Keeping the earth spotless takes effort

I’m standing in a checkout line at a Post Falls supermarket, watching a nice lady ring up the glossy green boxes of Cascade dishwasher soap that I put in my cart.

Ding. Ding. Ding …

When she gets to about box five or six I begin feeling a bit self-conscious. So I decide to make a little small talk.

“Er, so do a lot of Spokane people come over here to Idaho to buy soap like me?”

The checker smiles thinly. Then she repeats the words “a lot” maybe five times.

Suddenly, it dawns on me how environmentally irresponsible we soap bandits have been. We shouldn’t all be driving to Idaho to buy phosphate-laden dishwasher soap, which a bunch of eco-fascists have banned for sale in Spokane County.

We should carpool.

That would be the Al Gore thing to do.

Well I want to be part of the solution. So get ready for a mileage-saving “phosphortunity” of a lifetime.

I’m giving away 60-ounce boxes from the Clark Cascade cache to three lucky winners.

(The environmental expert I consulted confirmed that you can’t sell phosphate-laced dish soap in Spokane County. But there’s no law against gift giving. That would be like outlawing love.)

Here’s how to win:

Contact me via the information below. Tell me why you won’t kick the phosphate habit.

Is it the superior grease-fighting power? Is it to protest against this assault against our freedom to clean?

Or are you like me and really enjoy causing trouble?

Whatever. Just make sure to leave your name and a phone number so I can get back to you with the bountiful news.

I know. Sometimes the lengths I’ll go to commit charity shocks even me.

But last Wednesday was such a grand day to enjoy nature.

The sun was beaming. The temperature was near-balmy. With no chance of rain, I decided to make my soap run in my freshly waxed 1967 cherry red Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon.

Many of you know this vehicle as the “Vista Guzzler” from past columns about its abominable thirst for premium gas.

During a 2005 roundtrip to Coeur d’Alene I averaged 5.87 mpg.

What really ticked me off was when the car started stalling at intersections. That can be quite dangerous in Spokane.

I mean, it’s like you’re asking to get rear-ended by a drunken off-duty cop.

I got so disgusted that I moored my land yacht in my garage. And there it sat until late last summer, when I had it towed to a nearby shop.

After some consultation, I decided to have a carburectomy. In layman’s terms, I had the old carb replaced with a brand new Edelbrock four-barrel.

I had the wagon detailed, too, which made the Vista Guzzler glisten like Donald Trump’s hairpiece.

Back into the garage it went until last Wednesday, when I decided to unleash the beast on I-90.

Baby, oh baby!

I stuck my foot into it. The new carb opened up. The V-8 engine roared like a scalded ape.

Finally back in downtown Spokane, I filled it back up with premium. Then I grabbed a calculator, which told me I had just averaged 6.5 miles to the gallon.

Baby steps. Sometimes we measure progress in baby steps.