The gas prices have got me nervous, and not just because what I just spent on gas for my Chevy Cavalier could two weeks ago have filled up Arnold Schwarzenegger's Humvee. No, I'm concerned that the next possibility is a full-fledged gas shortage, which would give me another reason to have disturbing flashbacks to my 1970s childhood. (The pants ... Oh, the horror of the pants!)
Fashions aside, the last thing I want is another situation like when I was a kid, when people would wait in gas lines for hours listening to AM radio (I think Imus had both his lungs back then) and swearing out the window at no one in particular. Personally, nothing drove the fuel shortage home like two hours waiting in the back of my mother’s Monte Carlo, sitting between a brother and sister who were taking advantage of the extra time in the car to devise new ways of strangling each other.
So I'll pay the prices for now, but mark my words: If the lines at the gas stations go more than three cars deep, I'm going to Alaska to drill myself. Who's with me? C'mon, Dick Cheney, I know you want to!