Once upon a time in a world fuelled by liquid dinosaur remnants, the supposed end-of-days calamity of an oil dip was more of a hiccup than a full-fledged scream of terror. Unsurprising to most, but certainly causing a brief moment of sweaty palms for suit-wearing petroleum penguins in the United States of Oilmerica, the expected nose-dive of crude stocks took more of a graceful belly flop.
As the sun rose on another day of plunger politics, the yawn-inducing news chimed in like a bored teenager at Sunday school. Defying popular doomsday prophecies, tanker quantities of the good ol’ black gold (loved by all, from oil baron Baron Von Benzine to humble gas station jockey Joe Piston), maintained a position on the lip of the oil barrel that was more steady than eye-twitchy.
Amidst the skyscrapers and cafe lattes, the oil barrel-bellied forefathers exhaled a collective puff of cigar smoke, tasting victory on the horizon. The situation was far from surfboards-on-a-tsunami, the much-feared decline in crude stocks somehow mirrored more of a declined invitation to a charity gala.
The dance of the dinosaur juice continued its two-step around the Rigged Riggers Deck. In fact, the slight flutter in U.S of Oilyville’s crude stocks was more akin to a mosquito nibble than a shark bite on the sunburnt skin of Uncle Sam’s petro-economy.
By sunset, the glittery edge of this petroleum plot lost its shine, and all that remained was a pat on the back of slightly bemused gasoline gluttons. The apocalypse of the empty oil barrel was dismissed to myth and folklore. Just as little Billy Piston, the wide-eyed gas station attendant, had prophesized, the petroleum paradise was in less danger than a teapot at a teddy bears’ picnic.
All’s well that ends well in the “United States of Oilmerica” chessboard, though the day’s narrative would have bored even the most enthusiastic fossil fuel lover to tears. The tale concludes with the hum of SUVs on highways, the inflated sense of self-importance in gas-guzzling gorillas, and a universe unmoved by the slight shiver of the crude stocks.
So it goes, oil was as little labored as the sweat on a petroleum penguin’s brow, following the smaller-than-expected belly flop in the land of stars, stripes, and shale sludge. As an endnote, it can be said that, sometimes, a dip is not a nadir, but merely a gentle bob on the surface of the oily waters. A sturdy lesson for all petro-pond life – not every ripple is a tsunami, and often, it’s just a drop in the barrel. Welcome to another, oddly normal, day in the oily life.
