Archive | May, 2010

British Petroleum Shops at Acme

28 May

Every time I turn on the news and hear anything about how much BP is raping the ocean, I feel as though Wile E. Coyote should be walking out of frame, smashed like an accordion, holding a white flag.

Do they buy cleanup plans at Acme?

I mean, jeez, I’m no engineer, but are we really throwing tires and mud at a gigantic pipeline? It almost sounds like they put someone’s redneck uncle in charge of pluggin’ up the cluster.

The Associated Press reported the other day that BP, “didn’t plan for major oil spill.” Is it really a thought in anyone’s brains at this point that they have any idea what they’re doing?

I’ll be honest with you, when I heard that they were wanting to place a giant shipping container over the end of that pipeline, I was waiting with bated breath for several months down the road when (if it had worked) that bitch rocketed off into the atmosphere, buzzing a cruise ship as it entered orbit. “Grab your Hefty, Hank, BP effed everything up again.”

I suppose what I love more is that it never seemed to enter anyone’s mind at BP that hey, something really bad could happen with oil in the ocean one day, and they should, mayyyyybeeee, have a contingency for it. I had a job once that had contingency plans for losing sticky notes (ironically, at an oil company), but BP has no idea what they’ll do now, short of sending FEMA down to potato cannon squirrels with wetsuits and ShamWows into the pipeline in a constant stream.

“See, squirrels are pretty small, and can hold five or six ShamWows. If we shoot 6,000 of ’em at the leak at the force of 500 Nascar engines, then they should be able to soak of most of the world’s fuel in a couple hours. Them ShamWows can really soak a bitch up. I mean, they’re German, and you know the Germans always make good stuff.”

Indeed, Backwoods BP Emergency Management, indeed.

Donkey Punchers: Ruining the Lives of Servers

28 May
You know what’s an inappropriate phrase to use in any social situation?
Donkey Punch.
Let me set the scene for you.
My husband and I took my sister to lunch at our favorite Mexican Food Restaurant in Dallas yesterday. I won’t tell you the name of it, but it rhymes with Ma Macienda Manch. They have a frequenter card, but the stamps aren’t plain circle punches–they look like burros.
We asked our waiter what the stamp was. He relayed a story of having to hunt down a manager to find out, and in the spirit of contribution, I said—rather loudly—“Bring me the donkey puncher!”
I knew the second the word left my mouth what I had done. I wheezed the air out of my lungs in response to my own idiocy, and laughed myself into tears.  The waiter and my husband stared at me, wordlessly. My sister, as awkward as myself, burst into laughter. Mother of Mary and Joseph, what the hell did I just say. I’m now that girl.
“She must have been drinking,” you say? No. I’m just completely socially inept. This is not a new story for me; this is not even something that phased most people I know as out-of-character for me. I am incapable of not offending people in most standard social situations. What to wear, what to say, who to speak to—Awkward Queen reigns like Oprah reigns the housewives.