A Missive to Those Who Survive

As most of you know, current predictions call for between 18 inches and 73 feet of snow, some sort of time/space vortex and the end of life as we know it. As directed by The National Weather Service, I have transformed into a polar bear. For many of you who waited, this will not be an option, and even for those of us who did prepare, these giant shambling bodies, powerful jaws capable of bighting through quarter inch steel plate and taloned claws built for deblubbering a walrus may not be enough.

Bob Turk tells us that after the snows come the harrowing times. A new economy will form. The paper monies of the before times will be as nothing, kindling for our smelters and engines that drive our tunneling machines. A can of corn will be more precious than gold. A woman of quality breeding stock will be worth half a shoveled parking space. Then will come the blighted ones. Roving bands, more beast than human offering to shovel your walk for $20, but when you give them $20, they won’t shovel your walk, and they’ll laugh at you and call you a stupid polar bear whose terrible paws can’t grip a shovel and take all of your coca cola and they will do worse. I’m not sure what, but something really really bad. Like they will begin caroling, but not good songs. They will be playing blue grass and doing Little Feet covers.

I ask those of you who make it, who persevere in the face of insurmountable odds/minor inconveniences, to REMEMBER US! Remember our laughter, remember our tears. Remember the way we smelled when we got back from the gym or the way we went into anaphylactic shock after eating shellfish. Pray for our souls, but more importantly, keep us in your heart. Carry us with you and let our example be a reminder to you to stock up on canned goods and toilet paper.

SING SURVIVORS! Dance and smile and when you cry for us, let it be with joy in your hearts for we are with you, watching you, often when you pee or masturbate or look in someone else’s medicine cabinet or listen to Celine Dion and cry. We, the generation lost in the Blizzard of Aught Dickity. The Snow Angels.