Monday, June 14, 2010
A Parabolic Tale of Woe
There is a road accident involving three cars: my Aardvan, a doctor's new BMW, and a beater driven by a drunk. The doc gets out to survey the damage. His Beemer is totaled, and he is shaken but unhurt, having been protected by the forty-seven airbags that deployed on impact. The drunk who caused it all is relaxed, unhurt save for some bruising, and his '74 Impala is crumpled but driveable. The Aardvan, apparently built out of cola cans, has shredded places with sharp bits, one of which has nicked the Dread Dormomoo's femoral artery, which is fountaining. I am freaking, and trying to stanch the flow. I happen to see the doc, face contorted in fury, pull out a gun and put an end to the drunk's DUI career.
I have a choice. I can call the cops, and have the doc hauled away for Murder Most Foul, OR, I can call the doctor over, smoking gun still in hand, and have him save my wife with his expertise, and then let jurisprudence take its course.
I know what the White House would do, because they are doing so on the Gulf Coast. Having the Progressive's penchant for focusing on drilling for dollars, they are spending much time and energy extracting bucks from BP, rather than letting them focus on the job at hand, stopping the oil leak.
I have no great love for BP, but they do have expertise that, I believe, could be more fruitfully brought to bear on the problem if BHO would back off, and leave the strong-arming 'til after the faucet is closed.
Then you can bleed 'em dry, 'cos, y'know, all those British pensioners don't really need the BP dividends to get by on. They have the National Health!