Ecological responsibility, Red Goshawks and the 19 plastic box cutters that conquered the most powerful army ever to exist

I’m one of those environmentally conscious people who bicycles instead of driving, separates all his recyclables, boycotts products made by large corporations known to commit atrocities against mother earth and eats as low on the food chain as possible in order to conserve this small blue planet we live upon. I was a member of the international retired Olympic relay swim team that swam the Mac G3 hard drive under the US coast guard’s radar and into Cuba from Mexico in order to revise the sugar refinement technology of that socialist country.
But you know what…I’m not doing any of that crap anymore. What is the sense in it all? Mere perpetuation of the planet, the people who will continue to mess it up and the other detritus that was here before us? I simply can’t see the value in that. Am I to leave my ’67 Ford F10 in the garage just so some smiling infant can grow up to guzzle the petroleum I’ve conserved for her? Or maybe I should forego using antibiotics when I’ve some disease just so that particular strain won’t become more virulent and compromise the teeny bit of life remaining in some octogenarian who pillaged the women of the French countryside during WWI. It’s all idiotic.
And don’t think you’re some particular breed of intellect because you’ve read that idiot Sartre and you think I’m just regurgitating his drunken blather. Because you and I both know that if he was around today he’d be writing editorials for Harpers, spending $37 for a loaf of whole wheat stone pulped peasant bread from Dean and Deluca’s and mail ordering 12 year old boys from Laos .
But you know what? All kidding aside, starting this very minute I’m living it up. I’ve got the frikin’ truck idling in the driveway right now just so the AC will be nice and chilly when I step into it. I made out holiday cards bestowing lavish donations to the NRA in the name of all my friends. I’m going into town tonight to buy 15 bags of heroin and a rig, and I’m going to teach myself how to use it without any assistance. I’m itchin to make an omelet out of a California Condor egg. And if I live long enough I’m going to vote for that Mitt guy.
So cheers to all the amputated limbs we’ll be leaving behind in Iraq and then Iran, how’do’you’do to the Andean herders who’ve shed their skins under the ozone hole and pleased to meet you to the silos of multi-headed nuclear and nerve gas infused missiles of Omaha and Nebraska.
If anyone needs me I’ll be out in my ’47 Hataras harpooning bottlenose dolphins with incendiary harpoon tips.