Tag Archives: profanity

BP: Bitchslap these ClusterFucking Punks.


CAUTION: These post is rated PG-13 for profanity and naked truth-telling. Consider yourself forewarned.

So. I know that BP stands for British Petroleum, but really – no, really – don’t you think if any random poll were taken lately, your average human being who HASN’T been living under a rock would vote for a name change?

I’ve got some ideas.

Bumbling Pinheads” or “Bastards of Pollution” (although that sounds almost too cool, like a band) or hey: let’s even change it to an acronym:

“Bitchslap these Punks.”

Here’s the thing: this fucking oil spill needs to be called something besides “an oil spill.” In fact, words fail me – and any reader of this blog knows: words rarely fail me.

I often wish my father were still alive, but I especially wish he were here today, because he had a fabulous way of making cussing sound charming and funny (he was a Marine; Semper Fi, Do or Die; the difficult we do immediately – the impossible takes a little longer.)

Daddy would be able to come up with some creative and apt phrases for this clusterfuck in the Gulf.  For cluster-fuck it is, no beating around the bush. Personally, I’m just sick and tired of all the sound bites and who should be apologizing to whom, and who should be paying for what.

The whole thing is simply and clearly a clusterfuck of the highest order, and why we aren’t seeing shiny, plastic-haired newscasters proclaiming things like:

Today’s update on BP’s clusterfuck in the Gulf…

Even snooty NPR should be naming it a “clusterfuck” in their calm, “we’re so fucking unruffled we don’t ever even raise our voices and we know you just turn us on to sound cool to your girlfriend, betcha didn’t even GET that last joke we told about Heidegger, ha ha ha…

I mean, HELL! This disaster should have people CRYING, for sweet Samson’s sake, but instead, as I’m perusing the Web for specific details, I see an actual report on a NY Times blog reporting a rig worker, Tyrone Benton, reported leaks in the Deepwater Horizon, the underwater drilling station that “mysteriously” exploded and caused this clusterfuck in the first damn place.

Benton TOLD his bosses. There are over 50,000 pages of e-mails and documents proving it. Like WAY too many people in charge, they put their hands on their ears and went “La-la-la-la-la-la I can’t HEAR you…” because it would have –

—  wait – cost BP money to fix.

They would have had to – OH… shut down. Fix the leak. THEN start back up again.

I SO want to sit down and play some poker with these assholes. Please, please, somebody set up a table and let me play some Texas Hold’Em with these jackasses. They are BAAAD betters.

I have two questions.

QUESTION THE FIRST:

Have these greedy motherfuckers NEVER seen a movie in their lives? I mean, come ON. Is it NOT the case, in every movie EVER made, that when some poor schmoe on the factory line sends a memo upstairs to the effect:

“Dear Boss Man: There is a leak in this very big, very dangerous explosive <insert nuclear power plant/enormous dam/evil death ray/weapon of ultimate destruction/oil rig capable of destroying all marine and human life within a mind-bogglingly large distance> which you might possibly wish to be made aware of, because so very much life is at stake.”

… That EVERY Boss Man turns out to be That Stupid and Greedy FuckHead Who Says To Himself and to The Equally Greedy FuckHeads on the Equally Evil and Greedy Board of Evil and Greedy Directors (while they all sit around, chuckling evilly and greedily, twirling their evil and greedy handlebar moustaches): “Ah, let it go, boys! I’m sure it’ll be all right! There’s MONEY to be made! We CAN’T stop PRODUCTION!

I mean, JESUS. As if this clusterfuck wasn’t bad enough. It’s also a fucking cliché.

QUESTION THE SECOND:

This is the one that scares me.

If Benton let the fuckheads upstairs know, and they ignored it, WHY did they?

IS IT BECAUSE THIS HAPPENS ALL THE TIME? HOW MANY FUCKING LEAKS ARE THERE IN THESE RIGS, ANYWAY?

That’s what keeps ME awake at night. That’s the argument I’d put in front of the judge that won’t let Obama shut down the damn drilling.

“Your Honor,” I’d say, if I were President, “You know what? These fuckheads KNEW, and were completely cool, calm and chilly-mostest about their pipes having holes in them like Swiss cheese. Now, Your Honor, what does that tell YOU? Do I NEED to paint you a fucking PICTURE?”

If Hizzoner did NOT see things my way, I think I might just have to take matters into my own hands.

And you know what? The very Constitution of Our United States, if y’all will recall, actually PROVIDES US PERMISSION for REVOLUTION.

If we’re not too covered with tar and feathers to take action by then, that is.

Want an idea of just how much crap is oozing out of the water, really?

Myanmar, Cuba, Iraq and Syria are the only markets in the world where Coca-Cola isn’t sold*; there are 1.2 billion 8-ounce servings consumed every single day across the entire globe. No surprise, really, right? Coke, although we don’t know it, in all probability secretly runs the world as a semi-benevolent dictatorship (but that’s another blog post.)

Y’all have no problem imagining that amount of fizzy sweetness in the world’s hands, right? Sucking down that carbonated, sugary zippiness, those multi-lingual belches, that dark brown, icy-cold satisfaction that only comes in a red bottle or can? We can all picture that because we all KNOW Coke is everywhere from the sandiest desert to the iciest tundra.

Now: imagine all that Coke is crude oil. 1.2 billion 8-ounce servings, all together now, Hallelujah, testify.

THAT is a CONSERVATIVE estimate of how much gunk is gushing out of the Gulf of Mexico. So far.

In truth, according to the NY Times, it might be twice as much as that.

I shit you not; it took me a solid thirty minutes to come up with that comparison, and I triple checked my math. In reality, Coke falls short of the crude oil by a scant bit, but it helps to give you a way to get your mind around the vast numbers.

You know what? BP has already proved itself completely useless.

They deserve nothing less than to be bankrupted, stripped of existence as a company, any remaining assets to be redistributed towards reparation. The entire oil business needs to be re-examined, restructured, and rebuilt from the ground up – or dismantled, if need be.

We all need to stop dicking around and get responsible. These are grownups acting like helpless children. Screw politeness, politics and petroleum-based products. I’ll walk, instead.

Sound impossible?

Then you just might have to call in the Marines.

# # #

* Source: Forbes.com

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Call the Red Cross. Because you can’t get there on the Web.


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My oldest is taking the Red Cross Babysitting Course today — we signed up for it online, to save ten whole dollars, which believe me, we earned, since the Red Cross web site is a natural disaster in itself: unbelievably torturous to navigate. It’s as if they deliberately hide information in an online labyrinth, sending users click after click in a nearly endless search for the one small piece of information they seek.

Armed, even, with the course number of the babysitting course, once we stumbled on the “Take A Class” section, the course refused to manifest itself for registering.

My daughter and I, stymied, at last puzzled out that we could excavate the registration page by searching for the course by NOT using the course number as a parameter – or using ANY search parameters at all.

(Smart girl, that babysitter-to-be.)

The services they offer, of course, are as good as their web site is bad, so I have far higher hopes for the class itself. It’s a full-day gig, and my eldest, usually a late-morning weekend sleeper, was up and ready for it. She’s got an ulterior motive: a babysitter certified by the Red Cross is WAY more likely to be rolling in jobs and cash than your average 12-year-old.

Add to that a mom with a graphic design background, and a neighborhood to post flyers in, and my little entrepreneur has dollar signs in her eyes.

To her credit, though, she also sallied forth with a notebook, pen, and a willing spirit to soak up everything the class has to offer: particularly, I warned her, the part in the course description that says “How to Communicate with Parents.”

This, I told her, is one of the key breakdown points in a babysitter’s career.

As an enterprising 12-year-old myself, I recalled one disastrous episode where I managed to keep a panicky hold on three human toddlers for about eight solid hours, even managing to get them all to sleep. Their humanity was questionable, although they were unquestionably primates; their ability to hang from the ceiling and from any small outcropping on the wall or high dresser proved that.

The kids trashed the already-messy house, but remained somehow alive and relatively clean themselves by the end of the grueling day. When the mother — tall, blonde, and blithe — finally arrived home to relieve me — tiny, disheveled, and exhausted — she was insanely furious that I had not, somehow, also cleaned her house, as well as feeding, cleaning, and caring for her maniacal tots.

She refused to pay me my one dollar an hour fee.

This was before I developed my full-blown nerve, and while I was still under the constraints my parents had deeply instilled in me never to shout profanity at, or smack the bejesus out of, grownups. I was a polite, respectful kid. I felt hot tears in the back of my near-sighted eyes, and a large, even hotter lump in the back of my throat.

I simply fled.

Lucky for me, my mother was the same sort of mad grizzly bear that I am now. Furthermore, my mother had been counting on robbing me of my babysitting money, which augmented her fury. She marched over, breathed dragon fire on the blonde welcher, and returned triumphantly with my cash, which at least I got to look at before it ended up in my mother’s purse.

Thus I illustrated to my own daughter: make it clear up front that cleaning the children, not the house, is what you are being hired to do.

I am certain the Red Cross will have the perfect words for that concept.

Not only that, the Red Cross class includes infant care – something I myself learned on the job, way back when. It’s startling, really, how desperate some people are to get out of the house, that they’ll leave the very youngest infants with the very youngest pre-teens, including clueless ones such as myself. How could they be sure that I was as nervously watchful as I was? It took ages to figure out which end of the diaper went where.

I remember calling my mother, who was absolutely no help at all with those odd plastic tape things, since I, apparently, was a cloth diaper baby – oh, she just dropped them in a box and someone brought clean ones to the house. And – funny story, she used to stick me with pins… Okay, Mom, thanks anyway, gotta go, there’s weird green stuff coming out of this baby now…

The worst thing I ever did was eat my employers out of house and home once the kids were asleep. (Once, bored out of my mind, I ate an entire box of Wheat Thins out of someone’s pantry. Kindly, the woman told me next time to please simply tell her what I’d like to have around and she’d stock it for me. I wanted to sink through the floor.)

So I will be supremely thankful to the Red Cross for giving my daughter the kinds of heads-up on infant care that a mother simply can’t.

Although my daughter and I DID have a talk the other night that was both reassuring and profoundly disturbing at the same time.

“There are a lot of girls at my school who are trying to get their boyfriends to get them pregnant,” my (only) 12-year-old said.

Me: (putting on my stone face, in an only half-successful attempt to disguise my inner “OMG!” and resorting to “Old Faithful”) How do you feel about that?

Her: I think they’re idiots.

Me: (at last able to exhale.) Why’s that?

Her: Because they don’t realize that once they actually HAVE a baby, they’ve got to take care of it. Like getting up at 1 o’clock to feed it, you know?

Me: (unable to resist driving the point home) Like getting up at 1 o’clock to feed it. And then again at 2 o’clock, maybe. And then at 3, waking up to change the nastiest diaper you ever saw or smelled. Then, just as you fall back asleep at 3:45, the baby wakes up again hungry. Then at 6, it’s feeding time again. Every two hours, around the clock – for months, until you’re desperate for sleep, and you can’t believe you’re being tortured like this, and the baby hasn’t even smiled yet.

Her: (looking at me, and blinking impassively.) Yeah, that’s sort of what I meant.

Me: (catching my breath) I’m not really a baby person.

Her: I get that. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m in no rush.

Me: Okay, good. Okay, then.

Her: My friend says she’s not going to have sex until she gets married.

Me: (unable to exhale again.) Yeah?

Her: My friend is an idiot.

Me: (exhaling tentatively.) Well, you know you can always talk to me. You don’t want to get pregnant before you’re ready, and you certainly don’t want to die. So talk to me, okay?

Her: (grinning.) I will. You’re fun to watch.

This is definitely a kid who can be trusted. After all, I ruthlessly use her to watch our youngest all the time, and when she’s on the job, I never worry for a second. That’s saying a lot. 

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