Over the weekend, there was a lot of fighting in Basra, Iraq. Today the fighting stopped. But American planes bombed the city, killed a bunch of civilians. Whenever I read about America bombing a far-off people I always try to imagine myself in their situation for a second. How would I feel if America bombed me?

I imagine walking down the street to the store, just living my life. I hear a distant rumble: Incoming American bombers! I start running down the street, desperate to find cover. The fear is paralyzing–it’s unclear whether I should just stop and crouch down or keep running. But it’s pointless: The bomber is already on top of me, armed and ready to drop a special person-killing bomb. The bomb is made up of hundreds of little bombs which explode and blanket the ground in twelve thousand shards of broken Budweiser bottles. Also they’re poisonous.

At the last second, the bomber pilot looks up from his control and sees who he is about to bomb. Woah, he thinks, why the heck am I bombing an American citizen! He disarms the bomb, pulls up quick and flashes a sharp salute as I wave my tiny American flag like crazy. Then he turns left and drops the bomb on the right people.