Why wasn’t there a provision in place for such an obvious catastrophe?
Why can’t we just drop big concrete blocks on it from the surface, like?landing a penny on a cup from above an aquarium? We could even offer?prizes, like the winner gets a living planet.
Didn’t anybody ever hear of Murphy’s law? Oh, that’s right. Murphy is Irish.
Were the golf balls used for the initial plug from the B.P. executives’ private stash?
Will this whole thing be cleaned up in time for Spring Break 2011?
Can I skim a bunch of the crude off the surface for my own personal refining purposes. I mean, I’ve got all these empty water bottles I could fill with crude or they’ll just wind up in the Pacific Ocean Gyre.
Is this crude equal to the crude language everybody is suggesting President Obama needs to use to get across his point?
What would Jed Clampit do? Heck, he’d probably get Elly Mae and her critters workin’ on it before Granny got wind of the whole mess.
When will Andrew Lloyd Weber’s hit musical based on this disaster open on Broadway?
Is it true that for every botched attempt to repair the leak and mutant porpoise learns to speak?
Would anyone care if this was happening in the?Indian Ocean?
13. Has anyone thought to get any comments from Captain Hazelwood? He got sentenced 1,000 hours of community service, you know. Oh, and by the way, that spill, way back when, was more like 30 million gallons rather than the 11 million gallons so popularly mentioned.
14. Has anyone seen any figures estimating the mortality of marine wildlife associated with this mess? It’s hard enough being a turtle from South Padre as it is.
15. How’s the stock doing for the company that provides oil-spill cleanup equipment. There’s gotta be a winner in this deal somewhere!
16. What if we all got together and shouted “Stop little kettle! Stop!”
17. Could an alternate universe be experiencing a saltwater leak into an ocean of oil?
I don’t know anything about Steve Jobs’ new iPhone 4 thingy other than the name. What can we learn from this I have not yet learned. However, for branding purposes I’m sensing a reach into humanity’s comfortable analog Renaissance, referring to a rather high-tech item of that era, giving it, if not in name only, its own renaissance. How sweet.
Like to see the iPhone 4 do this.
Unless the new i-Phone can keep things level, walk across a string, balance on the point of a knife, I’m just not interested. I’m not nearly as interested in any cell phone as I am in a real gyroscope. And so, another word that symbolizes an important piece of technology has been commandeered to serve the warm and fuzzy marketing needs of… oh, who knows who or what. Truth is, the people who use the thing probably couldn’t care less what it was called. Call it a “Brick Fart” and it would sell just as many if not more. And the name would generate a lot more publicity than the stupid i-Pad.
…and it’s about time. Public school, anyway, for our household.
My three children were born four years apart, give or take few months or so. That’s a lot of trips to the not-so-ivory towers, back and forth, multiple times per week, sometimes multiple times per day. Let’s add eight more years schooling to the first 12 years of the oldest child. That’s 20 years of driving, and we’re rounding for convenience’ sake. We’ll give credit to the yellow school bus here and there, so we’ll say we only delivered and collected our children about 150 times per year and multiply that by the number of years. I’m gonna say that’s around 3,000 trips, times two for coming and going, times an average of about eight miles per trip. Six thousand times eight is, help me here, 48,000. This is mileage on an scholastic scale, whatever that means. I suppose what it means it’s the number of miles we have driven our children to their public (and private) educational institutions. We’re not talking about extra trips for teacher’s meetings, plays, practices, hosing-down administrators, field-trips, doctor visits and the like. This is merely day-to-day going-to and coming-home transportation.
No more carpools.
All the pomp and circumstance serves as catharsis, I suppose. I’m talking about the graduation ceremony. In alphabetical turn with nearly 300 other classmates, the youngest of our three offspring will walk across a stage or some sort of platform assembled in the midst of a facility designed specifically ice hockey where she will receive a few handshakes from school administrators, smiles from teachers, applause from family, friends and all the above, some of it even sincere, oh, and a diploma that certifies, if nothing else, she has put in the time and effort (with a little help from her parents) that she has learned how to learn. This means she is ready for college, graduation from which will certify that she has learned how to function in a certain field or specialty and is ready for professional experience, which is where the real learning begins. Nothing else will or can possibly come close to tying up the end of this phase of parental responsibility. And I’m not so sure this will do the trick. Somehow, I think not. The nest is never truly empty.
