Pet Food

Have you ever taken the time to consider what could happen if - someday, for whatever reason - the shit hits the fan (hereinafter referred to as TSHTF)? Maybe peak oil has struck, forcing those road-hogging smoke-spewing diesel-snorting behemoths that transport our food to have to sit idled in truckstops?

Maybe a virulent pandemic like bird flu, or swine flu or even a more lethal hybrid like avian/swine flu (yeah, that'll happen... when pigs fly) has caused widespread panic catalyzing people to freak out and flee fervently in frantic frenzy to their nearby Winco in an adrenaline-induced state of sudden overpowering terror only to find every damned shelf in the whole mammoth mega-store stripped more naked then a Playboy centerfold? You could look, but you wouldn't even be able to find basic staples.

What would happen then? Well, I'll just betcha, about that time, a little light would go off in your head triggering the thought "hey, I know where some Mormons live!" And then you would pay them a visit, approaching respectfully along the front walkway to ring the doorbell, where you would wait demurely with hands clasped innocently behind your back. When they opened the door you could respectfully inquire "Kind Sir, would you mind terribly if I borrowed a cube of bullion to feed my starving children?"

And then, as is their wont, as they are a good-natured generous God-fearing lot, as they turned to fetch the aforementioned cube you could with great stealth sneak up behind them and then with sinister malice whip into a full Tiger Woods backswing and absolutely let em have it across their noggin with your rolled-up sock of quarters - silver of course, clad is for peons - causing them to reel backwards howling in agony and clutching the egg-sized rapidly-turning-purple hematoma on their occiput as they exclaimed "Jumpin Jehosephat, why in tarnations didya do that for?"

At this point, you could flash your most winsome Son of Sam smile and emulating Jack Nicholson's sinister leer and gravelly voice in The Shining reply "Cuz I'm hungry, Fred," just before moving in to finish knocking the bejesus out of him. This is like one of those cinematic sequences where the director tricks you - the devious bastard - by making you think things are real until a moment later you realize it was all merely a fantasy of the protagonist, a cheap device to stretch a too-thin plot.

In real life, friend, if TSHTF I'm sorry to tell you, but the Mormon's won't be such easy pushovers because they've already considered this possibility, anticipating that they might have nefarious neighbors just like you. So they have contingency plans, Dude.

You know how many members of the NRA there are living in Utah? The state where they have lots and lots, I mean actual mammalian herds of hamburger-on-the-hoof? Deer, elk, moose, mountain goats for the fair-play "hey-let-me-just-drop-your-furry-little-ass-with-a-thirty-ought-six-shot-through-the-heart" for the hunter with a sense of ethics, and penned dairy cows for the mean-spirited?

I don't think the Mormon Militia will have any trouble defending the stashes buried in their barricaded local wards spread conveniently throughout Salt Lake City. All those missionaries will be recalled and pressed into vigilant service riding their Schwinn mountain bikes in tandem in two-minute circumferential patrols while toting Uzi's, patrolling the perimeter of their fortified compound, following the narrow jogging track just outside the nine-foot high electrified fences topped with concertina razor wire.

So where does this leave you, Oh slothful Sluggard, who never prepared for this eventuality? The one who the talking heads on CNBC refer to with derisive contempt when they chant in unison "one who fails to plan, plans to fail?" Well, I'll tell you. Your options are rather limited at this point.

I don't think you want to end up like Harold Donner, who along with his obnoxious wife Maude and their five sniveling snot-nosed brats found themselves stuck in a cabin where the atmosphere - already rife with tension - just continued worsening as the ravenous clan just would not stop with their incessant exhortations "Mumma, Papa, we're hungry, feed us, we're hungry, feed us," until - red-eyed and crazed - habitually hungry Maude harried her hounded husband one fateful time too many until he'd finally had enough.

Whirling on her, challenging her mocking gaze with livid face fervent he blurted vociferously "Oh Maude, you know what? Just eat me!" Wrong move Harold; the little buggers leapt on him like a pack of piranhas on a portly Peruvian. I don't think any of my readers want to repeat that experience, do they?

So, once more, where does that leave you? Umm, I think its time we better start talking about pet food. And I don't mean getting out the can opener and cracking open a container of Alpo, or that perennial feline favorite Fancy Feast. I'm talking more along the lines of Fido and Fluffy, whichever one you can coax into your clutches first. Shocked? Sure, the idea is grisly, the entire concept macabre but, hey, they do call them Chow in China, now don't they? Perhaps those wily Orientals know something we don't?

So, if TSHTF, can we expect to see motley ques of disheveled skeletal figures dumpster-diving at the SPCA? Can we anticipate overhearing avowals that would take on an entirely new meaning? "Boy, I feel like a King today!" Makes you think, doesn't it? If it did ever really happen - TSHTF - how far would you go to feed your starving family? What would you do to survive? I know what I would do.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty!"



The author is just joking about devouring domesticated felis or canis which irrefutably reflects his abysmally poor, despicable and reprehensible sense of humor. No actual Rex or Princess (names changed to protect the innocent) were harmed in the posting of this commentary. The author, now chagrined with shame and disgrace, hopes that the reader has prepared for this bleak stygian future by buying silver and gold, and guns and groceries. Lots of em.