You Dropped a Bomb on Me, Gustav.
In perhaps the most illogical idea since the Republicans tabbed a Vice Presidential nominee with a resume as flimsy as Janine Turner’s on Northern Exposure, an old soccer buddy and I tossed this about over Labor Day Weekend:
Why can’t we stop hurricanes?
There has to be something more innovative and much better than our current system, which is to give them a human name and then run like hell. Thankfully Gustav petered out worse than the Rangers in August, but there’s more on the way. Hannah. Ike. Josephine.
My plan – which Captain Morgan repeatedly agreed with – is to bomb these suckers before they become a living, breathing, blowing, destructive force. Guess I’m pro-choice after all.
Far as I can tell hurricanes start as tropical depressions just off the east coast of Africa. Since it would be too late – and too dangerous – to combat them once they’ve reached Category 4 or 5 and into the Gulf of Mexico, I say attack them in their embryonic stage.
As soon as we can name ‘em, bomb ‘em.
According to the globe my mom got me when I was 6, there’s nothing but wide open water between Africa’s Cape Verde Islands and Barbados in the West Indies. Over that Atlantic Ocean playing field is where we go on the offensive.
I’m just a lowly sportswriter with too much holiday time on my hands, but can’t we drop a bomb in the middle of these cute ‘n cuddly depressions before they organize and mature into hurricane hellions? I’m thinking of a concussive air bomb that would blast a wave of high pressure into the eye wall to disrupt the forming of sustained winds.
Yes! Something exactly like this!
Under my plan nobody gets hurt and those freaks from Mythbusters get a totally cool episode.
Or, we could just continue relying on our tried-and-true method: Duck! -- Richie Whitt
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