Florida, which is no stranger to making all sorts of desperate appeals for tourists, might want to consider “nuclear tourism.”
I mention this because if you’ve been paying attention to North Korea’s nuclear aspirations, you will see that the projected limits of that country’s Hwasong-14 intercontinental ballistic missiles appear as a curved line that encompasses much of the American continent. But not Florida.
We seem to be one of the small parts of America that is slightly out of range. At least for the time being.
Of course, North Korea’s capability to successfully deliver a nuclear weapon in a missile is still speculative.
But that wouldn’t stop us from launching a pre-emptive tourism campaign in the meantime.
Florida: Our Radiation Comes from the Sun
I know. It sounds awful and opportunistic. But if we capitalize on these fears, it won’t be the most shameless thing we’ve done. We’re already promoting Florida as a destination for medical tourism, a place to come for family fun while a loved one is undergoing an operation in the Sunshine State. And we’re not above subsidizing billionaire sports franchise owners in the name of tourism.
So we might as well try our hand at a little nuclear tourism.
The marketing will be easy. After all, it’s just another kind of winter.
We’ve got years of experience marketing the state to refugees of actual winter. So the switch to “nuclear winter” would be a cinch.
And it would solve the seasonal downturn we experience every summer.
Sure, Florida’s hot in the summer. But it certainly won’t be the hottest spot in the country in the aftermath of a nuclear attack.
I could see the ads now. It would show three photos of American cities side by side, with the daily high temperatures imposed on each of them. Boca Raton 90°; Jupiter 89°; New York 3,000°.
This new form of tourism may require a whole new vocabulary. For example, visitors who descend on Florida after being exposed to a Northern blast of radiation wouldn’t be Florida snowbirds. They’d be Florida glowbirds.
And the words “just for the season” would not be measured in months anymore, but in the half-lives of radioactive isotopes unleashed in other areas of the country.
Think of the possibilities. The John F. Kennedy bunker on Peanut Island, which has been an empty relic, would suddenly become an attractive hotel rental.
I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we would need more strip shopping centers. And there would be a market for vacant, high-priced apartments in downtown areas.
There might even be passengers willing to pay for rides on the Brightline trains. OK, well, maybe that’s taking things too far. Let’s not get carried away here.
And most of all, people in the rest of America would come to revere Florida. We would no longer be Flori-duh, home of the free-range jackass. Nobody would blame us for screwing up elections anymore or being overrun with everybody’s grumpy grandparents.
We’d be the pure part of America, and we’d be resettled by these nuclear tourists, many of whom who would stay.
It would change what it means to be “a Florida man.”
Today, that title might best describe the two guys who got into an argument about martial arts in a Port St. Lucie church and one man pulled a gun on the other. That’s a story that is playing across the rest of America this week and helps cement the impression that Florida may be a nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there.
But nuclear tourism would change all that.
We’d be the hottest thing since plutonium-238.