Dear Silo, I’m tired of jokes about the oil spill. Leno. Letterman. On June 1^st  2010 John Stewart dedicated the entire “fake news” portion of his show to jokes about the spill. It’s true that much of the humour contained social and political commentary. But it wasn’t “funny.” Still, Stewart and his audience were killing themselves. Appropriate, I guess, since this issue highlights how we are all killing ourselves.

On the other hand, I like that his whole show was about this. Why is anyone talking about anything else? I know, life continues (for now). The World Cup is on. The Canadian auto sector is rebounding (perfect). Activists are crashing the Gaza blockade.

But you know what, I don’t care. Why aren’t we all parking our cars until we can convert them to run on biodiesel or excrement? Why are we watching Glee or driving to Dairy Queen or making love? Why are we not all in the streets in sackcloth and ashes, of one accord?

The world’s experts aren’t able to fix this leak, proving, as an acquaintance of mine pointed out, that there actually are no experts on how to fix deep sea oil leaks. They just know how to pump oil. And we all seem content to let them keep pumping oil for us. We shake our heads at the television footage and point fingers at negligent corporations and politicians, and then go back to pumping gas. Pumping hands. Making business deals. Making love.

In Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut proposes that at the end of the world, when the planet is truly and fully dead, the few surviving mammals will lose their sex drive. No drive to reproduce (what for?), to survive. No drive. Now that’s funny. Alan Dowber.