As spring pushes winter out of the northeast and another New England summer approaches, I would like to talk to the Earth Hour fanatics and the concrete jungle liberals about the “ecosystem.”

Anyone who lives in an actual ecosystem, one that is not dominated by concrete and asphalt off which the trill of horns and car alarms can be heard echoing in the night, has no frikkin idea what an ecosystem really is.  It is not the cacophony of traffic punctuated by an olfactory brawl between diesel fumes, a pine tree shaped “new car smell” air freshener,”  the infrequent bathing habits of a middle eastern cab driver, and your cinnamon latte.  Wildlife is not defined by the alcoholic mating calls of things that stumble out of neon lit night clubs, or the guttural whispers emanating from ill-lit, trash filled alleys.  And conservation is not an extra crate from Crate and Barrel into which you place the recyclable refuse of fair-trade certified foods.

An eco system is the thing I do battle with every year called the back yard.  It is a scant 2.3 acres of plants, and birds, and rocks, and things; bugs and trees and untamed animals.  Deer, Moose, snakes, critters, and creatures outnumber me in a thousands.  Black flies own May and June, Mosquitoes every other warm month, and chipmunks collect acorns by the trillions.  Feel free to come by and take a million for yourself, we’ve got plenty.

My particular corner of the eco-system is dense and leafy.  If I turn my back on it for more than a moment it will take back every inch of the tiny little piece of modern America that I have purchased and maintained with the sweat of my own brow and move on from there.  And it is so invasive and so massive, that it has nothing to fear from us; the sooner you city dwelling, environmental morons get clued in the better.  (The outdoorsy morons by the way are mostly rent-seekers and socialist troublemakers.  They are annoying for a living and can’t be turned.  It’s the useful idiots I’m speaking to here.)  Earth is just a rental, and as soon as we move on the landlord will be in to replace the carpets and re-paint, and only ignorance or arrogance about our own self-importance stands between the fantasy of the environmental movement and the reality and scope of our true insignificance.

And it’s not just me.  Most of America is just like my back yard—wild and encroaching.  Mother Nature is a bitch on wheels and she’s running the show.  It can get colder, or warmer, and it makes no difference.  We’re just a few weeks away from overgrown Armageddon.  If you don’t believe me skip mowing your lawn for three weeks and watch the neighbors in the Association flip out because your yard looks like a Serengeti field shot from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom right after the rainy season.

So tonight, at 8:35, when the globalist, environmental morons, the public-school-brain-washed eco-zombies, and all their knee-jerk idiot parents begin sitting in the dark for 60 minutes to celebrate ‘Earth Hour,’ I will be plugging in and running anything I can find with a cord attached whether I need it or not.   Table saws, space heaters, hand blenders, that 45 pound XT “Portable PC” I have from 19xx something?  It’s got a massive 20M drive in it and two, count them two  5 ¼” floppy drives in it; I’m firing that little 5 inch monochrome monitored summonabitch up.   Lights?  You bet.  And none of those curly-fry, mercury poisoned jobbers either.  I’m talking good old fashioned, thank You Mr. Edison, 100 Watt, holy crap I can actually see what the hell I’m doing, soft white light bulbs.  And every damn one.  Radios, PC’s, TV’s, that nifty neck massager with the built in heater—hummmmmmmmmmmmm.  Love that thing.   Heating pad.  Ceiling fans may make the designers on HomoGarden television blanch but I got a few, I like them, and I’m turning those on too.

So Earth Hour can kiss my amps. 

And while there will be a sliver of people who will actually abstain with a Lenten fortitude from modern comforts, fasting in darkness and quiet for the required 3600 seconds, with nothing but the sound of their own breath for company, most of the eco-hippies will have turned off their lights at home, and gone out; maybe to a movie, a late dinner, or some other civilized activity at which electricity will be a prominent feature.  They will feel better about themselves despite their hypocrisy, having genuflected before the great green church by being somewhere else, in the company of others, who may or may not even know about Earth Hour.

And what of the compliant media?  Will they stop broadcasting?  Not a chance.  They will be busy reporting on Earth Hour, in heavy rotation, burning up electrons to advertise an illegitimate act of conscience that neither they nor their viewers will be participating in.

Such is the true nature of the movement.

Back in the real world, where we are preparing to do battle with nature just to keep it at bay, we understand the difference between dog and pony show and the real deal.  We live in nature and with it, respect it, and treat it accordingly.  We get the difference between husbanding the landscape and playing dress up.  And we are comfortable in that knowledge and one with our ecosystems–including the ones powered by electricity.