A British fisherman out of the port of Weymouth, on the southern coast of England, was surprised and more than just a little concerned today when he pulled his nets in and discovered – amongst the under-sized scallops and over-worked prawns – something he never expected to see outside of a history book: an entire, unexploded racist ideology from WWII, worryingly intact after all these years.
“We see a lot of weird shit out there mate, not gonna lie,” said Mark Pollard, skipper of the Jolly Molly, back on shore and standing a safe distance away as a bomb disposal unit worked carefully to load the giant sack of intolerance onto a flatbed truck without getting it all over the Daily Mail.
‘But this ‘ere takes the Battenberg,” he continues, referencing a bizarre pink-and-yellow sponge cake that United Kingdomites cannot, nor simply will not, shut up about.
“My pa told me back in the 50’s he used to pull this sort of thing up off the bottom all the time. Whole Nazi ideologies sometimes, and entire genocidal tendencies, jettisoned into the Channel by the Jerries as they attempted to lighten their load for the flight back, often never having reached Old Blighty on account of the fog and being on the wrong side of history ‘n all.”
The fisherman, now nearing retirement himself, relates that back then his father would take the unexploded mindfucks out into the country and blow them up himself, shooting at them with his trusty Lee-Enfield from behind a tree while wearing a welding mask so as to not be blinded by the sudden release of narrow-mindedness when eventually he hit the payload.
“But not these days, naw. Now we have to treat these ideas as having merit, and being historic treasures, and belonging to free speech and what not. What a load of bollocks. They’re bombs mate, built to destroy, nothing more.”
A hundred yards away the team working on the ancient piece of flawed thought are suddenly animated by shouted instructions and warnings. One of the straps holding the 500-pound incendiary slips, and the entire rickety mental-construct comes crashing to the ground. Everyone ducks, but no explosion follows. Instead the bomb lies on its side, its nose cone broken away to reveal basic hatred and fear, rusted by time but still ugly, horrible, and pathetically small.
“Another dud,” the disposal team lead says, wiping sweat away from his brow. “No wonder they lost the war.” Nervous laughter ripples through the gathering.
Photo: Andrew Testa for The New York Times