For some reason, the idea of going green will not let me treat it silly and as a consequence won't leave my mind. If one extends the abstraction that our political elites are mutating to thrive upon the rising levels of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere and apply it to us all, the implication is a black hole in the fabric of metaphysics.
Suppose you are in the back seat of a car full of people powering over a Texas hill country highway late at night. The driver has the habit of looking at the person he is talking to. You are not sure how much he had to drink at the party. Everyone else seems comfortable so you try to relax. But you can't relax.
Behind the wheel, the thin, long, haired boy with a filament-mustache, turns around and asks if anybody needs a beer. Then you become angry, not with the boy, but with yourself. Your brother had offered you a ride but you left with a stranger to be with your girlfriend, Caitlyn, who has suddenly acquired a talent for palm reading when her new boyfriend asks how many children they will have.
You notice a guardrail to your left and beyond a rocky, moonlit canyon. The beige and blue Ford Bronco snaps past a road sign on your right warning of falling rock. As you wonder if the young driver has noticed, he accelerates into a straightaway. No one else in the car seems to care. The two girls in front introduce themselves as Jessica and Ashley. The driver, Michael, is Jessica's boyfriend. He turns and smiles, "How do you do." You think he should lose the mustache. Jessica and Ashley ask if your girlfriend can really read palms.
As you scold yourself for being such a prude, you see deer. They look frail and uncertain as the Bronco barrels towards them. Finally, a large doe, the mother, springs into a treetop gully followed by her fawn and disappear into the abyss. Somebody opens a beer and turns up the radio. Another road sign, this one yellow and black and shaped like a diamond. It shows hard turns left and right and below it there is a small triangular sign that says "Good Luck."
Straight ahead, another guardrail this one with reflectors look at you with an evil eye. "Michael!" you blurt. He turns. Maybe the mustache is okay, you think. "Watch your driving."
The Bronco explodes through the guardrail.
For a moment, the catclaw, lantana and blackbrush being crushed under the floorboard tickles your feet. Michael desperately forces down on the breaks. You hear Caitlyn exclaim "Oh my God, we are going to have five children!"
"Ya know" Caitlyn's boyfriend says, "my best friend died in a wreck like this. The ones in the back seat lived though." Chaos ensues. "Or was it because he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, I can't recall but don't worry honey."
You want to be angry with Michael. You trusted him, put your life in his hands and now he has killed you.
At least Caitlyn will have a big, beautiful family.