Recently, Barry Obama hired Will Hunting as a consultant on his energy plan.
“Hello, Will, I’m glad to have you on board. Rather than tell me what is good about my energy plan, I would like you to tell me what is wrong with my energy plan.”
“Okay. Well, there is very little wrong with your plan, Bar…except that when you have totally moved food out of the food chain and one of your failed lawyers, who joined your team because he was guilted out of the law profession because of its competitive nature, slams a Big Mac on your desk and tells you that this grease ball is our last hope at keeping the entire industrialized world running and you order all Big Macs sent to lubricate the Wind Farms, which cover the size of the Louisiana Purchase, which you subsidized because no creative, inventive free market capitalists would flip a dime for them, so that Buck, from Ames, Iowa could power-up his Monster Tractor at the Iowa State Bring-Your-Own-Food County Fair, leaving the entire North American population dependent on cannibalizing anyone left with a shred of meat on their bones. Then, one day, when your car refuses to start until you add a little salt and butter to the gas, a faint voice in your head reminds you that someone once said that we have more oil than all of the OPEC Nations, but since you thought it would be a good idea to wean us off internal combustion engines and lower the carbon footprint of each and every American to that of a pioneer trying to catch squirrels by pouncing on them with political correctness, because the temperature of the Arctic Ocean might rise 1/10th of a degree over the next fifty years, forcing Polar Bears to migrate 75 feet. And this all moves up the food chain until, one day, your hungry pets run for their lives because you start looking at them the way they look at a bone with a little grizzle on it and you chase them into the streets, only to find that the People who looked to you for hope...and $1000...are all huddling around the back of their useless cars, sucking the last drops of our food chain out of their gas tanks with siphon hoses, hoping that a kernel or two might have slipped through the cracks, when you are stung by the poison-tipped arrows that came out of the blow guns of the band of 12 African Bushmen who have conquered America because they are the only ones who know how to survive without oil and you fall into to your normal, everyday, dream-like state where you would give it all back for a Red Amazonian Tree Frog on a Ritz cracker and you dream of when you were 33 and living in New York, where your most vivid and long lasting impressions were of watching the White People bringing their dogs into your neighborhood to poop on the sidewalks, but in your dream you're not bitter...you’re focused on the poodles...and barbeque sauce. Back in Ames, Old Buck, a creative, inventive free market capitalist, turns the wind mills into processing plants for Soylent Green, which invigorates what’s left of the population and he becomes the Messiah that you had hoped to be, until one day, he’s run over and killed by the last truckload of corn headed to Exxon/Mobile, where no one will be waiting for the delivery, because you were so obsessed with their 8% profit margin that you taxed the crap out of them to subsidize technologies that are at least 50 years out, with nothing to replace gasoline, while the only well-fed life forms left on Earth are Polar Bears and Bushmen. What do I think? I think that you should order all nuclear weapons to be shot at the Sun in hopes of creating enough Sun spots to warm the Earth up just enough to continue scaring people into believing that emissions from their cars will cause a chain of events that will lead to Aides Rain and then tax the crap out of three of the biggest emitters of CO2 on the planet: Beer producers, the bread industry and right-wing talk show hosts, because the only sponsors of left-wing talk show hosts are people who subsidize it with taxes, begged-for donations and dead people’s money, because no creative, inventive free market capitalists will flip a dime for it. Lunch?”
