12-038
The
Physics of Physics
Studies in television physics reveal that modern
man is just as primitive (and hairy) as his ancestral cave brethren. Popular
survival-themed shows regularly round up scantily-clad campers and pyromaniacs
on sun-baked islands equipped with flint, tinder and blowtorches in an
environment more brittle than the inside of a kiln, yet no one seems able to
conjure enough heat to melt a marshmallow. (By the way, nothing says
entertainment like despondent castaways weeping over inert kindling.)
In real-world physics you scarcely need more
than to point a flashlight at the draperies before becoming engulfed in flames.
Simply doing the Twist or a lively rumba over carpeting unleashes sparks with the
incendiary power of a pyrotechnics display.
According to actuarial tables, chances of starting
a fire increase considerably if a homeowner has no insurance and escalate to
one hundred percent certainty if you have been paying heavy premiums for years
that have just now lapsed. In the time it takes to recognize the oversight and
reach for the phone to notify the insurance company, you will spontaneously
combust, setting off a blaze that consumes not only the neighborhood, but the
nearby fire department as well.
Thanks to the irony of physics, someone in an
asbestos sweater is twice as likely to catch flame as a chain smoker wearing a
matchstick necktie.
Naysayers are encouraged to try this
experiment:
Safely immerse your house in a large tank of
water on the Fourth of July. Then observe aghast as your intoxicated neighbor
shoots off illegal fireworks in oblivious proximity to his barbeque propane
tank.
Dear student of real-life physics, I need not
tell you the results of this experiment as you are probably woefully aware from
your vantage point in the emergency room where they are mistakenly applying
salve to your singed toupee or wiglet.
Your Neanderthal neighbor will be unable to
compensate you for the damage to your home, the contents of which now resembles
a Friday night fish boil, while the interior of his house, decorated from a
hoard of oily rags and old newspapers, remains unscathed.
The ironic minutia taunts: your oven mitts
were burned beyond recognition while the gas can in the garage is the only
thing that didn’t catch fire.
This principle applies to other disasters as
well: the only day you don’t tie down the cow, the tornado strikes. Your tender
gesture to relocate a family of frogs is mocked when a flash flood carries them
back to your basement. You leave mother in the car just as a cold-snap sets in.
This is a game you can’t win, so wave the
white flag of surrender (keeping the pointy stick away from your eye).
According to the laws of irony, the health fanatic will drop dead before the
circus fat man, and the alcoholic’s pristine liver will be put on display at
the Smithsonian.
So, eat drink and be merry. Just don’t leave
mother unattended outdoors again, particularly on the Fourth of July.