It seems book deals are overwhelmingly the result of celebrity. But because I have never madamed a gubernatorial knob gobbling session, didn’t shoot to national fame by positioning my condescension to gullible suckers as empathy for “the real America,” and unfortunately wasn’t smart enough to fool Oprah first, my current celeb-cred holds steady at terror alert level negative green. In fact, I barely warrant an obituary, let alone a book. But if controversy is what the industry wants, then controversy I shall give.

With that realization in mind, I selfishly admit: the BP oil spill was my fault.

See, back on the tragic day, 4/20, Frank and I—Frank was the rig’s main guy—we got a bit high in honor of the holiday and decided to pass the evening hours playing dominoes. “Playing” used loosely, here, as we mainly spent the night arguing over what the black dots on the dominoes tasted like. I said hotdogs. Frank said purple. Frank, it is important to note, took the holiday into LSD territory, which not only allowed him to taste colors but also smell shapes. His ill-celebration is ultimately what popped the ol’ ocean zit.

As relaxation among friends tends to encourage good-natured razzing, pot and dominoes among a struggling writer and the safety manager of a bajillion ton oil rig will naturally lead to cold-hearted jabs. Frank started the feud by saying that my industry was dying, citing evidence like diminishing book sales and the increased coolness of video games and movies. So I retaliated by comparing the name of his rig, Deepwater Horizon, to a gay sci-fi porno. Frank, is a good guy, but he couldn’t take the joke. Instead, he took his tripping balls down to the sub-level control room and deactivated the methane detectors. The resulting flashing lights and piercing sirens headchanged my high from tranquil serene to pants-shitting paranoid.

He had a laugh. We had a hug. But he never reactivated the methane detector. Oopsies, citizens of the Gulf Coast. Double oopsies, ocean life.

Book deal, please.

About Caleb J Ross

Caleb began writing his sophomore year of undergrad study when, tired of the formal art education then being taught, he abandoned the pursuit in the middle of a compositional drawing class. Major-less and fearful of losing his financial aid, he signed up to seek a degree in English Literature for no other reason than his lengthy history with the language. Coincidentally, this decision not only introduced him to writing but to reading as well. Prior this transition he had read three books. One of which he understood.