Showing posts with label Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

What's the big idea? Read this


I propose we today begin reversing the effects of global warming by everyone going straight to the nearest refrigerator and leaving the doors open for just 15 minutes.

I defy any scientist to refute the logic behind this idea.

I came up with this yesterday morning, posted it on social media and, of course, took the rest of the day off.

It wasn’t even 10 a.m. and I’d already achieved something that would save humanity and will doubtless one day earn me a Nobel Prize — and those babies come with $1.2 million in award dough.

The cool thing is that I come up with a really big idea like that at least once a week.

So, assured as I am of eventual riches, I rarely work most days, convinced as ever that my ship will soon come in and I’ll never again be troubled by the need to work. That means my daily life will differ little from what it’s like now except I’ll be able to afford to golf, go to baseball games and sit in the bar and daydream all day like I do now. 

The refrigerator thingie is inspired by the simple kind of genius I once read in a scholarly journal that foresaw a way to end air pollution. Experts said we could instantly purify the air around the globe by popping the tires of all the cars built in or before the 1950s.

I read this scholarly conclusion in the “Weekly World News,” unrelated sample headline: “Baby Born with Wooden Leg!”
I’ve been in the big idea business ever since.

I see a problem and I solve it.

It was that way when I read Olympic TV ratings were down. I enjoy the Olympics and how it brings people together.

Problem: We lack a spectacle grand enough to bring people together?

Solution: Let’s arrange a trans-Atlantic tug-of-war!

In fact, there used to be an international tug-of-war between America and Canada. It happened every year over the 1.3 mile-wide Detroit River between Motown and Windsor, Ontario.

I for years pitched in vain the story to various magazines because I thought it would be fun and might snag a nice buck. But the real reason I sought an assignment was because I was eager to satisfy my curiosity about what they did with the rope the other 364 days of the year.

I mean, you can’t just stow a coiled 1.5 mile long rope in some firehall garage.

I became so consumed with the idea I proposed the U.S. challenge Europe to a tug of war. Shipping would have to be halted for a week or so, but wouldn’t that be fun? 

We’d need some international referees to keep the crafty French from just tying their end to the Eiffel Tower and sipping coffee while we pulled with all our might.

Of course, most of my big ideas are meant to help humanity.

It was this way when I realized the bee population was dramatically declining while the bedbug population was skyrocketing.

We need bees to pollinate our plants and no one needs bedbugs. I said we need to find a way to turn bedbugs into bees.

I think the only thing holding this one back is a potentially nightmarish glitch.

Bedbees!

Then there’s the The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, a floating junk monstrosity that’s twice the size of Texas. Less imaginative observers note its oceanic existence and are appalled.

I see the same eyesore and sense lucrative opportunity.

I say we colonize it!

Our 1 percenters are always eager for new experiences on ocean front property. The good thing about colonizing giant trash islands is they can be towed to different locations based on playboy boredom.

It’d be like a luxury cruise ship only instead of creating mountains of trash, it’d actually be one.

As an old newspaper guy, it saddens me that readership is declining. Even worse is knowing so many people go to bed hungry every night.

What to do?

Edible newspapers!

Gun violence is a vexing issue. Pro-gun people think they should be allowed to carry loaded guns anywhere they want. Anti-gun people say too many innocents are getting shot.

Solution: Everyone can carry a loaded gun anywhere they want. Schools, churches, sporting events — anywhere. But they only get one bullet.

Use or lose your bullet and in addition to any existing laws, you need to appear before a judge and explain what happened to their bullet before they get another bullet.

My friends call this the Barney Fife Amendment. 

I got millions of ‘em.

Because political divisions ensue even after mandate elections, I contend victors should be allowed to jail the vanquished — both candidates and supporters — until the term expires.

The post office is losing money while people are complaining that commercial flights are too uncomfortable and expensive.

Solution: Have the USPS ship humans!

I could go on all day. These things just come to me.

When will even one of these turn into a practical solutions leading to actual income for me?

Ironically, I have no idea.


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Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Straw Wars! Battling insidious waste at McDonald's

I’ve tried to temper my criticism of the demographic after people who use straws said I hurt their feelings when I pointed out they really suck.

It’s been my contention for years that the innocuous-looking straw is a pernicious waste and emblematic of our runaway pollution problems.

One estimate says McDonald’s alone issues 60 million plastic straws a day. Get a drink, get a straw. It’s like that at nearly every eating establishment in America. Same goes for bars and nightclubs where straws are thoughtlessly dispensed with every iced drink. And you get a new straw every time your drink is refreshed.

These straws do not get recycled. They wind up in landfills or float down the gutters into the sewers and eventually attache themselves to the world’s biggest trash disaster, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch -- and I urge you to check out my innovative solution to that environmental catastrophe following this rant.

My point is the waste is colossal and an affront to anyone who cares about the environment or logical thinking.

See, once any human with at least one arm and an opposable thumb gets past the sippy cup stage, the straw is an utterly superfluous device.

And saying people who use straws suck is to me an irresistible bit of wordplay. 

Because suck they do.

Society has yet to dumb down to the point where it needs instructions for straws -- give it time -- but when it does the instructions will say, “Put one end in drink, the other end in mouth and suck! Suck! Suck!”

So for about two years, now I’ve been gathering our unused straws the waitresses reflexively dump on our table and putting them in a plastic grocery bag in my office.

My plan is to in about a year create a penis-shaped work of art constructed entirely from straws and then dare leading art critics to say it sucks.

In the meantime, I’ve begun to take the fight to the enemy. Yes, I’m starting to refuse straws.

If the smiling waitress brings our table four straws, I say, “Thank you, but we do not need straws. We’re all capable of consuming our refreshments by picking up the glasses and raising them to our mouths the same way cavemen did with coconuts. We do this for our daughters, for Mother Earth and for you, my dear. We want you to grow up in a world free of senseless pollution.”

Just once I’d like one of the girls to euphorically thank me for the gesture. Instead, they usually become so cold and distant I wind up worrying they’re in the back hockering on my meal.

It’s even worse at the drive-thrus where it’s like they worry they’ll be punished if they don’t meet some murky straw quota.

Happened to me again Saturday morning. I was grabbing a sausage McMuffin (no egg) and a small Coke to fuel me through some morning productivity.

It was right in the middle of the morning rush, cars lined up around the building.

I paid at window No. 1 and inched my way to the second window.

The girl was about 17 and her face bore the harried look of a fast-food frantic. Clearly the fast food wasn’t going fast enough.

“Sausage McMuffin, no egg?”

Correct.

“And one small Coke?”

I could see her left extending more than just one small Coke. Snug to the drink was the object of my loathing, one eight-inch straw encased in its little sanitary paper prophylactic.

It was like it was happening in slow motion. I extended my left hand, palm out and began saying, “I do not need the straw. Straws are wasteful little . . .”

She was in no mood for drive-thru behavior deviation. Her eyes narrowed and met mine.

She had no intention of withdrawing. I knew if I didn’t seize the offering it would all wind up in my lap.

“If you don’t want the straw there’s a trash can across the parking lot.”

Rude on so many levels, it was like asking someone from PETA to share my meal. 

She turned and the little window began to slowly close.

What I did next reminded me of the scene where Indiana Jones reaches to recover his hat as the wall closes, only in reverse.

I deftly speared the straw back through the narrowing window and struck her square in the back of the neck as she was bolting away.

I could hear her shouting angry profanity as I pulled away. I couldn’t make out exactly what she said, but I know this.

If she said I sucked, she is a girl with no sense of irony.



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