A few years ago I had a revelation. Something that didn’t exactly rock my core, but something that I was not prepared for or even realized had happened. My ass was not ready for the zombie apocalypse.
We all watch the movies and the rare intellects read books (comics included). We see mistakes the hero makes throughout as drama unfolds. We make bets on who’s dying next. We yell at the screen when ridiculous decisions are made. We are the experts. We know how to defend our land. We know to aim for the head.
It’s all bullshit.
When we watch movies or read books about zombies, we’re thinking about the confrontation – fighting those undead bastards to the death. We even know which weapon we’d choose and rationalize our strategic plans. This is bullshit. That fight doesn’t last long and I’m sure you win. Now what? Where do you find food? How to take care of medical problems? How do you charge your phone so you can post selfies?
Let me take you back to a ball kicker of a summer day in hot ass Texas. Though I love this Great State, it’s fucking hot here. Because I was blessed with good looks that can only be matched by my charming personality, God saw it fit that I drive shitty cars. I’m not gonna tell the make and model of this crap can with wheels…but let’s just say that it rhymes with “Bevrelet Bequinox” – a picture of which can be found here.
On this hot ass day, my shit can with tires decided it’d be a great time for the AC to go out. Most of you are thinking that this is merely a first-world-problem. Normally, I’d agree..and you all know since my domestication, I’m softer than a kitten lying on a down pillow. But listen to me friends, this is HOT ASS TEXAS. No one can survive a full summer of triple digit heat and ride around in a sealed soup can. $1,500 to repair the AC. My shitty Chevy was worth $1,200.
So I found a Mexican.
A Mexican is the Swiss-Army-Knife of people. They can clear out a landing, build a brick fire pit, make patio furniture, plant a garden, then make you lunch from scratch so you can enjoy it all. They are some handy mother fuckers; I love the Mexicans. Now, lets pause here…I can hear some of you saying, “Famous Ray, aren’t you Mexican?” No, bitches. I’m from California.
So, my Mexican has me purchase a thing. He then has me help with the installation of said thing. It’s 114 degrees. We’re in a make shift garage, undoubtedly that he built. He has more tools than AutoZone and knows how to use them all. He is as glorious as he greasy. As I lay sweltering under my crap can with my sweaty balls dragging to the ground, it hits me: I DON’T HAVE SKILLS.
We’re not talking about skills in the work place…no, friends…we’re talking about shit-hitting-the-fan-and-we-need-to-sustain-life type of skills. As I lay in heat induced delirium, I take inventory of what I’m bringing to the table:
- Farming? Nope
- Canning? I’m not sure that’s even science
- Ranching? I fucking hate horses. They’re bad for the balls
- Carpentry? This is why I hire the Mexicans
- Radio Operations? Is it “HAM” like the food or “HAND” like the Ninja Turtles’ enemy? Either way, it’s a “no”
- Automotive? This is why I’m sweating my balls off
- Electrical? Did I even spell that right?
- Medical? If I run out of ibuprofen, I’m all out of tricks
- CrossFit? I can lift heavy shit and move it fast…sounds handy
- Procreation? This is it. I found my calling. I can learn this. I need to survive to repopulate the planet!
That scorching summer day was over 2 years ago, my friends. I’m happy to report after all that time I have a new car with great AC – I’ll never drive a Chevy again. As far as developing skills, I have dedicated myself to continually reading the Kama Sutra and watching studying porn – I take my responsibility seriously. I stand ready to father a new generation. Now I need to find a team that can keep me alive long enough to do it – That’s what she said.
You’re welcome, cyberspace.