Supporting Audio Candy:

 

[1] The Sisters of Mercy “Dominion”

[2] R.E.M. “It’s The End of The World”

 

How would you spend your final moments if the final curtain was about to fall on all of humanity? Even the optimists among us would have harbored fears at one point or another about the plug being pulled; after all, mankind can’t really expect to be forgiven all its crimes against nature, and it’s all coming back to bite us on our asses at some point ready or not. Whether this transpires within our lifetimes or not is irrelevant as such niggling concerns invariably jounce around our cerebellums with their hands up like petulant schoolchildren so sooner or later, just for a little peace and quiet, we should entertain such visions of ruination.

Of course, any conspiracy theorists and doom prophets us possess the required level of cynicism to imagine the shit out of the scenario and, in the event of an actual apocalypse, these folk would likely have their hazmat suits and have placed dibs on all the abandoned underground bunkers months before we so much as catch whiff of genocide. It’s actually fairly presumptuous to assume that our annihilation will be the result of some evil mastermind and a giant flashing red button but I’m with Romero, we make a sturdy rod for our own backs and habitually piss on mother earth as well as each other, so when the dawn comes, we can hardly act surprised. If that sounds somewhat bleak, then fret not as Nostradamus was evidently full of shit so we’re okay…for the time being. Cue maniacal laugh.

We’d better hurry up if we are going to self-destruct as natural disasters are only ever a mere twister or tsunami away. Turns out, we are being frowned upon for our indiscretions and have made more enemies than Mel Gibson at a synagogue. With modern technology advancing at such an accelerated rate, there has to be a point where it is deemed that we know too much. Blame Hawking for that one; he just has to prod the sleeping giant for answers doesn’t he? We would’ve got away with it had it not been for that pesky genius.

Anyhoots, I’m not here to bash a poor defenseless oracle as we’ve all played our part in this great human debacle as we consistently pooh-pooh nature’s ample warning signs. If it comes to fruition, then it is imperative that we get our house in order. So without further ado, I have decided to devise a master plan to help us all enjoy our final moments should the feces become air-bound. I like to refer to it as the shit dodger’s handbook and I urge you all to head down to Borders at once to bag yourselves a copy. Actually, I may be blowing smoke up your ass with Borders; it’s been a while since I vacated my bunker.

Shit Dodger’s Handbook

 

 

The end is nigh as rumor has it
it appears we’ve had our chips
the word on the street does not bode well
thus I’ve compiled some survivalist tips

 

For should it all go Shelley Long
then I’d urge you to take heed
it may just prove our final hope
of avoiding the stampede

 

Whatever works each to their own
thought food is all I offer
but I know exactly what items
will populate my coffer

 

So huddle close as I reveal
the madness to my method
and should you doubt then you’ll come round
once the holocaust is weathered

 

The key is sex and plentiful
we all should fuck like minks
it may just ease the pressure valve
should mankind become extinct

 

It’s time to rip off all our clothes
partake in sweet perversion
it may not halt the reaper
but it’s a damned dainty diversion

 

It may provide mankind’s last hope
to rebuild our population
and even if you’re firing blanks
there’s no harm in copulation

 

There’s always time for foreplay
be you hare or be you tortoise
and you will need that crate of smokes
for those moments after coitus

 

Hand ointment should you go solo
an Al Jarreau LP
the most rampant of rabbits
and a wanking sock or three

 

A tube of lube it may seem crude
but it could save vexation
should one be parched by fallout
’tis a bitch that radiation

 

Your clothing may seem vital
but it’s surplus to requirement
all panties should be gussetless
as we commence defilement

 

Inventories should all consist
of these few prized possessions
let’s arm ourselves up to the teeth
and commence our sweaty sessions

 

Heed all these tips you may outlive
our fading human race
and should it fail at least you’ll croak
with a beam across your face

 

I can’t keep my mind out of the sewage for one minute can I? If the ship goes down however, I fully plan on having my life-jacket fastened in advance. Nobody wants to be the douche playing solitaire on a park bench when the apocalypse strikes; there are far more vital pursuits to be pursued within our darkened burrows. Speaking of which, there’s always the dilemma of overcrowding should we all flock to our most conveniently located bunkers. In the event of a free-for-all, an each to their own mentality would no doubt be adopted by the less honorable amongst us with orderly queues invariably going to pot and much trampling of the slight and frail. I can envisage it bearing semblance to the first day of the January sale at Bloomingdale’s and that is rather a sobering thought.

Once shoe-horned into our cubbyholes like bothered sardines, some then exhibit a completely different mentality. The more delicate become expendable and it is only the strong who are deemed worthy of continuation. I find it fascinating how a little Armageddon can provoke such passionate reaction from within; a whiff of death’s smelling salts can contort your perspective and realign your priorities. Suddenly the thought of feeding on the flesh of another becomes less asinine and the Chianti begins to flow without reservation.

Keeper would gladly take a sip or two on sanguine fluids but not for survival, more pleasure. Does that make me a freakazoid? Come on, be honest. Let’s strip the bullshit away and have a frank exchange Grueheads. The concept of Keifer Sutherland offering up that goblet of swishing claret does afford a certain degree of sexual kindling right? I would only wish to swill and gargle; nothing more than a few miniscule thimbles of deep red to top me up for the forseeable. After all, the world is falling down around our ankles faster than a ho’s garter belt so the least we can do is to enjoy one last night-cap for the road right?

I imagine those last few moments before utter decimation and the only canny thing left to do is screw. Call me one-track pony but it makes perfect sense to feel that tang of lust as life ebbs away. As the toxins from those mushroom clouds seep into our crawlspaces; surely then there is no more pleasurable way to be wrestled from existence as we swan dive towards nothingness…oblivion…limbo. With one jarring kaboom it will all be over and, once the dust has settled back and radiation rears its misshapen head, all cataclysm will cease and motion begin once more. Then it becomes time for a head count and, should our offspring possess two of these due to toxic fallout, then I urge you to consider the strength in numbers.

I trust we will not be forced into such a corner during our lifetimes but it can’t harm to be prepared for such eventualities. Biochemical weapons have long since been rife and it only takes one flick of the red switch before this becomes a grim reality. Ergo, I have my shit dodger’s handbook, a bunch of Marvin Gaye 33s, and a dense stockpile of Viagra just in case. I’m off to my underground shelter as we speak and would suggest we all do likewise. Fear not if we suffer blindness as it need not denote contamination; my mother always warned me of this occupational hazard but, in times of great duress, I’d prefer to roll the dice. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

Click here to read The Day The World Stopped