Or How the Feds Nuked a Wasp Nest and Called It Tuesday
Let’s start with the punchline: the United States government—keepers of the sacred spreadsheet, defenders of the “Nothing to See Here” doctrine—just found a wasp nest so radioactive it could file taxes as a small reactor.
Where? South Carolina. Naturally. Specifically, a charming post-apocalyptic spa called the Savannah River Site—once the artisanal bakery of plutonium for America’s Cold War missile habit. Now, a radioactive retirement community where hornets glow bright.
They found the nest during “routine radiological monitoring.” Which, translated from bureaucrat into English, means “a guy tripped over a glowing log and now we need a press release.” The nest was clocking in at over ten times the legal radiation limit. TEN. That’s not a red flag, that’s a mushroom cloud wearing a top hat.
So, naturally, they sprayed it. With what? Windex? Holy water? The report doesn’t say. But the DOE assured us the bugs were gone, the nest was “neutralized,” and everything was totally fine. You know—just like they told us about Agent Orange, asbestos, and Iraq’s WMDs. Government logic: “If we don’t see the wasps, they can’t sue us.”
Meanwhile, back in the underground lair of irony and horror, the DOE assures the media that “no further action is required.” That’s right. No one was stung. No kids grew antennae. The buzzing in your ears is just democracy melting.
But let’s peel this irradiated onion further. Enter Eric Schlosser’s book Command and Control, that cheerful bedtime story about how the U.S. nearly nuked itself—repeatedly—through a combination of arrogance, duct tape, and socket wrenches. Like that time in 1980, when a dropped tool punctured a Titan II missile and turned Arkansas into a deleted scene from Dr. Strangelove. A nuke nearly launched itself into the ether because some Air Force kid blinked.
Spoiler: the warhead didn’t explode. Hooray. But someone did die, others got poisoned, and the government’s response was to cover it up, blame the wrench guy, and go back to designing new badges for the “Success Under Fire” ceremony.
Schlosser’s point—and mine—is simple: the government is allergic to truth, particularly when it glows in the dark or makes your hair fall out in alphabetical order. If you’re the poor bastard who finds the radioactive nest, you don’t get a medal. You get a gag order, a form to fill out in triplicate, and a future GoFundMe for kidney dialysis.
This is America’s toxic ballet:
1. Lie about the danger.
2. Blame the janitor.
3. Deny the health claims.
4. Name a dog park after the facility.
And now, the wasps, those glowing little harbingers of karmic doom, built from nuclear detritus and bureaucratic shrugging. Where did they go? We don’t know. But if you hear buzzing in the night, don’t reach for bug spray—call a lawyer, a priest, and a physicist. In that order.
And above all, don’t vote for them.
Because radioactive insects already did.
And they’re running the DOE.
