Tinhuviel Artanis

And I don't mean flatulence, although I suffer from that on a chronic level, much to Aunt Tudi's perpetual horror. No, I'm talking about that liquid our friends in England and the Great White North call petrol. When I went back to work at 4 this afternoon, gas had jumped up to $4.39 a gallon, this up from $3.89 when I bought it just two hours earlier. When I left work at 8, the price had jumped to $4.60. People everywhere are bitching and moaning about the prices, shaking our collective fists to the great They who are behind the gouging, yet we still fill our tanks, despite our anger and frustration.

We need to stop. The argument is that we need gas to get to work, to school, to run our errands and function as responsible citizens. My argument is, if we stopped, just stopped buying gas, stopped going to work and to school, stopped running our errands and functioning as responsible citizens, then the great They might get the message that they must stop abusing us. They'll know the jig is up if their business called the USA stops running and maybe they'll back off a little and cut the public some slack. We've had hurricanes for longer than we've had automobiles. I remember when hurricanes would strike and the weather would never affect gas prices. This is just another excuse by the oil companies to make extra money off the backs of a submissive proletariat. It must stop, but it won't until we as a people decide on some solidarity and work together for once to affect a positive change.

I'm willing. Are you? If so, pass this on. Let's set a date and stick to it. Let's shut this country down, have our own little Boston Tea Party, and see what happens.

The price of gas has gone beyond ridiculous. Beyond horrific. Beyond my ability to continue to afford. It's gotten to the point where I sincerely believe that the fuel crisis is yet another sign of the coming Alpaca Lips. Scooters and mopeds have increased in price because dealers are taking advantage of the sudden keen interest many Americans have taken in owning such a vehicle. I haven't enough land for a horse, nor do I have enough money to purchase and maintain a person of the equine persuasion. Oh, let me rephrase that: I have no money, even to buy a wee plastic horse you find in the toy department at Wal-Mart. But I do have abundant land for a llama and I have the perfect shelter for a camelid. Peruvians ride llamas all over the place. Why can't I ride a llama 2.5 miles to work and 2.5 miles back home? The shelter of which I speak is the building that houses the riding lawn mower. If I had a llama to graze the land, I wouldn't need the riding lawn mower. Problem solved. What's even better is I found a llama rescue place whose adoption fee is $250. I could sell the riding lawn mower to pay for the llama.

So I could ride the llama to work, carrying some llama chow or hay or whatever to keep the llama happy in a saddle bag, along with a large bowl that I'd keep full of cold water (ice included, courtesy of Cromer's bodacious ice machine which is on site). The llama could chill out in the shade of the patio right outside the canteen and be showered with affection not only by myself, but also by Röchling employees while they take their breaks. I can also keep an almost constant eye on the llama to make sure it was okay. Upon riding the llama home, my beloved critter could enjoy the llama chow and hay, but it could also eat all the grass it's little heart desired, and neither Llew nor I would have to worry about mowing the lawn very often, if at all.

The only wrench in my new Master Plan is my weight. I need to lose about 40 pounds in order to ride a llama standing at 12 hands without distressing the poor thing to the point of insanity. Given gas prices and my increasing inability to afford the accursed fuel, I may end up losing the weight by walking back and forth to work.