Glerbal Worming 

Hot and cold running banter

The following occurred back when we were all chattering about how chilly it was here abouts. Like ... three weeks ago.

"Cope! Lucky thang ah run inter yuh. Ah'z got a point t' make an' y'r juzz th' bird t' make id tuh."

"Criminy, Red! I'm trying to pee here!" I'd stood in line 10 minutes for my turn at one of those polyurethane johns, bladder ready to bust like a 60-year-old water balloon, and as soon as I get inside, Red comes barging through the door.

"Y'r s'posed t' lock y'rself in wid dis here slidy doo-hickey, Cope. Tain't mah fault if'n yew don' know how t' op'rate a Port-A-Pot."

"Just shut the door, would you? I'm unzipped." He did what I asked, yes, but I didn't expect him to do it by joining me inside. "What the hell are you doing here, Red?"

"Come t' enjoy d' mally-floosus soun's o' Muzzy 'n' Billy." It was the first night of the Idaho Botanical Garden's summer concert series, and I, too, was there to enjoy the mellifluous sounds of the Braun brothers. A real crowd had shown up—far more than I'd expected for such a cool and damp evening—and it seems they'd all done what I did ... guzzled beer and wine for 90 minutes and put off going to bathroom until the first break.

"No. I mean, what's so important that you have to crowd into a toilet with me? Now we have to wait until everyone goes home before we can get out of here, dammit. No way am I going to be seen coming out of a public stall with another guy."

"Whatcha think, Cope? Purdy durn cool, ain' id?"

"Yeah, Red. The gardens are cool. The beer's cool. And the Braun boys are always cool. Now, if I could just finish up here and get out of this pisser without getting arrested ... that'd be about as cool as it gets."

"Nawr! Ah's means the wedd'r. Here id be d' firs' week o' June an' e'erbody's wrapt up like cheap burritos. E'er see so many jackets on fowks dis time o' year?"

"And what's your point? We're getting some unseasonably low temperatures and more rain than normal. You've been around here long enough to know it happens now and then."

"So whate'er become o' all dat glerbal wormin' yoos rad'cal invirusmendalist's been harpin' 'bout? Huh, Cope? Huh? Yoos wanna knows whad ah thank? Ah thank dis wedd'r what we been havin' is Gawd's way o' laughin' in y'r face. Raht in y'r gull-durn, thank-y'-know-id-all-butcha-don't, face!"

"Red, just because Southern Idaho is having a spate of chilly weather doesn't mean ..."—and that's as far as I got before he threw open the door and strutted away, leaving me looking sheepish to a long line of nervous Billy and Muzzy fans.

The rest happened two weeks—an extraordinary number of tornadoes, blizzards in the Northwest, record-breaking mid-West flooding and an East Coast heat wave—later.

"Red! Lucky thing I ran into you. I have a point to make and you're just the bird to make it to."

"Durn it all, Cope! Ah'm tryin' t' win mah chilluns a stuft polar bawr!" I'd found him in the Dairy Days carnival, lobbing darts at a wall full of saggy balloons.

"Sorry, Red. But I'm just too, too curious to know whose face you think God is laughing in now. You know ... with all the flooding back in corn country. Or the remarkable number of tornadoes and the heat in Philadelphia that killed 15 people."

"Wartchew talkin' 'bout, Cope?"

"A couple of weeks ago, you indicated that you believe God uses meteorological conditions to embarrass global warming adherents, remember? Then we can't forget those preachers who claimed Katrina was God's response to gay pride parades in New Orleans. So, assuming you guys are right and God really does use weather anomalies to send messages, then what do you suppose he's saying to those Boy Scouts a tornado killed in Iowa or the farmers who've lost most of their crops to flooding? Tell me, Red ... what does the drought in Australia or the alarming desertification of the sub-Sahara translate to from God-talk?"

"Cope, yew'd already know what Gawd's sayin' if'n yew weren't so brainwershed by Crazy Al Gore. Juzz lahk good ol' Cal Thomas said in his columnal a few weeks back ... yoos glerbal wormin' nuts ares a culd. A big ol' stinkin' culd! And yoos know what Charlie Craphamper sayz 'boud ch'all?"

"You don't mean Charles Krauthammer?"

"Yuh ... him. He dun sayz, 'Environmentalists are Gaia's priests, instructing us in her proper service and casting out those who refuse to genuflect.'"

"How'd you do that, Red? You pronounced every word of Krauthammer's ignorant horseshit perfectly."

"Ah mammerized it phornetical lahk. Yoos know ... same way dem oprah singers lawrn dem Eye-talyun ditties. Bud dat's nod d' point. Yoos lefties 'r' tryin' t' bring down our Gawd-given cap't'list econominics wit' y'r gull-durned carbonic footsprint an' y'r gull-durned rev'rentiality f'r all dat gull-durned nature!"

"Don't you see what they're doing, Red? Creeps like Krauthammer and Thomas know they've lost the global warming debate on the science side, the political side, the social side, and most importantly, on the 'what's-happening-right-in-front-of-our-eyes' side. So they're sloshing this stupid pseudo-religious slop around in desperation, hoping they can convince the registered dimwits that there's something evil about wanting to preserve the planet. Then for good measure, they claim we're a bunch of unrequited Commies who have this scheme to bring down the system by masking our hate for rich people behind environmental concern. Want to know who's crazy, Red? It's not Al Gore. It's you numbnut clowns who spend your lives huddled over your computers, soaking up each other's dementia on the Internet. Truth is, pal, you don't know climatology from chlamydia, yet you spout all these theories about sun flares and cyclical weather patterns like you actually know what your taking about. Pardon me, pal, but I think I'll put my faith in the real experts instead of big oil butt boys like Krauthammer and Cal Thomas. And if they want to call that a cult, who cares? Nobody's listening to them, anyway. Nobody but loons like you, Red."

He was ready to argue more, but I had my eye on a cute little orange Port-a-Pot with only two people in line. At my age, when nature calls, it's best to listen.

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