Gas Prices Are Meaningless To A Guy Like Me

By Fred Flintstone

Throughout the past century, there have been a select handful of things that mark the progress of the American economy. A gallon of milk. A cheeseburger. But none quite as powerful as the almighty “gallon of gas”: a unit of measurement that goes beyond its mundane initial purpose, and represents the status of the free world market. What most everyday American citizens fail to recognize is that to a guy like me, that measurement doesn’t mean jack shit.

My heart goes out to the hard-working citizens of our country who struggle to pay for fuel. In our desperate pursuit of some abstract ideal about “the open road” and “freedom” following the Second World War, we lost not only the ruggedness of the American landscape but also the community that tied us together. However, I cannot stress enough how little I am affected by you not being able to pay for your gas.

When your car is powered by rapidly moving feet, you are freed from the constraints of Henry Ford’s dictatorship. My plea to those weary souls, crushed under the yoke of four-dollar gallons of gas, is to turn to the beauty of my home country, Bedrock. Reject the empire of fossil fuels. Embrace a world where the fossils live and breathe the same as you and I. You must liberate yourself from a world governed by gas prices. Yabba-dabba-do it.