Mean Green Unethical Machine
I sometimes sneak empty beer bottles into my trash, rather than waiting for weekly recycling pickup day. [Come to think of it, ditto for pizza boxes, wine bottles, tuna cans and styrofoam takeout containers. Aaand “sometimes” is closer to all the time.] I also can’t say that I read or necessarily need each and every one of the hundreds of pages I print and ultimately toss in my office trash can. Nor can I say that I drive an environmentally conscious hybrid vehicle. [Actually, I can’t say that I drive at all. But that was the state’s decision. When/If my driving privileges are reinstated, I’m getting a bigass SUV.]
So with that said, I can’t in good conscience sit here and preach about saving our planet. I’ll defer to my tree-huggin’, alternative-fuel-advocatin’ peers here at 30POV to scribe words of wisdom on this month’s topic of Green Ethics. So make sure to read their posts. [No offense, my lamb-skin-condom-wearin’ friends.]
Hmm…green ethics…what can I share with you that is somehow, loosely, vaguely, hardly, not at all really related to green ethics? [Shit! This is tougher than I thought it’d be.] Oh! I got one…
A few years back, a group of buddies and I took a week-long road trip from Jersey City to Milwaukee, hitting up baseball games from city to city along the way. Throughout the trip, we were pulling ruthless pranks on one another, many of which were premeditated, using props we had brought along with us. [Ya know, standard prank fare…a 5 lb. bag of flour for “antiquing,” a huge piece of tripe to serve as a blanket for a sleeping pal, a pound of sliced American cheese for smacking one another with, etc.] My personal favorite, and the most appropriate to this month’s topic, was the 1 oz. tube of green food coloring that I took along.
On the very first night, our pal, who we’ll call “Chubby” to mask his identity, had passed out in our room. There he rested peacefully, on his back, dead to the world. Chubby was begging to be eff’d with! [He was on his back! We were drunk. After all, I had the food coloring. The Gods of Funny would surely strike me down if I didn’t at least attempt something.]
Quietly perched above him, tube of dye in hand, […fighting back tears and snorts from laughter…] I gently pressed the spout between his lips – and squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed some more, until every last drop was in or on his mouth. [Fact: That is the most homoerotic thing I’ve ever written.] Here’s a photo of the immediate aftermath:
Fast forward to daybreak. We’re all awoken by Chubby clumsily navigating across our room to the bathroom. He flipped on the bathroom light, closed the door, and we immediately heard the groans of horrified disbelief. He ran that sink for a good twenty minutes straight, feverishly scrubbing his face and rinsing his mouth as if he were shat on. [In his defense, on this trip that was a very strong possibility.] Looking at the crime scene [his cot], it was smeared with bright green streaks – the pillowcases, sheets, comforter and even the friggin’ window curtains that hung by his head. Was there possibly any dye on him with all that we saw on the bedding? [Yes. A lot, in fact.]
We quickly hopped back into our beds before Chubby emerged from the bathroom exasperated and confused. [And looking as though he just went fifteen rounds with She-Hulk’s choacha.] We all acted shocked at the site of his horribly green-stained face, but offered little support beyond our strongly collaborated explanation that “someone must have put something in your food last night.”
For the next few days, we all [except for Chubby, of course] enjoyed our road trip with his steadily fading green teeth, lips and lower face. And going on seven years, he still sincerely believes that a waiter in Milwaukee put some innovative, time-release, green dying agent in his dinner.
[Oh, also, the picture of Chubby above has spawned countless Photoshop incarnations such as this…]