Well played, BP. Not only are you drawing on The Simpsons in the time of crisis,
but you managed to ignore the fact that the oil is already all over the freaking place and floating on the surface of the water. Way to go.
So, I didn't really have a whole post ready to go on this ... that was as far as I got. You know, that I think that idea is stupid.
But watch this: Okay, the oil spill is a big, gross problem that is not being fixed. You know what else is a big, gross problem that is not being fixed? My HUGE SWOLLEN FEET AND ANKLES.
I have never seen such a thing is all my life. I guess whenever I heard about swollen feet before now, I was always like, "Heh. I bet that won't happen to me." Burn, former self. Burn.
I have a girlfriend who was mad about her swollen feet because she was angry with herself and irrationally thought there must be something she could have done to avoid it. I am not mad so much as horrifically disgusted. I can't stop staring at my feet, which look disturbingly like hams on toothpicks, and I get the major voms. I am feeling the biggest vomity-vom-vomitness of all time.
I am repulsed by myself. I mean, you couldn't SEE my nausea every waking moment of my first trimester. You can't SEE my stiff lower back. But these Flintstone feet. Oh, you can see them. And I just want to hide in my house with my feet propped up on a pillow while I stare at my deformed body and cry.
So, much like the horror that is the oil spill, I am not finding a solution to the problem. My dome is convincing my husband to rub my ham feet when I get home from work. He is really racking up his sainthood points lately. I mean, even *I* won't touch those nasty feet.
I guess the moral of this story is that my husband rocks the casbah. Well played, Dimick. Take a bow.