Planet Of The Oil

Dad was explaining how we die.

"We Johnsons go great, no health problems..." His hand sliced upward. "And then it's all over in just a week or two." His hand plunged. "Your grandfather, your grandmother. Your great-aunt. They were all well until the very end. That's the Johnson way."

"Ha, ha," I said. "Who says we're not a delight?"

We were wandering around the Longmont hardware store, on the hunt for a doodad for the end of a drape thingy cord-a-bob.

"Your grandmother had bladder cancer but I didn't tell her because I thought it would freak her out. There was no point. She was going to die soon anyway."

No one had a thingamajig. Maria screeched into the phone, telling Dad how to find one, but we came a cropper. Then we drove out of Longmont to the farms. Soon the glorious spires of our financial dominion rose above the horizon. As we drove in closer we saw the oil thingys, the metal boxes and pipes, all painted brown to blend into the landscape and fool the Greenpeacers. Dad got out and explained how fracking worked and what "completion" was on a well. Suddenly a gush of black gold spurted into the sky. Dad and I stared amazed. And then, realizing we couldn't fight it, we danced around, splashing around in the warm oil and laughing like schoolgirls on a Molly bender with the fags from One Direction.

"If I have some extra money," I laughed, covered in goo, "I was thinking of going to Europe!"

"That's an excellent idea," Dad said, dripping crude. "There's nothing more enriching or positive to do than traveling. And if you need any financial assistance, let me know. I'd be glad to help you!"

"Wait. Wait," I said, wiping the grease from my face. "I thought the

was supposed to be the last resort?"

"Oh, look, there's an environmentalist," Dad said. "We better be off."

We got back to the house, got cleaned up, and had dinner by the lake. THE LAKE

"So, tell me, what do your peers think of Syria?" Dad said, gnawing on a chicken leg brushed with emulsified gold. "You're in the age group where--"

"Did you bring the salt, Don?" Maria screeched.

"Over here. But, seriously, have you talked with your friends, because right now--"

"It's getting windy," Maria screeched.

"In any event, the events in the Middle East are very interesting because we might make more money, and that's a good thing--"

"That's a heron!" Maria screeched.

"Because if anyone deserves a lot of money, it's the John--"

"Is there more butter? I think this wine is bad. Where did we put the knife? I don't know where my face is. I have to take a poop."

Finally, worn out from screeching non sequiturs, Maria went to bed and left Dad and I to our man talk. Warren Buffet, Dad opined, knew how to make money but didn't know how to put it to good use, which led to a yarn about Gordon McDonald, Dad's billionaire friend from the seventies who also didn't know how to spend his money toward good works. He could have done something socially useful with his blood money, but did not. People were just no damned good. After a long silence, Dad turned to me.

"There's not much you can really do but lay good pipe, son," he said.

"What?"

Dad unzipped his face and out came a grinning Reggie! I fell to my knees.

"You maniacs!" I pounded the dock. "You blew it up! Damn you, damn you all to hell!" ETC!

(Sorry, I couldn't get through a whole post without mentioning Reggie.)