Cary Harrison’s Mystery History Documentary on Japan Bombing

Welcome back to The Cary Harrison Files—your weekly safari into the madhouse we call civilization. This is where the myths go to die, the spin doctors get their licenses revoked, and the high priests of nonsense are dragged blinking into the light.

For many of you it will be the first time you’ve heard the voices of the actual Japan

bombardiers plus the creators of the bombs, themselves. These are the parts left out by the Oppenheimer movie and will take you deeply inside what really happened. I end with an official Civil Defense film shown to movie theater audiences that today seems like satire for its ridiculous premises and promises.

Eighty years. That’s how long it’s been since we first dropped a man-made sun out of the sky and roasted a city alive—twice, just to make sure no one thought the first one was a fluke. Back then, it was called “ending the war.” These days, it’s called “an option on the table,” like we’re talking about appetizers instead of turning millions into glowing shadows.

You ever notice how the geniuses in charge talk about nuclear war like it’s just another item on the to-do list? Right between “balance the budget” and “fix the potholes,” they slip in “maybe vaporize a few million people.” As if it’s a chess move. As if anyone walks away from that game with a trophy.

A nuclear attack isn’t just a bad day — it’s the last day. The first few minutes? Sure, they’ll be spectacular. Fireballs, mushroom clouds, all the Hollywood special effects you could ever want. The kind of thing that makes a pyromaniac weep. But after that, the show gets ugly. Radiation doesn’t care if you’re the good guy, the bad guy, or just some schmuck who wanted to make it home in time for dinner.

And forget the Cold War propaganda about “limited strikes.” That’s like calling a house fire “just the kitchen.” Once you light the fuse, you’re roasting the whole neighborhood — and every neighborhood on the map. Fallout drifts where it pleases. Maybe it settles over your enemies. Or maybe it drifts a few hundred miles and turns your own backyard into a glowing wasteland where the only survivors are cockroaches and conspiracy theorists.

Then there’s the economy. You thought inflation was bad now? Wait until every major city is a crater, the internet is fried, and the only functioning currency is canned beans. Good luck explaining to your kids that the family fortune now consists of two jars of peanut butter and a can opener.

And don’t think hiding in a bunker will save you. Sure, you’ll be safe from the blast — but you’ll be sharing a recycled air system with Uncle Randy, who thinks deodorant is a government plot. You’ll be eating powdered eggs, counting Geiger clicks, and wondering if maybe you should’ve taken your chances up top.

The truth is, in a nuclear exchange, there are no “winners.” Just survivors — and that’s using the term loosely. The idea that anyone can “come out ahead” is as delusional as thinking you can win a bar fight with a chainsaw. Everyone gets shredded; some just bleed slower.

So the next time a politician (here or ‘there’) starts rattling the nuclear saber, remember: they’re not talking about protecting you. They’re talking about gambling with you — your life, your air, your planet — for the sake of a headline and a bump in the polls.the Democratic Party cocktailing during meltdown. Because the real apocalypse isn’t the blast. It’s knowing that we saw it coming, we had the button in our hands, and we pressed it anyway.

Meanwhile, you might want to check your freezer before you reach for that shrimp cocktail. What’s left of Bobby Kennedy’s FDA has just informed us that Walmart’s Great Value frozen shrimp could be carrying a little souvenir from nuclear history—Cesium-137. That’s right, the radioactive isotope. Not the kind of extra you want in your dinner.

Shipping containers from Indonesia, docking at Los Angeles, Houston, Savannah, and Miami, tested positive. The FDA hasn’t confirmed your shrimp are glowing, but they still insist you toss them. Don’t cook them, don’t feed them to the dog, just throw them away. Think of it as public service: one less chance your DNA goes on an unplanned vacation through cancer-ville.

Walmart is rushing to fix the crisis. Products recalled, refunds offered. “Health and safety are our top priority,” they say—because nothing says customer care like radioactive crustaceans.

Cs-137 lingers in soil, pops up in food, and waits patiently until low doses accumulate. High doses? Burns, sickness, maybe death. So enjoy your supermarket adventures—but maybe check the freezer first. In Washington’s America, forget the politicians or the climate—sometimes the deadliest thing in your life is a shrimp from aisle seven.

Why? When government funding dries up, so does journalism that bites back. This