preppernoia

May 192013
 

So the other day while I was doing my bi-monthly ironing (why yes, I iron two weeks worth of shirts in one shot), I was flipping through the channels and I happened to stumble across “Doomsday Bunkers: A Prepper’s Paradise.”

It’s APOCALYPTICATASTROPHAGEDDONASTIC!

(Hmmm … can’t believe that spellcheck says that’s not a word!)

Anyway, this show is about Deep Earth Bunker, a Texas company that builds super-fortified shelters—safe rooms, underground bunkers and tsunami pods (yes, really)—and the clients they service. As you can see, it’s trying to cash in on the prepper phenomenon that seems to be the latest trend invading reality TV.

In the episode I saw, they were testing a prototype door—because “any bunker is only as strong as its door!”—by having four police SWAT team members shoot it with AR-15s and other assault weapons, and then after surviving that, by attaching 3 pounds of TNT to the door and detonating it. The door survived both tests, so the door’s engineers and preppers were all giddy, and I assume retired to their respective bunkers to whack off.

Seriously though, I have to call “overkill” on this one. Or “crazy.” I’ll let you make the choice.

First off, I’m a former boy scout, so I’m definitely down with “Be Prepared,” and after the last few big storms/blizzards/cicada plagues we’ve experienced, I definitely have increased the amount of dried goods and bottled water that we keep around the house. Heck, I’ve even priced generators. Even in the fable of “The Ant and the Grasshopper,” I fall a lot closer to “ant” and laugh at the grasshoppers I see around me every day, imagining the days that they will be freezing to death in the snow outside the window of my toasty warm living room … metaphorically, of course.

So I get it the concept, and to me, stocking up a little, having extra batteries on hand, making sure we have enough bread and milk, etc., seems like a sensible response to the possibility of more severe storms.

Next, as someone who deeply appreciates organization—I’ve actually photographed my sister-in-law’s closet …

… because it’s a thing of beauty that makes me question whether I married the right Nofi sister (I did!)—I also understand the obssessive joy of neatly storing and labeling lots of stuff.

Thirdly, if you live in a remote area or one that’s susceptible to regular catastrophic weather events like tornadoes, hurricanes or earthquakes, I really do understand why you may even have a storm cellar and an overly stocked pantry. Your concern is legitimate.

However, building an entire underground steel-reinforced, energy-independent, bomb-proof bunker stocked with enough food, water, guns and ammo to last your family indefinitely in case civilization completely disintegrates? That’s not survival, that’s just lunacy.

Now I know that some prepper-friendly folk out there might say the preppers are doing it to protect their loved ones, trying to ensure that they will survive in the face of severe events, but as my wife pointed out, if you spend every waking moment planning and prepping for that marginally possible eventuality, and then just anxiously wait for “THE END” to come so that you can start living—that’s not living, my friend.

But let’s give preppers the benefit of the doubt here. Say some sort of cataclysmic event befalls us all, and the preppers manage to survive it in their bunkers. Great! They outwit, outplay and outlast us all, and they get the sweet smug self-satisfaction of being right. But then what?

If it’s the end of the society as we know it, and you can’t venture out because of pillaging rapists,  nuclear devastation or flesh-hungry melon-headed mutants, how long are you going to really last? Weeks? Months? Years? Whatever the time frame, it’s probably not “the rest of your life,” so then what? As soon as you open that bomb-proof hatch and let in the new world order, whatever it be, all your prepping is for naught.

In short, you *have* to keep the door closed. Ooopsie!

Bottom line: You’re stuck “living” in your bunker until you die, go insane or are killed and eaten by those locked inside with you who have gone insane. Again, not really “living.”

In “Doomsday Bunkers,” the preppers set up their survival spaces with all the comforts of their regular homes, complete with computers and TVs, which I find especially amusing, you know, because if society collapses, the intrawebz will still work and you’ll still be able to watch Honey Boo Boo. How come none of these preppers are lining the bunker walls with the complete works of Plato, Dickens and Shakespeare? Heck, even the complete works of Stephen King would be a step in the right direction of trying to preserve human culture for future (most likely, inbred) generations. Seasons 1-5 of “The Real Housewives of West Bumblefrack” should not be the record left by homo sapiens for whomever or whatever comes next.

Speaking of human—and inhuman—culture: If you’re one of those legitimately prepping to survive the zombie apocalypse, here’s a tip that might save you some time and effort: Close the book or turn off your TV BECAUSE THEY ARE FICTIONAL CREATIONS!! Really, citing them as an excuse for such preparation is like sleeping with a garlic necklace on and a wooden stake by your bed in the event that sparkly vampires show up—an exercise in futility (because they don’t exist, either!). Sorry.

Still, Darwin tells us the strong shall survive, so if this all plays out to the worst doomsday scenario, does this mean the slightly disillusioned are the strongest of all? I guess they may laugh last, but I’m not sure they’ll really be laughing best.

 

fizzy lifting freedom

Jun 042012
 

So the other day, you may have heard about how New York City Michael Bloomberg wants to enact legislation that would prohibit the sale of super-sized sodas and other sugary drinks throughout the Big Apple.

From hizzoner’s mouth (courtesy of the New York Times):

“Obesity is a nationwide problem, and all over the United States, public health officials are wringing their hands saying, ‘Oh, this is terrible,’ ” Mr. Bloomberg said in an interview on Wednesday in City Hall’s sprawling Governor’s Room.

“New York City is not about wringing your hands; it’s about doing something,” he said. “I think that’s what the public wants the mayor to do.”

Even though they’ll have to pry the Coke out of my cold, dead hands, I think Mayor Mike is one hundred percent absolutely right.

Never mind that people are *not* going to stop drinking soda or other sugary drinks, and that such a ban on large serving sizes only benefits retailers (who can sell more products), and ultimately, the city by increasing sales taxes collected (maybe the whole plan all along?). Also ignore that this absolutely violates multiple personal freedoms—including the right to incur Type 2 diabetes at whatever pace you desire—or that there’s no bans on the amount of alcohol or tobacco that can be purchased, even though both of those products lead to health problems as serious as obesity. Heck, you can buy beer BY THE KEG, which is not really going to put a crimp in alcoholism or drunk driving.

This well-thought-out mandate is *clearly* a step in the right direction. But if you’re going to let a government further interfere in people’s lives and impinge on their freedoms, why stop with soda? As they say, if you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly bear!

Here are other things New York City should think of restricting.

  • The number of buildings under 50 stories tall—it’s THE BIG APPLE, not The Moderately Sized Apple With A Few Pieces Sticking Out. Go big or go home, as they (the chicken people?) say.
  • The number of Major League Baseball teams in town; since the National League is the older entity, it only makes sense to keep that entry and do away with the American League representative so the city could properly get behind one team.
  • The number of winged garbage-eating rats. Seriously, 7 million, with each producing over 25 pounds of crap a year? It seems as though you could—literally—kill two birds with one stone, and then feed them to the homeless and hungry. Ditto the gray rats with bushy tails and actual rats.
  • The number of minorities. Melting pot, smelting pot—pretty sure there’s at least two of each race, creed and religion on the planet by now crammed into the five burroughs. Let those coming here from foreign lands enter via a new port … actually, how about through Newport! What says “Welcome to America” better than staying your first night at The Breakers or Rosecliff?
  • The number of boys named Jayden. Maybe change a few hundred over to RAYden, right? Just sayin’.
  • The number of God-loving virgin backup quarterbacks that have enormous fan bases and seemingly unlimited media presence and support. Because honestly, one seems like too many.
  • The number of overweight, pompous, know-it-all afternoon sports radio talk show hosts. Again, even one seems like way too many.
  • The number of buildings and other entities that Donald Trump can name after himself. Look, we get it—The Donald has named all these skyscrapers after himself not because he cares about “branding” but because despite his vast wealth, he’s got bad hair and has a tiny penis. Enough already.
  • The number of self-serving mayors who like to change the rules solely for their own personal gain.