Subourbon Mom

The (Humorous) Survivor’s Guide to the Apocalypse

These days there is a lot of fear mongering, talk of anarchy and threats of various apocalypse scenarios.  If you believe the social media “preppers,” the apocalypse is coming in the form of World War Three, a plague, or UFOs. 

Or maybe the world is eventually going to be underwater.  

Well, if any of those scenarios are on the horizon, I can rest easy because I’m not a survivor.  Nor do I want to be.

I’ve seen enough Thunderdome movies to know that I wouldn’t make it past the first week. 

Here are things I do NOT bring to the table:

Weapons or the skills to use them.  I’m pretty sure my throwing axes will only protect me if my attacker is 10 feet away and standing still. 

Medical knowledge or herb lore. Despite the fact that my family jokingly calls me “Dr. Libby,” I’m really just a fast Googler.  As for the herb lore, if it’s a nuclear attack, you can’t eat what would be left.  If we’re floating around an endless ocean because of climate change, seaweed will only do you so much good. That’s pretty much the extent of my ocean flora knowledge.

Mechanical ability. I can barely work a screwdriver, and IKEA instructions make me break out in hives.  So no, I won’t be the person who’s fixing machines, jumping car batteries or siphoning gas to save the day.

Procreation.  My body is no longer equipped to produce offspring, much less offspring that would adapt to a post-apocalyptic new world. I’m pretty much a post-apocalyptic recessive gene.

Here’s what I DO bring to the apocalypse:

Humor.  If you can’t laugh at the situation, you’ll cry.  So maybe I can keep some people from falling apart by making snarky observations. I’ll eventually become a court jester.

Documentation.  I can write down what happened and how people survived. I’m told I’m good with dialogue when I write fiction. I will explain the weird lines on our (underwater) roads and strange phrases future archeologists uncover, like “Let’s Go Brandon” and “what’s your Roman Empire.”

Medical Assistant (certain conditions only).  When it comes to radiation poisoning, I’m your girl. People throwing up doesn’t bother me at all.  But, if there’s an attack with a respiratory component, I’m out.  Snot makes me dry heave.

Medicinal Alcohol. My house could be a temporary source of medicinal antiseptic and anesthesia, given our current supply of bourbon.  Until those supplies run out, we can all figure out how to make moonshine from ash, instead of actual crops.

Realistically, by the time the apocalypse happens, us non-survivors will probably already be assigned red Star Trek security shirts so we’ll be easy to identify. That way, others won’t waste time trying to save us when they could be building a desalinization machine out of seashells.  

So if you’re a McGyver, a Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs, or someone who knows how to operate multiple vehicles, more power to you. You go all Thunderdome out there and keep the human race going. I’ll see you on the other side, wearing my shiny red sweater.  

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