More on Ozone, Penguins

The most recent maps of ozone-depletion show that the phenomenon is centered approximately .9 kilometers from the McMurdo station, at precisely the point at which exists the largest and perhaps oldest rookery of penguins in the world. These maps show, of course, that the ozone hole extends in all directions—down to the South Pole, up toward the nether regions of South America, etc.
 
Skeptics have written to us and asked, not always in the professional tone that is characteristic of true scientists, how the MJTT’s hypothesis stands up to this fact. One writer, purporting to have an affiliation with the McMurdo “beakers,” as the support personnel refer to the scientists at that station, asked how the MJTT accounts for the presence of the ozone hole at the aforementioned spots.
 
Disregarding the unkind, in fact sneering, tone of the email, we answer thus:
 
As for the South Pole, we hypothesize that a significant number of amateur trekkers to that illustrious spot begin their journeys from the McMurdo Station. Being typical American tourists, their pre-trek regimen includes a visit to the aforementioned huge rookery. That rookery, we have no doubt, is replete with penguin droppings, and any visit thereto involves treading on layers of dung that have been accumulating for millennia. As is the case with any animal dung, the penguin variety has adhesive properties. It sticks to boots. Thus it should surprise no one that, though there are no penguins at the South Pole, there is, given the tourist traffic between McMurdo and the South Pole, a significant amount of their vile and dangerous leavings at and around the latter spot.
 
Further study is needed, of course, to verify or disprove this hypothesis. But such empirical research is outside the scope and charter of the MJTT. We leave this investigation to the National Science Foundation (NSF).
 
As for the extension of the ozone hole toward South America, we need only refer to the much-decried breakup of the Antarctic ice pack, resulting in the creation of New-Jersey-sized icebergs, which have no place to go but north. Though the oft-cited reports of this catastrophic event are content to explain it by using the disputed canard of a general global warming, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that these mammoth icebergs were caused by millennia of penguin fecal activity; their northward drift might well, in turn, explain the expansion of the hole in the ozone layer in that direction.
 
This again is hypothesis. Assuming for the moment that there is something to it, and that the general hypothesis generated by the MJTT proves sound, we venture the following proposal to solve the very real problem of the depletion of the ozone layer.
 
If penguins are indeed the source of this environmental menace, the solution is simple: just as the elimination of mad cow disease can be effected by slaughtering the offending bovines, so the elimination of the ozone problem can be effected by slaughtering the offending penguins.
 
A drastic solution? Perhaps. But dire problems require just such measures. And there is legal precedent for this modest proposal. I refer, of course, to the American hunting laws. Let the American tourists who flock to Antarctica in quest of adventure be encouraged to purchase licenses to shoot the pests, setting the bag limit at, say, fifty per adult tourist per season. In addition, let there by a reverse bounty on each penguin bagged. In other words, charge the tourist, say, ten thousand dollars for each bird successfully slaughtered. The proceeds would go toward reducing the national debt, thus in effect killing two birds with one stone.
 
We at MJTT believe that this proposal would enjoy support from two groups often thought to be political foes: the NRA and the Greens. As for the animal rights activists, we can only suggest that they might consider ways to change the diet of the penguins, making their droppings environmentally sound. Perhaps, for example, these stately birds might thrive on a diet of Purina cat chow, or even of deceased mad cows.

In considering the continuing but now sadly neglected problem of ozone-layer depletion, we at the Myles na Gopaleen Jr. Think Tank (MJTT) were influenced, indeed inspired, by the theory, positively confirmed by the EPA, of the causal relation between the belching of bovine ruminants and the alarming growth of methane in the atmosphere. Plainly put, methane emissions from livestock such as cattle, water buffalo, sheep, goats, pigs, horses, and caribou now account for upwards of fifteen percent (15%) of the annual anthropogenic methane emissions. This fact, of course, has profound implications for the global environment. Other think tanks have been pondering this problem; one of them has concluded that the rational and necessary solution would be to declare all livestock, beginning with the ordinary cow, as mad, then do the reasonable thing and simply slaughter them—except, of course, for the caribou of Alaska, whose breeding and calving grounds are considered sacred by various tribes of the environmentalist persuasion. It cannot be denied that there are political problems with this solution. India, with its veneration of the cow, comes to mind. But this political quandary might possibly be solved, in the view of the MJTT, by a trade-off allowing the caribou of India to be declared “mad” and the cows of Alaska to be viewed as merely “potentially hazardous to the future of the planet.”
 
But the MJTT is not an advocacy group. We are resolute in our determination to stand above the fray, to discover the truth by constructing theories and, where possible, checking them out but, where not possible, suggesting ways in which other non-advocacy groups (NAGs) might confirm or disconfirm our hypotheses. Only then do we make suggestions for fixing the world for future generations of rocks, vegetables, and animals, including humans.
 
The theory of livestock methane emissions, now firmly established, stands, as I said, as the inspiration and source for our hypothesis. Frankly stated, we are now in the position of opining that the hole in the ozone layer above the continent of Antarctica is caused, primarily if not totally, by the excessive droppings of the penguins in and around the McMurdo Station located on or near the Ross Ice Shelf.
 
Our reasoning begins with the logical argument that, if the belching of cows and other ruminating creatures possessing as many as four stomachs can cause upwards of 15% of all anthropogenic methane emissions, thus causing irreversible damage to the global environment, what is to prevent the conclusion that the droppings of penguins causes the irreversible depletion of the ozone layer on which the planet’s future depends? Simple reflection on this proposition leads to the twin questions: (1) where within human ken is the ozone layer in the most dangerous process of irreversible depletion? And (2) what species dominates the landscape of that place? To our knowledge, there are only two answers: (1) Antarctica and (2) the penguin.
 

(We take time off for news of the Ab Ennis/Orville Slack campaign/imbroglio to insert a few pieces from the teeming mind of Mr. Myles na Gopaleen, Jr.)

A recent trip across the Pond was the occasion for an “aha” episode, the kind of experience other deep thinkers—Einstein, Darwin, and others of that ilk—must have had.
I was flying from New York to Frankfurt on a flesh carrier. The sun was setting as our jumbo jet took off from JFK, filled with tourists and business travelers and pilgrims headed to their homeland and Mormon missionaries and flight attendants and, quite possibly, international snoops.
We were past Long Island and into the night when the bombshell of my idea hit.
On my trips abroad, I am not inclined to read. Nor am I enthralled by the television fare such overnight flights commonly offer. I just sit. An occasional thought exercises my brain. Between trips to the rest room I attempt, if not to sleep, at least to nap. “Attempt” is le mot just; I am seldom, if ever, successful.
But to the bombshell. My rising irritation with this aerial ordeal led me to consider the possibility of a fix. Glancing around the section of the cabin in which I and my fellow-travelers were temporarily and rudely ensconced, I did a quick calculation of the number of persons, following this with an educated guess of the cubic footage the average person occupies. I then multiplied the two. After performing these simple exercises, I strode carefully down the aisle of my section of the cabin, discovering by this method the length of said section. Then I reached for the ceiling and was able to determine the height of said section, both at its apex and its lowest point. I subsequently estimated the width of the cabin section. In this way I was able to calculate the approximate cubic footage of the cabin.
The rest of my computation consisted of dividing the number of persons into the cabin’s cubic footage. “Aha,” I then told myself, “the resulting number is of a much higher order than is necessary for humane trans-oceanic flight!” Or, to use the common idiom: There’s more room in a jumbo jet than you thought.
The corollary of this well-considered computation is that with proper design, the bodies flying about the friendly skies in a plane can be made more comfortable. To be more specific, there is no reason an ordinary person in coach class can’t get a good night’s sleep while hopping over an ocean.
While navigating the mazes that are the Frankfurt airport, I, like Mary before me, pondered these things in my heart.
My ponderings yielded fruit. While roaming the streets of Frankfurt, I happened to pass a hospital named after one saint or another. This scene brought to mind the thought of mortality, followed closely by the image of a morgue. Not being a morbid person, I did not dwell on the morose thought of mortality; my attention was drawn instead to the morgue’s efficient design.
When contemplating such a design, the thoughtful mind is immediately drawn toward the vaults into which the cadavers are placed soon after the last rites have been administered by the attending priest and the medical profession has pronounced the former person deceased.
At this point, I sat down on a pigeon-bespattered bench, taking care to place a copy of the Die Zeit on the spot on which I planned to rest and consider the implications of morgue design for the problem of a happier trans-oceanic flight.
Could, I asked myself as I sat there in pensive mood, the principles of morgue design be applied to the passenger jumbo jet?
To which I answered, Yes.
How, I continued, could this be accomplished?
By replacing passenger seats with vaults!
These vaults could be equipped with a firm mattress; a pillow; a reading light, for those who cannot or do not wish to sleep; a movie screen, with a menu of film selections, including contemporary fare as well as classics; Airplane! comes to mind.
My mind then scurried about, seeking potential problems with this admittedly brilliant idea.
What about claustrophobics?
This gave me pause, until I settled on the idea of providing each vault with a recording of a Buddhist, or Hindi, meditation lesson.
Suppose two persons wish to share the same bed?
Simple: double-wide vaults, for which a discount could be made available. (For three persons, triple-wide vaults, etc.)
How would such an aircraft load its passengers?
Furnish the plane with people-movers. Only hire flight attendants who are able to hoist, say, 300 pounds into a vault.
Wouldn’t all these measures be expensive?
Certainly. But the cost would be easily recovered: a plane so equipped could carry twice the number of passengers as in the present awkward, unpleasant arrangement.
Thus, I concluded, the idea of a vault-designed trans-oceanic carrier could be translated into a system that is efficient, passenger-friendly, and lucrative.
Immediately upon arriving back in America, I applied for a patent, which my lawyer tells me is pending.
 
 

The circumstances of my birth were humble, as befits a candidate for the Number Two spot on a presidential ticket. My great-grandfather, Orville Slack I, was born in a cave; my grandfather, Orville the Second, though born in an adjoining cave, worked his way up to a sod hut; Papa, or, as he was known to the residents of panhandle country, Orville Slack III, climbed the social ladder by purchasing his own shack; and I, through my ingenuity and work ethic, now live in a small bungalow in the small town of Border, Oklahoma, which abuts the larger town of Progress, Texas, which is not that far from Liberal, Kansas.
 
But as one of our brilliant American thinkers has put it, “Behind every successful man is a woman, and behind her is his wife.” Before Groucho Marx made this observation, the famous French gardener, Voltaire, is quoted as having said, “Behind every successful man is a surprised mother-in-law.” Woman, wife, or mother-in-law: the point is that without the guidance and comfort of a succession of females, my forebears would have been total failures.
 
Who were these women?
 
Orville Slack I, my great-grandfather, was born to an immigrant Englishman and his mistress, a remarkable woman of Mexican descent. Marguerita Slack fended for herself and her son, Orville II, by mastering the art of riflery. Legend has it that she could shoot the burning end of a squat cigar out of the mouth of a deputy sheriff at fifty paces—quite a feat, considering the shortness of her legs. There was not a bank teller in panhandle country, so I’ve heard it said, who did not fear Grass-Widow Slack, as she was also known. In fact, a good part of an aspiring teller’s training came to consist of mastering the art of prayer.
 
At the age of 16, Grandpa Slack married a woman of American Indian descent. Sacajawea Slack was to bow-and-arrow hunting as her mother-in-law Marguerita was to bank borrowing. Her other notorious skill was the ability to guide U. S. infantry units through rattlesnake country—a skill, they say, that she had learned from her own great-grandmother.
 
In fact, it was on one of her expeditions that she came across a large group of Mormon women headed for the Promised Land. From this troop of lustful, lonely ladies who had answered Brigham Young’s ads, she chose her daughter-in-law, a black woman who had answered the wrong ad, thus inadvertently joining these ladies. This is how Orville Slack II became betrothed to my grandma, Matty Slack, and, as a wedding gift for her, purchased the sod hut that he suddenly found himself unable to pay for.
 
It was in this sod hut that Papa was born into a pool of English/Hispanic-American/ Indian/black Mormon genes. Grandma Matty, however, was a woman of industry who believed in the American Dream. Not long after her marriage to Grandpa, she insisted that he improve their standard of living by moving from the sod hut to a shack at the edge of Border, Oklahoma. How she earned the money for this purchase I do not know. There were, of course, theories. All I can say with any certainty is that shortly after she gave birth to my father, Orville Slack III, she left town with a Bible-toting circuit-riding Methodist minister who peddled snake oil on the side.
 
Papa was more fortunate, undoubtedly because of his firm commitment to the Protestant work ethic, which he had heard about at a revival meeting presided over by his mother’s secret lover. On one of his infrequent trips to Waco, Papa met and married Sarah Cohen, who, we later learned by reading her secret correspondence with a former boy friend attending a yeshiva, was of Jewish ancestry. My mother, Sarah, came to this marriage with a small dowry, allowing Papa to climb the ladder of success.
 
It was Papa’s success that allowed me to make it through the sixth grade. At that time I met a charming woman of Asian ancestry, who, on the occasion of our first romp in the dried alfalfa, urged me to make her an honest woman. Unfortunately, Mother Sarah  would have nothing of it. Though I would not go so far as to call her prejudiced, I sensed that she wanted me to marry someone more like herself. Thus I was forced to apply my family talent to the situation and beg off the planned matrimony. This fact, together with my mother’s longevity, is why I have remained a bachelor to this day.
 
What can I say about my family tree? I am as proud of its diversity, ethnic and religious, as I am of my arduous work to become the candidate for the vice-presidency of the United States of America on the ticket of the Dead Rights Party.

​It is a truth mostly acknowledged, that it is incumbent on every candidate running for the highest office in the free world to skirt the question of his or her religious beliefs.
 
To this tradition I adhere—but only up to a point. My own position is that a candidate must both (1) come clean on the question of religions whose beliefs he or she does not endorse and (2) give subtle hints about his or her own religious beliefs.
 
I swear to you before God, if there is such a being, that I am not an Islamic terrorist. Nor am I a Christian pacifist, or a Jewish socialist. When I lived in dire circumstances back in my father’s decrepit shack, I admit that I held low-level talks with an itinerant Buddhist nun who had gotten off at the wrong station back in panhandle country. One morning before breakfast she taught me the first steps of meditation, which consisted mostly of sitting on a rough surface with my legs crossed in an uncomfortable position that led to excruciating pain. From that point on, I was never tempted to achieve Nirvana. As for any ties to Hinduism, all I can report is that I read a book on Indian Philosophy and became thoroughly confused. In my admittedly amateur view, they give you just too many damned options, none of which are spelled out clearly. And I’ve never cottoned to primitive religions, even though their medicine men are supposed to be capable of doing hundreds of tricks. As an accomplished beg-off artist, I’ve always figured I can match them trick for trick—an ability that will help Ab Ennis keep the national deficit under control.
 
Now for the subtle hints. I believe from the bottom of my feet that there is quite probably a God, maybe even more than one, though I wouldn’t want to put a number on it. I also sincerely believe that God, or even his possible competitors, wants America to succeed. He or She is on our side—except, of course, on those rare occasions when we are in the wrong, in which case He or She sends a supernatural disaster our way as a gentle reminder. I firmly believe in the power of prayer, and if that doesn’t work, you should be allowed to cheat a little on the side and/or take the law into your own hands.
 
Off the cuff, those are the only beliefs I can think of or that I prefer to let the public in on.

​It is necessary and proper for every candidate for the second highest office in the land we U.S. patriots call America the Beautiful to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about his or her whereabouts during the Vietnam War.
 
As reported by the editor of Don Quixote Writes Again in the December 1, 2003 edition of this e-magazine, I was born on the Fourth of July. Let nobody, man, woman, or child, take that distinction away from me. I am, by definition, a patriot. Both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on that date, in 1826, and neither has ever had aspersions cast on his patriotism to this beloved country. The fact that I was born on that date while my august predecessors died on that date is quite beside the point. What is not beside the point is that I died on that uniquely American holiday, Thanksgiving, as attested by my good friend and companion, Miss Molly Golightly.
 
As for my war record, what must be kept in mind is that I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1910. When World War I broke out, I was a mere lad of four and thus ineligible for the draft, which if I recall was introduced in 1916, but check that out. I would have served despite my ineligibility, but for the fact that the shack in which I lived back in Panhandle County had no mailbox. This explains why I did not know there was a war going on. Neither did we have a telephone. We were too poor to afford one and besides, the wires in our county had not yet been strung. Besides, I don’t recall that the radio had been invented. Even if it had, we wouldn’t have had one because many in my family thought of this newfangled device as the work of the devil and we couldn’t afford one.
 
On the day that shall live in infamy, December 7, 1941, I immediately took off for the Naval Recruiting Office with the full intent of signing on for a four-year stint. I was 31 years old at the time and fit as a fiddle, except for the fact that, in my medical examination, the attending nurse discovered several slivers in my buttocks, probably from overuse of the rocking chair in my newly-purchased bungalow while advising neighbors on the art of begging off. I also did not know how to swim, having lived in the desert for my entire life.
 
I don’t remember anything about the Korean War. The day before it started I fell off my rocking chair and suffered a severe, lengthy concussion. I have the scars to prove it—or, more precisely, I had those scars until the day of my cremation, which I will never forget.
 
During the Vietnam War, which I supported to the very end, I begged my draft board to draft me despite my age. The chairman of the board listened intently to my pleas, and in the end, advised me that he would put me on the list. Disheartened by the length of the list, I began a correspondence course in needlework, offered by Panhandle University. I duly reported this academic work to the draft board and was dismayed when they granted me a student deferment. Disillusioned by this turn of events, when the needlework course was ended I signed up for a course in shoeing horses and received another student deferment. So disgusted by this action was I that I joined a student protest group. To this day I can recall the message on the needlepointed banner I carried as I was riding my newly-shod horse, Buck: “Let Us Old Guys Fight the Bastards!”
 
I remember the line of my hero, Nathan Hale: “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country.” To this noble, patriotic sentiment I would only add, “If they’d only let me give it.”
 

​Being the great-grandson of the most notorious beg-off artist in panhandle country was never a piece of cake.
 
Though it eventually reaped advantages, my first years were a time of persecution. This took many forms. Perhaps the most common form it took was outhouse-tipping, a sport that was once considered for inclusion in the Olympics but rejected on the grounds that it was (1) an exclusively American phenomenon and (2) was practiced in the middle of the night.
 
I must explain to my younger readers that in my time, shacks were not equipped with indoor plumbing. When nature called, as nature likes to do, we old-timers exited the shack and hastily proceeded to an adjacent small building about the size of a large doghouse. This analogy breaks down, however, when one recalls the purposes of the two edifices. Briefly put, I have yet to see a doghouse built over a large hole into which one makes a periodic deposit I shall refrain from identifying, for reasons of taste.
 
Many were the times during my apprenticeship to my family’s art of begging off that I awoke of a morning to be informed by my father, Orville Slack III, that our outhouse had been tipped on its side and thus removed from its foul-smelling basement foundation. Implicit in this information was the request, disguised as a suggestion, that I “get my ass” out there to place the edifice on its intended base.
 
Later, of course, I recognized that my father’s request, far from being a form of persecution, was merely a test in my long apprenticeship. He was baiting me into thinking critically and constructively about the problem of begging off from this unpleasant task.
 
He responded, not as an average American father would, by applying a leather strap to my backside, but by extending his right hand in congratulation. Though I had left the task undone, I had passed a difficult test and was well on my way to success in my chosen hobby.
 
It was at this point in our family history, I believe, that Papa developed the habit of sleeping in his rocking chair, which was set in front of the window that looked out on the edifice in question, his lap playing host to a 12-gauge shotgun.