Dec. 8, 2013
DAY 1: Well, it looks like the weather men were right for once. Guess I should have played the lottery last night too. My odds of winning couldn’t have been any worse than the meteorologists.
For the last week, all the news outlets: television, newspapers and internet, have been warning us about an imminent “snow storm of the century.” Considering that we’re only 14 years into this infant of a century, I don’t know if that claim really means much. Of course, that didn’t stop the rest of the stupid population from running out and buying groceries and supplies. It was worse than every Black Friday combined. 148 people were killed the first day. Most were trampled, others were run over for parking spaces. Still others were just outright murdered because they tried to get the last box of Pampers, or whatever.
It only got worse as the week continued. Riots sprang up all over the east coast. At food factories, grocery stores, even farms. People were desperate to stock up before “Goliath” (as it had been dubbed) arrived. Oddly (or, in retrospect, maybe not so oddly) liquor stores and gun stores got it the worst. Which, when combined, became the poster child of what’s wrong with this damn country.
With two days before landfall, the President addressed the east coast, to assure us that all would be well. We, as a nation, were strong and together, we could overcome any obstacle. I laughed so much I threw up.
Goliath landed this morning. Between family, neighbors and friends, there’s 14 or 15 of us in the house. Including Mr. Brooks, who nobody seems to know and nobody knows how he ended up here.
As far as supplies go, we have a good amount of food. Pooled with the food that people brought with them and we’re in good shape (unless we lose power). In case we do lose power, we have an assload of candles, a bunch of flashlights, a lot of batteries of various sizes and even some hand-crank lantern/radios. Even though everybody is treating this like the end of days, I’m a bit more skeptical. It’s not like they’ll have to call Marshal Law or anything. People scare too easily.
DAY 8: It snowed for four days straight. Leave it to the weathermen to get one storm right and it’s the one that devastates an entire coast. Snow was up to four feet in some places. New York (as usual, they had to show everybody else up) got the worse of it at just under six feet. Ice was everywhere. Fire hydrants were frozen. Firemen learned that the hard way when they tried to fight a house fire in South Carolina that accidentally happened when the family inside tried to make a fire for warmth. Lakes and rivers barely stood a chance. The temperature was in the low 20’s and getting lower.
Our electricity finally went out yesterday. Surprised it lasted this long. Luckily for us, our stove and hot water heater run on gas, so we have hot water and can cook some stuff. (that’s how it works, right?) Can’t say the same for the elderly in Boca Raton (Rat’s Mouth? Really? How high was the person who named that place?) the EMS people found the first five bodies the other day, and another 15 yesterday. All the bodies were frozen stiff. The result of which made the corpses look like something out of a Looney Toons cartoon.
DAY 24: Well, Marshal Law was declared. Considered what I wrote in a previous entry, I guess I was asking for it. Anyway, now that shit has gotten really out of hand, some people in the group want to go on foraging/raid missions. Turns out that there was a stockpile of guns and ammo in the cellar. Which leads me to believe that this used to be Pablo Escobar’s summer home, or something.
So far, initial foraging expeditions have brought back three bananas, two slices of American cheese, a tennis ball (chewed up and heavily coated with dog slobber). A copy of A Beautiful Mind, starring Jennifer Connelly and a Penthouse magazine, (which may sound pointless, but trust me, in this weather, even some solo friction can warm you up.) finding more food is paramount, we’re almost out. Next we’ll be eating our shoes, like 1930’s hobos. I don’t want to be a hobo!
DAY 84: Out of the original 14 of us, we’re down to eight. We’re all emaciated, with various sores, vitamin depletion and illnesses, (except for Mr. Brooks. He looks fine and smells delightful, which is a mystery since he’s wearing the same suit he wore when he got here and I’ve never seen him bathe*) I think uncle Luke has small pox and aunt Jon (it’s not his fault that he’s a woman born in a man’s body) has colic.
Disposing of the bodies of our loved ones (and Henry. Screw that guy. He never helped with anything. Just sat there, listening to music and babbling about some chick named Vicki, or Vanessa or Verruca. I don’t remember and who cares anyway, he’s a Henrysicle now!) wasn’t easy. Kind of heart wrenching, in fact. It took me a whole seven seconds to work up the courage to chuck my mom’s body into the street. Throwing out the dead pets was easier. All it took was a quick punt. As a house record, I sent the puppy 45 yards. Which may not sound like much, but that mutt was frozen rock-hard. I almost broke a toe and ended up walking with a limp for the next few days.
DAY 101: There’s been a lot of whispering going on the past few days. It all started last week (Man I hope I’m getting these days and weeks straight. All the cold is in my brain and it’s making it hard for me to think. Luckily for me, my Spongebob pillow finally broke his vow of silence (turns out he was a Buddhist monk and only pretended to be stuffed with cotton, asbestos and Chinese newspapers in his spare time.) and he’s helping me to maintain my fragile sanity.
Anyway, last week, we were raided by the Johnsons from down the street. We lost most of our food, a couple of people were shot and our couch cushions were sexually violated. Schnietz Marphis was not happy.
This whispering has me nervous. I know that we all have cabin fever, most of us are on the verge of cracking up completely and Spongebob has informed me that he noticed some people caressing knives, eyeballing us and licking their lips. I’m going to have to gather the other two wretches** so that we can defend ourselves, if need be. Weapons aren’t ideal, we have a ski pole, a bottle of hand sanitizer and a lampshade. But I’m positive that with determination and a little spunk, we will turn the tide on these wannabe cannibals, and win out the day!
DAY 102: Boy was I wrong! Those fiends attacked in the middle of the night. Roscoe went down immediately, with about 20 fondue skewers protruding from his face and chest. The cannibals made a good choice, Roscoe’s ample fat reserves would make for good eating and the tallow from his blubber would keep their lamps lighted for days.
After Roscoe went down, Paul and I managed to escape through the bathroom window. The bad news was that Paul and I weren’t dressed for single-digit weather. I was only wearing my smoking jacket, my fez, my monocle and only one slipper, (I may being living with a group of savages, but by god, I will not stoop to their level. Apocalypse or not, I’m still a gentleman and I still take tea at precisely 5 pm. God save the queen!)
And Paul was naked, save for a sock on his junk, (I don’t know if he crazy glued that thing on or what, but throughout the entire chase, it never fell off.)
We tried hiding out in a neighbor’s garage, but changed our minds when we saw the entire family that had committed suicide in the car by gas inhalation. Hanging out in a place like that is bad juju.
Luckily, the family had a woodshed in the backyard and we were able to safely make it there. Well, to be honest, I made it in safely, Paul was kind of in the way of me closing the door, so, umm, he fell, or was pushed into the snow. Nobody can be sure. Spongebob saw what happened, but in an odd turn of events, his tongue was accidentally cut out and he could no longer talk.
DAY 103: It’s three am and I’m tired as shit. They’ve been banging on the walls for hours and it’s starting to get to me. Now I have a better idea of what Anne Frank went through, and I have to say that she’s a pussy. Anybody can handle Nazis, try dealing with cannibals who you used to play spades with at family reunions.
Aww, shit, looks like one of the flimsy tin walls is buckling. This may be it. Let me make it clear though, I won’t go down like a punk. I’m going to scratch and pull out as much hair as I can, Jerry Springer style!
Alright, here they come. This might be my last entry. If so, then for whoever finds these, my last words, just know that the gold is buried in the
*Not like I’m sitting there watching him wash himself or anything, I’m just saying that I’ve never seen him go to the washing area, a.k.a. the boot room.
**As a surprise to nobody, Mr. Brooks was nowhere to be found. Don’t even know when he left or who he was. Forever a mystery.