Yesterday, between 8.30PM and 9.30PM, global warming alarmists and their followers sat in the dark for their annual earth hour celebration. Under the theme “places we love” – and in peril from climate change – they have once again perpetuated their mostly unfounded and erroneous claims.
It is easy to climb on the climate change bandwagon. It makes us look fashionable, knowledgable, youthful, aware. It lends importance and sagacity to an otherwise teary, mundane acceptance speech.
Climate change fearmongers, a mostly loud and ill-informed well-electrified, privileged haut monde, speak and act under the guise of saving the world, the planet, the universe. They mean well, of course. The good people, les bien pensants, always mean well.
But whether tricked into an updated malthusian catastrophy vision of the future, or misled by the elitist idea that the masses need to be protected from themselves, it is never enough just to care.
Environmentalists love to preach their ‘day-after-tomorrow gloom-and-doom’ futuristic scenarios. And trust Hollywood to provide the imagery. Mad Max Fury Road. A new genre is born. The ecofeminist, post apocalyptic, lesbian road opera dystopian future flick. And it passes the Bechdel test. Six Oscars in, let’s be honest, uninteresting categories. But the humour. Why is there no Oscar for humour?
In Mad Max Fury Road, the greenies are proven right. We f*%#&*ed up. But there is more and the oppression of nature has become the oppression women. And not just any women. Breeders and vulva, um, no, wait, vuvalinis. Yes, that’s it. Vuvalinis. And the Oscar goes to….
In Mad Max’s world there is no water, no greenery. The earth is sour, infertile. The vuvalinis carry their seeds with them, in a bag. A carpetbag model. Even Louis Vuitton did not make it.
The future looks bleak indeed. So turn off the light! Have a break. Have a Kit Kat. Or not.
A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Well, Mary, not anymore. For the good people, les bien pensants, have decided that sugar is bad for us. Fizzy drink sugar that is. And not for all of us. Just for the underprivileged fat juvenile mother of four who sits in front of her TV set, chain-smoking, sipping on her generic coca cola. A stereotype you say? Talk to the good people. It is their nanny tax. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Necessity is the mother of invention. Switch on the lights and see!