Humor by John Christmann
When All Else Fails
I have been awed by the number of wildly creative suggestions put forth to address the massive oil spill in the Gulf.
Personally, I like the idea suggested wryly by my son. He wants Superman to fly westward around the earth—reversing its rotation—to send us all back in time so we can prevent a needless explosion, repair the blow out valve, and maybe even save Al Gore’s marriage. He got the idea from a movie.
His idea has merit, but I suspect the Gores' marriage was in doubt long before the Gulf was so rudely punctured.
Nuking the sea floor has potential too. I am sure North Korea would be pleased to offer humanitarian assistance.
Or how about sealing millions of plastic grocery bags together in a long flexible tube that can be placed over the mouth of the submerged pipe to siphon the oil safely away in the swaying sea currents? We probably can dig up enough of these bags to extend the pulsating crude umbilical cord overland to Kevin Costner’s house for centrifugal cleansing.
And there is the useful suggestion that we surround Florida with Styrofoam packing popcorn to prevent the oil from washing ashore. The benefit here is not that we find a use for all that needless Styrofoam, but that we have the opportunity to pack up Florida and ship it to New Jersey for refining.
Given the magnitude of this tragedy, it is hard not to be cynical. And when we hear open suggestions that we simply plug the leak with Obama, Sarah Palin, Anderson Cooper, or BP executives, it is clear that our collective psyche has been thoroughly compromised. C’mon, will no one stand up and offer to throw Lindsay Lohan down there too?
When my wife and I were first married we lived in an old apartment building built before World War II.
As I learned, an old apartment building has old plumbing, and when an old bathroom faucet leaks, it is not easy to find parts. It is easier to replace the entire faucet.
In an old apartment building, the water supply tubing is old too, and when 80-year-old calcified connectors are twisted free using large vice grips the brittle copper can sometimes develop hairline fractures. But this is not really a problem because there are 80-year-old shutoff valves poking through the ancient tile walls below the sinks, which are difficult to turn, but when forced shut with a large pair of vice grips . . . well, you get the picture.
I don’t know much about oil, but here is what I know about water. When you are sitting on the bathroom floor and water is flowing from the wall at an alarming rate, it is not really time to set up a video camera and argue over how many swimming pools will be filled if the leak continues for a day. Especially when the President of the Building Management Committee lives underneath you.
I urgently called the Building Superintendent who put me in touch with his emergency plumber. In the meantime, I lined the bathroom floor under the spewing jet with pots and pans and a collection of beautiful, wide-mouthed wedding gifts originally intended to hold flowers.
Then I ringed the room with dozens of absorbent cotton towels graciously donated for relief efforts by various hotels across the country. And finally, when things really became urgent, I mopped the area using my designer collection of Fruit of the Loom briefs, dingy gym socks, and Metallica T-shirts.
Frankly, it never occurred to me to stuff the gushing pipe with cut up bicycle tires, Titleist golf balls, or Lindsay Lohan.
Within an hour the plumber managed to bust through the 80-year-old irreplaceable tile wall and cap the broken shutoff valve. My bill for his efforts was just shy of a Goldman Sachs bonus and I was left without water, a wall under the sink, or a good excuse to use in front of the Building Management Committee. But at least I was free to sail my yacht in the over-flowing bathtub.
So excuse my ignorance, but it seems that all we are lacking here is a really good, reliable plumber. One who swims really deep. One who doesn’t track oil in the house. One who doesn’t have to run to a Plumbing Supply store every five minutes to get recycled tires, golf balls, or nuclear explosives.
But since God doesn’t return phone calls, I am not optimistic. That is why I am donating all my T-shirts and hotel towels to the Gulf clean up effort. While we wait for a reliable plumber, I suggest we all do the same.
Or we can see if Lindsay Lohan has any bright ideas.
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