“Okay,” James Cameron said, clapping his hands together. “What do you guys got for me?”
James Cameron was talking ideas, big ideas, about how to clean up the BP oil spill mess on the Gulf of Mexico. The government had hired James Cameron because he had directed Avatar, Titanic, and The Abyss, and therefore knew more about saving the environment (both of our world, and that of the Pandora) and underwater stuff as anybody else in the world.
Kevin Costner scratched his head underneath his baseball cap. “Look James, I’m just a simple man. I don’t have any big ideas. I just have a billion dollars to make giant machines that will stop the spill.” James Cameron narrowed his eyes. Giant machines were the natural enemy of humans, as anyone who saw Terminator would know.
“Okay, Kevin,” James said through gritted teeth. “If your machines are so great, how come they haven’t fixed the oil spill yet?” The two older men stared each other down, because Kevin didn’t have an answer, and James was bluffing — for all he knew, there was no oil spill. Or it had been fixed already. Or whatever. He was a busy man, he didn’t have time to keep up with the news.
“Guys, guys, all this tension is really making us lose focus on what’s important,” said the young, gorgeously handsome man with the piercing blue eyes. “And that is the tons of oil being spilled into our ocean right now. I just can’t concentrate on anything else.”
“I agree, Ian Somerhalder,” said Ashton Kutcher, who was also in the room for some reason, probably because he saw everyone else check in to this top-secret government location on Foursquare. “Us bros really need to stick together.”
Ian fixed Ashton with an icy glare, because he thought the Hollywood star was a moron. Then he went back to Tweeting out to all his friends, “In a room with @aplusk, James Cameron, and KC. Really upset about oil spill…why doesn’t anyone care?”
“Okay Ian, what is your good idea?” James Cameron asked.
Ian was caught off guard. He hadn’t really had time to think about how to fix the problem, since he had spent the last month really, really worried about it. Just sick with worry. He couldn’t even enjoy his time in Monte Carlo promoting The Vampire Diaries because he was just so worried about you know, the fish and nature and stuff.
“Uh, we could maybe have a big fundraiser? Like we did for Haiti?” That seemed like a good idea to Ian, because a lot of people in Hollywood had a lot of money. Ian didn’t know about much (besides the oil spill, and how to look attractive), but he did know celebrities had a ton of cash. Maybe even more than he did.
“Great idea Ian, but BP can already pay for the oil spill. We just need to figure out how to fix it.” This last statement came from the back of the room, from a bald guy with a narrow face.
“Who let Jackie Earle Haley in here?” James Cameron asked. But it wasn’t Jackie Earle Haley, it was Damon Lindelof, the creator of Lost. To be fair, they sort of looked alike. Ian was going to say something about it, but then got distracted replying to Nina Dobrev‘s texts.
“I say that we just blow the whole thing up,” Damon said. “Like in Armageddon.” No one could tell if Damon was being sarcastic or not.
“Why are you even here, man?” Ashton said, grumpy that he was no longer the most irrelevant person involved in this project.
Damon smirked. “Who else here knows anything about how to keep people interested for six years in an ultimately unsatisfying result?” No one else raised their hands, but that’s because they were too busy thinking. Thinking about the oil spill.