Yesterday I sat through an hour-and-a-half meeting on how to evacuate the building in case of a fire or other disaster, and today we had the fire drill. All the plans about what to do and where to go went right out the window. No one, except for a few of us, followed the procedure that we were told to follow yesterday.
One woman said, "Oh yeah, the seventeenth floor is on fire and I'm on twelve so I'm safe. Right. I'm outta there." At least according to our Jack Webb-type of instructor yesterday, her and a few thousand other every-man-woman-and-child-for-his-and-herself (I think I covered the PC requirements there) will clog the stairways for the firefighters and emergency personnel coming up. Hey, but her miserable, little life will be saved, and that's what's important.
In a Darwinian way, she's probably right. You want her survival genes to be passed along to preserve the race, while my more benevolent gene pool will be left to boil away in the conflagration that's the 12th floor.
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