Palm Oil Flames Licking my Foreign Born Doobie
The Dutch grow synapse popping pot. And when you go into a little shop in Amsterdamned to purchase a henry of mushrooms they offer you a menu with different kinds of trips. I like their style. But it turns out that when it comes to energy policy, they suck.

According to the January 31 business section of the NY Times (jesus ball-tickling christ, I told somebody earlier today that the article came out yesterday and I only realized right now when I looked at the paper that it was eight days ago) the Dutch use of palm oil as an alternative energy source is an environmental disaster. Yeah, the Dutch and their "progressive" EU buddies are not so innocent as their wooden shoes and recent genocides might suggest.

The Times claims that the draining of peatland in Indonesia, where the palms are grown, releases 660 million tons of carbon into the atmosphere a year and that the fires plantation owners use to clear peatland adds 1.5 billion tons of carbon a year. The fires and the draining of peatland combine to equal 8 percent of all global emissions from burning fossil fuels. Way to go Europe. You're killing us all.

So what I'm getting to here is that I would like to travel to the land of the Dutch to beg their government to reconsider and institute a smothering law that would make the sue of palm oil punishable by castration. If you're a woman, you have to wrestle another woman convicted of using palm oil. And both women have to be covered in palm oil... and they have to kiss, a lot, and they have to go down on one another. Unless they're really ugly and they can't find anyone in the country to watch, in which case they have to tend an acres of peatland for a year.

But this kind of trip and lobbying effort isn't cheap and lord knows I don't have that kind of money. Neither does my wife -- I've checked. But with a few hundred donations from the anonymous faces on the Internet, I can go to Dutchland and save the planet.

If you want to send a donation leave your e-mail address as a post and I'll e-mail you my address. Remember, this isn't for me, or my desire get cockeyed on mushrooms and yell at a foreign bureaucrat, it's about our children.

My friend Big Daddy would say, "Ohhhh, dude, I just think we're screwed. I honestly don't think we can do anything to save this planet. I bet a satellite smashes into my house tonight."

He's wrong though. Send me money and we can all save the planet.

A night of poetry from slower lower Delaware.
I was sitting here typing -- not hurting anyone -- when I run into a tangent from the past, The E-Train Wayland, a jittery, pasty, chronic masturbator who once shared a bunk with a Mexican admiral. I met Wayland while we were both living in Newark, Delaware. He was a strange, but sage man then. A Holy Man, he once applied a thick layer of viscous "Death Hot Sauce" to his coin purse. I think he was trying to purify the house we were both sharing with some guy who had a solid haircut. At any rate The Train hooted like a screech owl, poured vodka down his throat and made gristly predictions of the future -- it was shortly after Bush had been inaugurated President, so The E-Train's methods might be unconventional, maybe uncomfortable, but they work.
Well, E-Train is back and he's writing poetry. I found this in my inbox. Keep in mind his power.

There is nothing like going to Arby's on a Tuesday night.
Going through the DriveThru getting a Big Montana Value Meal
(make sure you get extrahorsey sauce!)
eating in the parking lot
and playing an endlessloop of Desperado
(sometimes I throw in Witchy Woman if the moodstrikes me).
After the meal, grabbing a periodical, I head into Arby's to go to the real office and do the Junior Jumble Crossword.Now that is a good day!
-Wayland