The Free Press ran a story this weekend that said a customer boycott of British Petroleum “won’t accomplish much.” It will hurt independent station owners, who have zero power and influence over the corporate policies that have led to so much misery in the Gulf of Mexico. Leave it to an academic to lay it out:
Michigan State University economics professor Charles Ballard said a boycott “will have very little effect” on BP.
“For one thing, not all of BP’s products are bought by American consumers of gasoline,” Ballard said this week. The public would be better off supporting a tough congressional examination of the April 20 explosion and stricter regulations on offshore oil operations, he said.
Hmm. Well. Can we put a dollar value on the satisfaction it gives me to drive past the BP on the corner — a station I have patronized many times — and give my business to the Shell down the street? If so, I’m putting it at one hillion jillion dollars, and I’m going to keep doing so until I get tired of my imaginary money piling up. If it hurts the independent operator, I’m sorry, but at this point it is the sole concrete action I’m capable of at the moment to express my rage at this colossal fuck-up, so, there it is.
I’m also encouraging all cultural portrayals of BP as a bunch of arrogant, incompetent numbnuts. Yes, I have signed on as a follower of BPGlobalPR, the joke Twitter account:
Best part of the BP Memorial Day Picnic? The custom made oily dunk tank! So far we’ve dunked 4 ducks, a dolphin, 2 otters and @bpTerry!
Due to public outcry, our “Spill Or Be Spilled” flash game will be taken off our BP Kidz Klub website. “Smack the Greasy Manatee” stays.
Yes, I intend to heap ridicule and scorn upon BP, its staggeringly clue-free management team and anything else I can think of. I know it’s silly and possibly hypocritical — I still drive a car, don’t I? — but at the moment, it’s what I can do. It’s all I can do.
What do you call a boatload of BP executives sinking in oil-covered seas with no lifeboats, each one leaping into the vile mix of crude and salt water, flailing to stay afloat before their lungs fill with the poisoned mixture and they sink to the bottom to be eaten by oil-mutated bottom-feeders?
A good start!
A GREAT start!
If that makes me un-American, well, screw you, Rand Paul.
I hope you all had a pleasant Mem Day weekend. I was struck by this comment by MichaelG, late yesterday:
My father served during WWII, I went to Vietnam twice, my son in law will be leaving for his second trip to Afghanistan in July and my daughter will be a single mom again for a year. I am righteously offended by fatuous assholes who have never served urging me to “remember the troops this Memorial Day.” Sorry. I’ll get off my soap box now.
Funny. Alan’s father was a decorated combat infantryman in World War II. He got the shit shot out of him en route to winning three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, the works. You know what he told his son as he grew to manhood? “Keep playing that trumpet. Get good enough so that if you get drafted, you can play in the Army band. Those guys never see combat.” I find it fascinating that of the whole Bush administration hall of shame that got us into this shitstorm in Iraq, the one guy who had serious doubts was the one guy who actually went to Vietnam and didn’t work deferment after deferment, or get a National Guard post keeping the homeland safe from Canadian invasion.
Have I got some bloggage for you:
First, related to the above: What Gold Star families want you to know. No. 1: Don’t say “closure” unless you’re talking about a door.
Mom says giving birth while driving was “no big deal.” In a Chevy Cobalt? It most certainly was.
Time to make Kate’s lunch and push forward into a new week. But a short one. Enjoy yours.