Dear God or Yahweh or Allah or Vishnu or Bahamut or Huitzilopochitli or Richard Dawkins or Aloysius Snuffleupagus or Mary Hartman or whatever you want to call yourself:
We get it, okay? We get it.
We’ve screwed up the planet. Royally. It’s getting hot in here, and taking off all our clothes won’t help. The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, and metaphorically speaking, we don’t have any water to put it out. I say “metaphorically” because really, we have tons of water, and if those Arctic ice sheets keep melting, we’re gonna have plenty more.
For me personally, the parakeets were the first clue. A decade or so ago, I saw very few of them here in New Orleans. Now it seems like every palm tree is filled with dozens of the noisy little flying rats.
Then there was That Hurricane. And the Other One. And then a Third, in case we somehow managed to sleep through the first two–unlikely, since modern day wusses like myself find it impossible to sleep in 100-degree heat without the benefit of air-conditioning, which requires electricity, which the aforementioned storms eliminated.
Basically I’m saying we got it. We understand. Capisce.
So I ask you: was it really necessary to whip out the goddamn killer bees? That just seems gratuitous. Sadistic. In the PR world, we’d probably call it overkill. Leave yourself some room to grow for chrissakes! I mean, how are you gonna top killer freakin’ bees? Pythons in City Park? Ebola in La Place? I don’t wanna give you any ideas, so I’ll stop there, but you know what I’m saying.
Sheesh. And I thought I was drama queen….
Bottom line: back off. We’re working on it. Go unravel the threads of mortality or whatever you usually do after reading the pull-out section of the Sunday paper. We’ll get back to you.
Less-than-faithfully,
Richard
sturtle [dot] com 