There is nothing funny about environmentalism.
Global warming is a serious problem, and anyone who finds humor in the up-therming of Mother Earth is a discredit to all her bioinhabitants. Only the truly enviro-impaired could possibly laugh at the survival of our fragile ecosphere.
You people make me sick. And by “sick” I mean “temporarily unable to enjoy the intoxicating scent of patchouli mixed with my own body odor.”
You live in your houses with your heat and your lights and you don’t care about the energy they use. You wear your leather shoes and your cotton shirts, and you don’t give a thought to the living plants and animals wrested from fulfilling, happy lives for your convenience. You ride your bikes to work and don’t feel an ounce of guilt about the plastic in your helmets or the extra carbon you’re emitting as you huff and puff up that hill.
I walk to work from my treetop BioNest. Slowly.
My work is being carbon-negative: Making sure I have a negative carbon footprint on the enviroworld. And I feel I am successful; my friends tell me I make a negative impact every day.
Which is why I don’t have a “job.” I know what jobs do to our delicate globorb. They’re anathema to those of us who really value our enviroball. Productivity uses valuable bioresources that we can’t afford to waste. Like paper. Or calories. Think long and hard before you eat that marinated tempeh or that tasty quinoa patty. Because, once you take the selfish step of eating, the biomatter you ingest can no longer be used to heat the local food co-op or light Gladropes, the fair-trade hemp crafts store down the street. And once you’ve eaten, don’t forget to ponder the other impact of your bioneeds on our ecoglobe. I live daily with the guilt of knowing I’m a small-scale methane plant; you should, too.
That’s why I can’t laugh at environmentalism. It’s not funny. And laughter releases way too much carbon.
