Scientists are saying that the volcano in Iceland could carrying on puffing and farting for a couple of years. That’s just the sort of inconsiderate behaviour I’d expect from a volcano near the artic circle. A tropical volcano gives you one massive eruption lasting a few days followed by 500 years of peace. You know where you are with a virile beast like that. This effeminate Icelandic orifice will go on shaking and moaning until the whole neighbourhood are tearing their hair in despair.
One thing this event has proved beyond all doubt is that vulcanologists are as useful as knickers on a baboon. They observe, they measure, they fiddle with their instruments, they mumble into their beards about how unpredictable everything is. What the Earth needs now is not vulcanologists but Vulcans – pointy-eared wizards with infallible logic who could devise a practical solution. The best idea I can think of is drenching Iceland with a massive wave until the volcano fizzles out like a cigarette in a toilet bowl.
In the olden days, humans would have appeased the offended spirit of the beast by throwing one of their number into its fiery interior. Our local witch doctor still believes in such remedies and has offered to send his mother-in-law to Iceland by DHL. I told him not to be an imbecile.
“The volcano is obviously female,” I said. “She needs a man to plunge down her crevice and scratch whatever is itching her. You’re always boasting about your knowledge of these mysteries so why not volunteer yourself?”
He told me he didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense.
The manager of the safari camp is worried that disrupted airline schedules might affect our visitors from Europe.
“Suppose another ash cloud arrives when they’re due to return home,” he said. “What would we do with them?”
“Why not make any stranded guests work for their board and lodging?” I suggested. “I could teach them how to climb trees and harvest coconuts. They could fish for their supper once they’ve been educated in the basics of crocodile avoidance. We could help them build tree-houses so they could vacate their rooms when new guests arrived.”
The manager sucked his teeth and shook his head. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. “Humans who go on safari are used to being pampered and spoon-fed. If we made them fend for themselves they’d whine like sissies and contact their embassies in Brazzaville. We’d never hear the end of it.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “I’ll have to think of something else.”
My current contingency plan is to charter a ship and offer them a voyage back home care of Captain Bananas and his able sea-chimps. We wouldn’t take them all the way to Europe, of course. I’d make sure I had a good excuse to dump them in the Canary Islands, which is the nearest thing to a clearing house for unwanted tourists. They could pay a local fisherman to transport them to the Spanish coast.
Philanthropy has its limits, as Blackbeard the Pirate once said.
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