Harry Reid Declares Fossil Fuels Evil

I'm both embarrassed to have this man represent Nevada and incredibly frustrated with the whole blogging process. Every day some left-wing nutjob says something stupid, we blog about it and nothing changes. I'm not sure I see a point to any of this, but maybe I'm just in a really bad mood.

Anyway, here's what our joke of Senator had to say today on Fox News Business:

"The one thing we fail to talk about is those costs that you don't see on the bottom line. That is coal makes us sick, oil makes us sick; it's global warming. It's ruining our country, it's ruining our world. We've got to stop using fossil fuel."

Fine, then just do it Harry. You control the Senate, Pelosi controls the Congress, Anthony Kennedy controls the Supreme and soon you'll have a socialist president. Go ahead, ban the use of fossil fuels...just do it now and be done with it. Yes, it'll be hard for a while, but hey, it's the right thing to do, right? With any luck, you'll end up stuck in your crap-hole home of Searchlight, Nevada because you can't charge up your electric car!

Oh, while we're at it, the electric car: a wonderful invention right? Runs on battery power, no pollution, but wait...it needs to be charged up. How do you charge an electric car? Yes, with electricity! Where do you get electricity? A kite with a key on the end? No Benny, it has to be generated. And how is most electricity generated? Fossil fuels! See how that works?

In an ironic twist that probably only interest me, I've been reading George Orwell's book Road to Wigan Pier about English coal miners in the 1930s. The amazing writer he was, Orwell makes points about the use of coal that are incredibly relevant today:

Watching coal-miners at work, you realize momentarily what different universes people inhabit. Down there where coal is dug is a sort of world apart which one can quite easily go through life without ever hearing about. Probably majority of people would even prefer not to hear about it. Yet it is the absolutely necessary counterpart of our world above. Practically everything we do, from eating an ice to crossing the Atlantic, and from baking a loaf to writing a novel, involves the use of coal, directly or indirectly. For all the arts of peace coal is needed; if war breaks out it is needed all the more. In time of revolution the miner must go on working or the revolution must stop, for revolution as much as reaction needs coal. Whatever may be happening on the surface, the hacking and shovelling have got to continue without a pause, or at any rate without pausing for more than a few weeks at the most. In order that Hitler may march the goose-step, that the Pope may denounce Bolshevism, that the cricket crowds may assemble at Lords, that the poets may scratch one another's backs, coal has got to be forthcoming. But on the whole we are not aware of it; we all know that we 'must have coal', but we seldom or
never remember what coal-getting involves. Here am I sitting writing in front of my comfortable coal fire. It is April but I still need a fire. Once a fortnight the coal cart drives up to the door and men in leather jerkins carry the coal indoors in stout sacks smelling of tar and shoot it clanking into the coal-hole under the stairs. It is only very rarely, when I make a definite mental-effort, that I connect this coal with that far-off labour in the mines. It is just 'coal'--something that I have got to have; black stuff that arrives mysteriously from nowhere in particular, like manna except that you have to pay for it. You could quite easily drive a car right across the north of England and never once remember that hundreds of feet below the road you are on the miners are hacking at the coal. Yet in a sense it is the miners who are driving your car forward. Their lamp-lit world down there is as necessary to the daylight world above as the root is to the flower.

It is not long since conditions in the mines were worse than they are now. There are still living a few very old women who in their youth have worked underground, with the harness round their waists, and a chain that passed between their legs, crawling on all fours and dragging tubs of coal. They used to go on doing this even when they were pregnant. And even now, if coal could not be produced without pregnant women dragging it to and fro, I fancy we should let them do it rather than deprive ourselves of coal. But-most of the time, of course, we should prefer to forget that they were doing it. It is so with all types of manual work; it keeps us alive, and we are oblivious of its existence. More than anyone else, perhaps, the miner can stand as the type of the manual worker, not only because his work is so exaggeratedly awful, but also because it is so vitally necessary and yet so remote from our experience, so invisible, as it were, that we are capable of forgetting it as we forget the blood in our veins. In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises in you a momentary doubt about your own status as an 'intellectual' and a superior person generally. For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior. You and I and the editor of the Times Lit. Supp., and the poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comrade X, author of Marxism for Infants--all of us really owe the comparative decency of our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel.

Marxism for Infants! That's good stuff.