Nov. 12 is the 39th anniversary of the famous “exploding whale” fiasco. Now if you’re not familiar with this story, you’ll be tempted to suspect I dreamed the whole deal up. Well, I didn’t. But you don’t need to take my word for it. As Ricky Bobby said in “Talladega Nights,” “You can look it up.”

Anyway, back in 1970, this eight-ton carcass of a sperm whale washed up on a beach near Florence, Ore. As giant carcasses like this are not an everyday tourist attraction, curious spectators began to assemble to get an eyeful.

In time, the whale began to ripen and eight tons of ripening whale flesh can turn an amusing curiosity into a community embarrassment. So the city fathers agreed that it was fun while it lasted, but it was time to do something. They did what any collection of responsible city fathers would do — they turned the problem over to the state for solution.

The bureaucrats flew into immediate action and turned the whole mess over to the Oregon Parks and Recreation Department. Why? That’s the department with jurisdiction over Oregon’s beaches. History does not record whether Parks and Recreation took a look at the mountain of rotting whale flesh and elected to pass the buck, or whether the Oregon Highway Division won a turf war. Whatever happened behind the scenes, it fell to the highway department to get the whale out of there. Naturally, the highway department took the next logical step available to any self-respecting bureaucrat. They called on the federal government for help.

History does not record how many memos were generated by how many committees, but the solution the government bodies settled on is a matter of record. “Let’s use a half ton of dynamite and blow up this whale.” Why? Because that’s what we’d do if it was a boulder. Right.

So here’s the theory. We’ll blow this eight-ton carcass to smithereens and the smithereens will, in turn, be tidily disposed of by our resident sea gulls and crabs. After all, the gulls and crabs are already showing an interest in our problem. Right? Right.

OK. So we’ll dig a trench under the leeward side of the whale and fill the trench with a half ton of dynamite (better to use too much than too little. Right? Right.). Most of the smithereens will be blown out to sea and what’s left will be tidied up like we said.

Well, word got out and the smelly whale remains became a tourist attraction again.

Spectators and news people from miles around assembled to brave the stench in order to witness a once-in-a-lifetime, honest-to-goodness whale explosion.

Being ever mindful of public safety, the on-site government employees in charge insisted that the spectators and media folks stay a quarter mile back from the blast. History does not record how they calculated that a quarter mile is a safe distance when a half ton of dynamite is placed under an eight-ton rotting whale carcass.

The whole thing is caught on video. The charge detonates and the onlookers are heard to exclaim in amazement. Seconds later, the “ooh’s” and “aah’s” give way to shrieks of disgust as smithereens of putrid whale blubber, innards and other unspeakables begin to fall in a nightmarish shower on the upturned faces of the onlookers.

The last thing seen before the cameras stop is a group of once festive sightseers fleeing in a desperate attempt to escape the raining filth. While no one was injured, we do know that a giant flying whale smithereens crushed the roof of a car parked more than a quarter mile from “ground zero.”

We also know the gulls and crabs gave no help in the clean up as they abandoned the blast site and did not return until the whale carcass was buried — as some suggested it should have been in the first place.

Now, some might find parallels in the exploding whale story and congressional efforts to solve the country’s health care problems. If they’re right, we won’t know how truly smelly it is until some time after the blast.

So what’s this got to do with manliness? Well, a manly man knows before you go putting dynamite under a stinky problem, you better spend some time thinking about the fallout. Oh, by the way, speaking of whales, Nov. 14 is the 158th anniversary of the publication of Moby Dick.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.