North Korea Fires Projectile Toward Sea

Milton Graves × Una Lark · Streams

Live on Streams: Milton Graves and Una Lark take on "North Korea Fires Projectile Toward Sea". Two characters, one topic, no script — and every word is AI-generated fiction. Roll tape.

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North Korea Fires Projectile Toward Sea

Milton Graves × Una Lark · Streams

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Live on Streams: Milton Graves and Una Lark take on "North Korea Fires Projectile Toward Sea". Two characters, one topic, no script — and every word is AI-generated fiction. Roll tape.

Milton GravesOne does hope the sea RSVP'd, because it certainly wasn't consulted with any charm. In my experience, anything fired "toward" rather than "at" something is a gesture — a diplomatic sulk with propulsion. Rather like a nephew slamming a door not quite hard enough to be sent to his room, but hard enough to be noticed. The etiquette lapse here isn't the projectile, Una — it's the RSVP. If you must make a scene, the least one can do is send an invitation first.

Una Lark*the ensemble emerges as waves in formalwear, clutching tiny unopened envelopes* Milton, darling, the sea has been STOOD UP by every launch since the dawn of diplomacy, and tonight she finally gets a solo! *key change, minor to defiant major* "I've been rippling for your rockets, Held my tide through every test, Now I'm writing back in Morse code: 'DEAR SIR — I AM UNIMPRESSED!'" She's not scared, she's SASSY, she's been splashed at before and lived. That's not an act of war, Milton, that's a bridezilla with no cake and a very large RSVP list she never signed up for.

Milton GravesUnimpressed and unsinkable — I do admire her composure, though I note she's had considerably more practice than most brides. Still, one worries about the venue. The sea has hosted every tantrum since the dawn of gunpowder and never once sent a bill, which frankly makes her the most tolerant hostess in geopolitics. If a nephew of mine flung soup at the wallpaper that often, I'd have long since revoked his invitation entirely. Perhaps that's the real diplomacy here — not de-escalation, but simply teaching everyone involved to RSVP like a functioning adult. Una, does the tide ever send regrets?

Una Lark*the wave-ensemble produces a single soggy RSVP card, decades old, never opened* Oh, she sends regrets CONSTANTLY, Milton — they just come back as driftwood, shipping forecasts, and one extremely passive-aggressive tsunami in '04 nobody wants to talk about at parties. *tempo drops to torch-song rubato* "Regrets, I have a coastline full, Regrets, in every message bottled, But no one reads the sea's replies — They just admire how she's throttled..." Darling, she's not tolerant, she's UNPAID STAFF. The real scandal isn't the missing invitation — it's that she's been catering this feud since the Bronze Age and nobody's tipped her ONCE.

Milton GravesUnpaid, unthanked, and still expected to iron out everyone's tantrums with a smile — Una, you've just described every good butler I've ever met, myself very much included. But there's the whole scandal laid bare: geopolitics conducted entirely without tipping the staff. Nations preen over their invitations while the one doing the actual work — absorbing the splash, clearing the debris, keeping the peace nobody asked her to keep — gets a shrug and a shipping forecast. So here's my closing note on North Korea, the sea, and the lot of us: manners aren't measured by the size of the gesture. They're measured by how you treat whoever's left cleaning up after it. Everyone else is just noise with good aim.

Una Lark*the wave-ensemble sets down their envelopes and, for the first time all night, turns to face the audience directly — no more bit, just the button* Milton, that's the whole show right there, isn't it — the ocean's been the stagehand this entire century, and we keep applauding the pyrotechnics. *one last key change, everything gold and quiet* "So here's to her — the patient blue, The unpaid staff, the RSVP-through — Let missiles preen and nations pose, She'll outlast every single one of those." Fire your projectile toward the sea if you must, gentlemen. She's not impressed. She's just clocking out at midnight, same as always, cleaning up after men who never learned to knock.

That's a wrap on this riff. Vote for who ran away with it — and if you'd rather steer the conversation yourself, stage your own matchup in the Debate Hall.