In 1997, whispers of what would later become fullblown internet hysteria began to surface about a supposed computer glitch that would cause ATMs to lock up, satellites to fall from orbit, and general mayhem to ensue. My friends and I, all designers for various “adult oriented” websites, found the entire thing to be fabulously hilarious. Postings from people who were selling everything they owned, buying mules and wagons, and moving to some Prada forsaken wasteland in southern Arizona provided us with howlingly delicious entertainment.
And yet somehow, amid the idiocy of people stockpiling cans of Spam they would never eat, and paying $150 for a $14.00 gas mask on Ebay, a twisted obsession wormed it’s way into my consciousness. Planting it’s shabby self firmly in the gap between Shoes and Sushi, Survivalism began to make itself at home.
More than a decade later, my survival obsession remains, though it has stayed hidden between more socially acceptable pursuits such as the latest flatscreen TV or a new pair of Jimmy Choos. Those around me have no clue, and many would be shocked, to know that I possess a veritable warehouse full of food and toiletries, as well as a Davidian worthy stockpile of firearms and ammo. I mean, it’s not as if we discuss the merits of pistol grips vs traditional shotgun stocks over toro and unagi.
My unwillingness to come out and wear my preps on my sleeve has it’s advantages. With the current administration and media giving more and more unflattering coverage to survivalists every day, my outward appearance convinces all those around me that I’m just another one of the sheep; docile, mindless, and no threat to anyone. Indeed, even the preppers and “true” survivalists discount me as one of the clueless masses who would perish without the indian giving hand of the government there to coddle me along. Should the proverbial shit finally fling itself headlong into the blades, I suspect they will be thoroughly dismayed to see me getting along splendidly with a Coke and a smile.
My survivalist breathren can remain in their wolf pack, running around the edges of the flock and drawing unwanted attention to themselves, while living a life of suffering. (Honestly you cannot tell me that eating a bowl of sprouted wheat berries for breakfast every single day is not suffering. Bunch a friggin masochists) I’ll take my sheep and their comfortable lifestyle, and continue to drink my grande Chai Tea lattes with them.
When the communist zombie army invades, we’ll see who’s left standing.