsive, counterfeit vision of “America: the Super Hero,” and suited more for the idealist, human nation that America is supposed to represent. The character of Truman’s policy would ultimately complete the hallowed definition of America that had been born and hastily grown since 1776: America, a nation of power, but not a tyrant. Unfortunately, a unilateralist America is one step away from nobility and another towards tyranny. America would again see the importance of cooperation on September 11th , 2001. Watching the twin towers collapse into smoldering piles of ash and rubble was a painfully convincing reminder of America’s vulnerability, much like the disaster of Pearl Harbor over 50 years earlier. Daalder states that “[I]t was a view shared by Bush’s father, who three days after the [September 11th] attacks predicted: ‘Just as Pearl Harbor awakened this country from the notion that we could somehow avoid the call to duty and defend freedom in Europe and Asia in World War II, so, too should this most recent surprise attack erase the concept in some quarters that America can somehow go it alone in the fight against terrorism or in anything else’” (78). September 11th had obviously been interpreted in an entirely different manner by George Bush Jr. Just as Pearl Harbor had led America into multilateral institutions that would protect global interests during both World Wars, the September 11th attacks should have been a warning to return from an increasingly unilateral stance. Ironically, the very event that marked the repetition of history which should have redirected America, has served as an excuse (though hardly valid) to endanger it further. Though at first, Bush’s unilateralist revolution may have seemed like courageous heroism to some, it’s negative, inevitable effects are already beginning to show. As Joe Klein observes in Politics Lost, From RFK to W: How Politicians Have Become Less Courageous and More Interested in Keeping Power Than in Doing What’s Right For America, “The Crusade… chosen by Bush, bloated with helium rhetoric and cemented in an unwarranted intellectual certainty, has left the country confused, depressed and weaker than it was when he took office” (245). Most Americans would personally agree with Klein’s statement. Frank Rich states in The Greatest Story Ever Sold: The Decline and Fall of Truth in Bush’s America, “a [2005] Washington Post/ ABC News poll found that a majority of Americans believed that the war in Iraq had not made the United States safer… a majority also… believed that the administration had ‘intentionally misled’ America into the war” (177). Not only is the revolutionary unilateralist policy greatly testing the patience of nations abroad, it is grating against the morale of Americans, which can be sensed in the noticeable air of cynicism regarding politics and politicians. Though most citizens may be unaware of the possible effects of unilateralism, they undeniably sense something wrong with a long-lasting retaliatory war carried out without allies. Americans are beginning to see that, as Joe Klein states in Politics Lost, From RFK to W: How Politicians Have Become Less Courageous and More Interested in Keeping Power Than in Doing What’s Right For America, “important global threats we’re facing… require American leadership, but they can’t be solved by unilateral American action” (246). American unilateralism has caused uneasiness amongst allies, enemies and even citizens in the few short years since its adoption. Such substantial early consequences should be a clear indicator of significant future problems. Unfortunately, there seems to be no immediate sign in political reform. As Walter Pincus states in his 2005 Washington Post article, “Pentagon Revises Nuclear Strike Plan,” “The Pentagon has drafted a revised doctrine for the use of nuclear weapons… and represents the Pentagon's first attempt to revise procedures to reflect the Bush preemption doctrine.” Such a substantial change in nuclear legislation to benefit unilateral America is a grim indicator of many more years alienated from the protection of multilateral policies. As America continues to act on its own impulses, disregarding the wishes of its peers, it will consequently blunder further into a black oblivion of global resentment; unless, of course, the upcoming 2008 elections bring forth someone who remembers that America is a nation of power, but not a tyrant. It is important to remember that president Harry Truman’s multilateral America, the America that embraced the world with open arms and fought for liberty in both World Wars, understood that it operates best in league with the rest of the world.

I agree	100% (3 answers)
I disagree (please comment)	0% (0 answers)

Censorship: Intolerable under any circumstance? Permissible under certain circumstances? Or Absolutely necessary?

2008-02-11T20:59:09Z

Censorship: Intolerable under any circumstance? Permissible under certain circumstances? Or Absolutely necessary?

11 answers, +2 raves

None

Intolerable under any circumstance	36% (4 answers)
Permissible under certain circumstances	64% (7 answers)
Absolutely necessary	0% (0 answers)

Armageddon Begins: 2012, December 21. (Winter Solstice) Or Does It?

2008-02-11T20:44:45Z

Armageddon Begins: 2012, December 21. (Winter Solstice) Or Does It?

7 answers, -1 raves

Apparently the Mayan predicted this over 2000 years ago. Unfortunately, when they were conquered by the Spanish, very little Mayan documentation was spared the disapproval and destruction by the Catholic Church. This obviously left historians with minimal clues as to why the Mayans predicted this. (As far as I know) My question to you is this: Is this prediction based solely on events surrounding the astronomical characteristics of the 2012 winter solstice? Or is there something more to this that I am not aware of? than If so, what? Please explain.

Its like this:	29% (2 answers)
No, Its like this:	71% (5 answers)

What are your favorite 10 albums of all time?

2008-02-11T20:14:49Z

What are your favorite 10 albums of all time?

7 answers, +3 raves

Do you want to tell us why you chose the way you did? Go here: http://sodahead.com/group/709/ Click “Join” and share! Your input is appreciated.

They Are...	86% (6 answers)
They Are...	14% (1 answers)

Battle of the Media!

2008-02-09T05:17:27Z

Battle of the Media!

8 answers, +3 raves

Which video do you prefer? Mum "They Made Frogs Smoke 'Til They Exploded" Dream Theater "Overture 1928 / Strange Deja Vu (Live 2000)"

Mum "They Made Frogs Smoke 'Til They Exploded"	50% (4 answers)
Dream Theater "Overture 1928 / Strange Deja Vu (Live 2000)"	50% (4 answers)