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Worse than any unprepared Boy Scout could imagine, an upwelling of nightmarish proportion, like regurgitated Ghost Dance flotsam, bubbles to the surface.
"For a second, the saturated puddles seemed like pubic patches from Pandora's box, or possibly the oil-caked combings of Ronald Reagan's hair, rising from the dead," said an individual who identified himself as Teabag Tommy, a Closet Tea Bagger Who Has Finally Come Out. "But that is impossible; it would have been combed."
Tea Bags by the peck (not to be confused with pecker), if air dropped into BP's "oh-my-gosh-we-might-have-just-royally-fucked-up-the-world-gift-to-humanity-puddle-of-pulsating-crap, would suck up oil faster than Sarah Palin could oratorically suck out the brain cells and life force of most critical thinkers. Then we could deep fry the tea bags and sell them as Cajun Ravioli (although most Italians prefer olive oil).
"Fear not," Teabag Tommy said, "when what we prefer to call Slick Willy reaches Crawford, Texas, in about four hours, there will be a new sheriff in town. George Junior's wells never spilled a single drop; GW, the most ecologically successful driller in history. It's always Demo's who f--- up the environment. And you can take that to the bank. Well, not the river bank; it's a little slippery.
