Not quite angels, not quite devils......
Observations 6.12.1
10 years ago
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Message In A Bottle
Dear Mike,
It's been over a month since I wrote you and still no response. I have anxiously awaited a word from you, in hopes that you have escaped the Black Death. I have lost hope, but in one last attempt I am writing this letter to you. If it should reach you sealed in this glass bottle that I will be tossing in the water, I feel it will be something short of a small miracle.
Mike, I hate us. The humans. Our idiotic greed and our unquenchable desire to have more, make more, do less, go faster, build higher, be stronger. Be stronger. Hmm....are we really now? We make stuff to do things for us so we can do less, tasks become less labor-intensive, take less time. We make stuff so we can have more time to do things we like to do rather than things we need to do. We make stuff that is more comfortable to support our big, fat lazy asses. We make stuff to slather on our ugly, dimply asses to smooth them. We make messes making this stuff. We have become lazy. We have lost the ability to think clearly. We are too brain-dead and lethargic from all the spare time created from said stuff to clean up our messes.
So, we build this bigass monstrosity that has the potential to produce a catastrophe. There should be a contingency plan in case of a disaster, but nah.....it's too complicated and too much trouble. Fuck it, who needs a contingency plan? And our government, shouldn't they be concerned about such a potential disaster? Shouldn't they want to make sure that there's a plan in place if the bigass monstrosity blows up and spews vile black goo into our water? Too many details, too many impractical details, too much trouble, too many words, too much typing. First response, "in-situ" burning plan, firebooms - sounded like a good idea years ago but NAH! Too much trouble, too much work, too many words, too much typing. So much better dusting the US Government comfy chairs with our big, fat political asses scratching my back while I scratch yours.
So, it blows. Spill, schmill - let's call Wile E. Coyote and see what he thinks we should do. Throw some golf balls at it, poke it with a giant straw, put a top hat on it and see if it changes it's mind. Where the hell is Little Jack Horner when you need him most? Maybe he works for BP and is prancing around in his Ferragamo loafers and Armani suit, proud as punch that his investment has not yet been destroyed. Occasionally pulling the fat stack of sweaty money from his pocket to hold it up to his nose, with a glimmer in his eye to take a long sniff. God forbid, should the regulators have bitten Mr. BP's hand and made him fix the quirks on the bigass monstrosity disaster-waiting-to-happen. God forbid we should implode the damn bigass monstrosity calamity, thereby shitting on Mr. BP's loafers to save the water, the shore, the wildlife, the citizens. God forbid we should try the option with the best odds. NAH! Let's try to hit a target the size of a dinner plate from two miles away, while Mr. BP reclines in his leather chair wiggling his toes as Stimey madly polishes his loafers.
Yeah, I'm pissed off. 40-something days later and the Black Death continues to spew. Things are dying left and right, people are getting sick, jobs lost, land and business owners suffering loss and the most beautiful water and shore in the US is being defiled.
Mike, I'm sorry. I'll miss you.
It's been over a month since I wrote you and still no response. I have anxiously awaited a word from you, in hopes that you have escaped the Black Death. I have lost hope, but in one last attempt I am writing this letter to you. If it should reach you sealed in this glass bottle that I will be tossing in the water, I feel it will be something short of a small miracle.
Mike, I hate us. The humans. Our idiotic greed and our unquenchable desire to have more, make more, do less, go faster, build higher, be stronger. Be stronger. Hmm....are we really now? We make stuff to do things for us so we can do less, tasks become less labor-intensive, take less time. We make stuff so we can have more time to do things we like to do rather than things we need to do. We make stuff that is more comfortable to support our big, fat lazy asses. We make stuff to slather on our ugly, dimply asses to smooth them. We make messes making this stuff. We have become lazy. We have lost the ability to think clearly. We are too brain-dead and lethargic from all the spare time created from said stuff to clean up our messes.
So, we build this bigass monstrosity that has the potential to produce a catastrophe. There should be a contingency plan in case of a disaster, but nah.....it's too complicated and too much trouble. Fuck it, who needs a contingency plan? And our government, shouldn't they be concerned about such a potential disaster? Shouldn't they want to make sure that there's a plan in place if the bigass monstrosity blows up and spews vile black goo into our water? Too many details, too many impractical details, too much trouble, too many words, too much typing. First response, "in-situ" burning plan, firebooms - sounded like a good idea years ago but NAH! Too much trouble, too much work, too many words, too much typing. So much better dusting the US Government comfy chairs with our big, fat political asses scratching my back while I scratch yours.
So, it blows. Spill, schmill - let's call Wile E. Coyote and see what he thinks we should do. Throw some golf balls at it, poke it with a giant straw, put a top hat on it and see if it changes it's mind. Where the hell is Little Jack Horner when you need him most? Maybe he works for BP and is prancing around in his Ferragamo loafers and Armani suit, proud as punch that his investment has not yet been destroyed. Occasionally pulling the fat stack of sweaty money from his pocket to hold it up to his nose, with a glimmer in his eye to take a long sniff. God forbid, should the regulators have bitten Mr. BP's hand and made him fix the quirks on the bigass monstrosity disaster-waiting-to-happen. God forbid we should implode the damn bigass monstrosity calamity, thereby shitting on Mr. BP's loafers to save the water, the shore, the wildlife, the citizens. God forbid we should try the option with the best odds. NAH! Let's try to hit a target the size of a dinner plate from two miles away, while Mr. BP reclines in his leather chair wiggling his toes as Stimey madly polishes his loafers.
Yeah, I'm pissed off. 40-something days later and the Black Death continues to spew. Things are dying left and right, people are getting sick, jobs lost, land and business owners suffering loss and the most beautiful water and shore in the US is being defiled.
Mike, I'm sorry. I'll miss you.
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