Are you fucking kidding me?
Now, I’m no fan of Bush. I was just recently seen wearing an ABBA pin, as a matter of fact (Anyone But Bush Again). Then again, Kerry doesn’t exactly instill warm fuzzies either. Truth be told, I’m just plain frightened of this coming administration, no matter what. But I digress.
Back to Mr. Michael Mooronic. Well, you know what.. I’ll let Christopher Hitchens do the talking, as he’s said everything already.
Right, so, anyway.
Now that I’m living in a new house, I’ve been BBQ’ing at least 3 times a week, sometimes more. With this new insurrection of BBQ’d delights, my general neurosis about all things have made comic debuts in visions of the propane tank erupting like some world war 2 pineapple grenade.
I’ll be standing in the kitchen and glance through the sliding glass door and will see this little white tank-o-death explode sending metal bits and flame through the window, ultimately reducing me to so much cherry pie.
I’ll be near the wall where the propane tank sits outside and imagine what kind of damage it could do as I study the walls support structure and material makeup. Meaningless figures of force and velocity run through my head. Meaningless because I have no idea what sort of force is released when a propane tank self-destructs.
I imagine a gas leak near the burners that carries the flame to the tank as my yummy morsels sizzle on the grill. I wonder as I stand over the BBQ if any of my guests inside would also be killed. I wonder if anyone would cry out frantically at my funeral “He went before his time!!”.
Probably not.
Since there has been no propane blast, as of yet, I’ll continue to cook on my ancient propane grill, delighting taste buds until such a time as the tank does indeed self-destruct and exact it’s deadly fee for the delicious meats I grill on it weekly.
-G