Digging My Way to a Better Armageddon

Special Report -- I'm writing only because I needed to take a break from shoveling. I don't have the physical endurance of my younger days but I'm mean and scrappy. I'd like to scoop out a few more cubic yards of dirt to give my family some extra elbow room. My soil's high clay content is slowing me down and I want to be finished before it gets dark outside.

The international stock market really pooped its pants this week. That was one of the last signs I'd been waiting for—it's been one pre-apocalyptic event after another lately. French President Sarkozy hooked up with a supermodel. Britney Spears lost custody of her children—who saw that coming? The ongoing writers strike means the only thing to watch on TV is Celebrity Exfoliation Challenge. Centenarian John McCain appears to be making a comeback as a presidential contender. I told my wife it wouldn't even matter who wins the election in November; "President of what", I said to her.

Back when I bought my house I had a vague sense it was a bad idea to choose one built on a slab. Turns out the lack of a nice, dry basement can be unhandy come anarchy time. Fortunately, digging bomb shelters is one of my hobbies. In light of the world's overwhelming political, economic, and societal crises, my talent for excavation will yield a huge personal advantage when law and order break down. I can't wait until all my neighbors who used to tease me are forced to bang on my galvanized sheet metal door, begging for cans of baked beans. Fuck you, Mrs. Miller and Ted and especially Phil!

Let me review my inventory again: bottled water, candles, toilet paper, canned tuna, Mentos,  crossword puzzles, vitamin C tablets, scoped Remington rifle with three thousand cartridges, Imodium-D, Ex-Lax, Maker's Mark bourbon (I want to pick up some more), antibiotics, ninety cases of Dinty Moore beef stew (twenty-four cans per case), thirty-seven cartons of cigarettes (I don't smoke but they will be useful for bartering), glass bead necklaces (more bartering), 9mm Beretta handgun (when bartering breaks down), and more toilet paper. I tell my kids our new life will be exactly like camping, except much more frightening or dangerous and much less sanitary or fun.

Civilization's collapse will be inconvenient as hell. The continued existence of cable TV is unlikely, which is why I stockpiled those crossword puzzles. We won't have to pay income tax anymore but the U.S. Postal Service will probably disintegrate, so there you go. My cell phone won't work although I'll keep using its built-in camera until the batteries die. We'll have to domesticate feral cats and keep herds of them for their milk and pelts. To all future mobs, militia, and incipient mole people: back off! You should have dug out and provisioned your own underground refuge. Keeping moving along—I don't fire warning shots.

Too bad I had that little operation a few years ago. It pretty much rendered me useless for repopulating the human race, although I'm not going to let it stop me from trying. Last one to leave the Internet, please turn out the lights.

So long, assholes.