The Civilization Will Die?

I have an alternate proposal.

President Donald Trump mimics firing a gun as he speaks about the conflict in Iran in the Briefing Room of the White House on April 6, 2026.

Death is nothing to root for. It’s disruptive and tends to last for months or longer. Here’s how it goes: You are. Or your loved one is. Or a total stranger is. Or a civilization. And then … gone. What a moment earlier was, isn’t anymore.

That’s why death has such a horrible reputation, like Florida and United Healthcare. That’s why it’s widely considered a poor outcome. That’s why it is the ultimate sanction in such blood-lusting nation states as North Korea, Russia, Iran and the United States. And that’s why it is such a ubiquitous expression of opprobrium.

“Those animals should get the death penalty.”

“Death to America!”

“FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD”

“Say that again and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

And though the Bible commands “Thou shalt not kill,” there is a major exemption for upper management: “Never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay’ says the Lord.” He’s not talking about a car loan, you feel me?

With all due respect to God and the New York Daily News, I’ve never been one to glibly wish death on anyone. There is a lot of bad stuff out there and a lot of bad actors, including the Russian mob and Gal Gadot, but I’ve certainly never craved their physical demise. That sentiment is reserved for people like my mother, who suffered in her hospital bed, wheezing for oxygen as her lungs failed her. I wanted the end, not as judgment but as mercy. Otherwise I have never buried anyone in my mind’s eye.

Even over the last number of years, as various of my family and friends wished death upon our mutually loathed Orange Caligula, I bristled. How could they so casually fantasize about someone’s actual eternal end? Unthinkable. Not to set myself up as some paragon of conscience, mind you. I have often wished upon him prison, with no golf, no hair product, no bronzer, no slobbering flatterers, no attention, no Miss Universe, no Truth Social — just a fat, pale Michelin Man in a cell, boiling every waking second in a vat of his own delusion, resentment and rage. Ahhh. My heart goes pitter-pat.

But then came the latest monstrosity. Not just the foolish, murderous war — waged for the precise reason of avoiding my fantasy prison — and his medieval threats of obliteration. I can’t bring myself even to type the whole insane outburst, but here’s the nub:

TRUMP TO PERSIAN CIVILIZATION: DROP DEAD

We are no longer in the Romans 16:19 conversation. Never mind vengeance. This madman-child has the most lethal military in history to act on his moronic whims. We are in a different calculus. For the sake of all that is holy, he should be dead. [To the U.S. Secret Service, it is critical to note: I would never do him harm, nor ever consider it. I would never encourage — nor so much as imagine — anyone else to violence. Murder is murder and nobody qualifies for the God exemption.]

But if he were to choke on a Big Mac? Be struck in the temple by the next foursome’s errant 2-iron? Come down with a touch of Ebola? Die in his sleep of one the various ailments he denies having? Works for me. Not an assassination or a sanction, but a mercy — not just on Persian civilization but on civilization writ large.