Apathy Jack writes:
Don't Tell Mum I Work On The Rigs - She Thinks I'm A Piano Player In A Whorehouse, by Paul Carter
The rig was right up in the mountains, deep in the jungle. Locals wandered up every day in grass skirts, carrying muskets, their faces painted. Now and again they would take a pot shot at the rig. The location was still being set up, the area having been cleaned using high explosives, otherwise known as 'instant wood chipping'. In every ancient tree, wise and proud, were generations of evolution buried deep, which is vaporsied 'cause it's fast and cheap. Even though they plant another tree, somewhere else, to make up for the one they destoryed, I feel a twinge of guilt, because essentially I'm a cat-loving pacifist who ought to care deeply about the environment. On the other hand, I represent people who would squeeze school children to death if they thought some oil would come out.
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