Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
A Price On Yo Ass
Big debate at the co-worker luncheon, attended by six gruntled employees at the local overgrown supershit video game arcade in downtown Rain City. We got to discussing if those who are rescued after getting all stranded in the snowy wilds just outside of our fair city should pay a fine for their rescue.
We live in the Great Northwest, where there are plenty of mountains that one can climb and one can camp within, all of which contain snow at this time of year, and all of which can quickly become an avalanche party site, or, if nothing else, a real good place to get your ass lost. Many climbers and hikers have been caught in survival situations, and most of them have needed to be rescued, at the cost of taxpayer money and, sometimes, at the cost of a rescuer's life. It was upon that point that the co-worker luncheon debate raged.
Some of my co-worker crew said that to have your ass saved, you should pay whatever cost that was incurred to summon the helicopters, medical crew, medical equipment, and St. Bernards with brandy. Taxpayers shouldn't have to pay for your adventurous stupidity, no matter how transcendingly serene and soul-affirming it was in the absolute silence of 4,000 or so feet above sea level, on an ivory, frigid mountainside. If you got lost and needed to be rescued, you needed to pay the goddamn bill.
Jeremiah, hisself, agreed. See, I'd definitely pay to have my ass saved. If the other option, I told my co-workers, was for me to become the next Kennewick Man, my body not to be found for another 9,000 years, then, hell, charge my goddamn rescue on my Visa.
A couple of other folks, though, were avid outdoorsfolks, who said that they never embark upon their journeys with the intent of becoming the subject matter of cable channel shows about stranded people who had to eat each other, but, because Muddah Nature just don't give us a damn, shit be done happen, and even the Lance Armstrong-est among us could end up neck deep in snow shit and, thereby, deserve a free rescue. And, to the point of rescuers dying to save the stranded: after all, the rescuers knew the job was dangerous when they took it, so, if they should lose a life or two trying to save a thrillseeker, well, that actually WAS in their job description.
The debate got ugly for a second, and then the next round of beers showed up and, miraculously, we were suddenly discussing recent lovers. One of the co-workers discussed a lover that he wished would be a victim of an avalanche of common sense, from which they should never be rescued. Nods and grins abounded. And, the great debate of mountainside rescue reimbursement went unresolved.
We live in the Great Northwest, where there are plenty of mountains that one can climb and one can camp within, all of which contain snow at this time of year, and all of which can quickly become an avalanche party site, or, if nothing else, a real good place to get your ass lost. Many climbers and hikers have been caught in survival situations, and most of them have needed to be rescued, at the cost of taxpayer money and, sometimes, at the cost of a rescuer's life. It was upon that point that the co-worker luncheon debate raged.
Some of my co-worker crew said that to have your ass saved, you should pay whatever cost that was incurred to summon the helicopters, medical crew, medical equipment, and St. Bernards with brandy. Taxpayers shouldn't have to pay for your adventurous stupidity, no matter how transcendingly serene and soul-affirming it was in the absolute silence of 4,000 or so feet above sea level, on an ivory, frigid mountainside. If you got lost and needed to be rescued, you needed to pay the goddamn bill.
Jeremiah, hisself, agreed. See, I'd definitely pay to have my ass saved. If the other option, I told my co-workers, was for me to become the next Kennewick Man, my body not to be found for another 9,000 years, then, hell, charge my goddamn rescue on my Visa.
A couple of other folks, though, were avid outdoorsfolks, who said that they never embark upon their journeys with the intent of becoming the subject matter of cable channel shows about stranded people who had to eat each other, but, because Muddah Nature just don't give us a damn, shit be done happen, and even the Lance Armstrong-est among us could end up neck deep in snow shit and, thereby, deserve a free rescue. And, to the point of rescuers dying to save the stranded: after all, the rescuers knew the job was dangerous when they took it, so, if they should lose a life or two trying to save a thrillseeker, well, that actually WAS in their job description.
The debate got ugly for a second, and then the next round of beers showed up and, miraculously, we were suddenly discussing recent lovers. One of the co-workers discussed a lover that he wished would be a victim of an avalanche of common sense, from which they should never be rescued. Nods and grins abounded. And, the great debate of mountainside rescue reimbursement went unresolved.
Elliot, 1:12 AM
