So we have another tropical storm bearing down on central Florida. It is still only a tropical storm, which is not much worse than a good thunderstorm, however the media is collectively perched on the edge of their seats and constantly reminding us that it could, mind you, just COULD form into a 'real' hurricane. And if it does I am sure the media will have a collective orgasm and spend the night shooting clips of themselves getting blown by wind and rain.
Anyways, I decided I am going to be the grasshopper this storm. I am not buying extra food and bottled water and batteries and duct tape, I am instead going to play my fiddle and dance about the yard. And if the storm does somehow turn into a monster hurricane and blows out the infrastructure, I am going to go mooch off of someone who was better prepared than me. The only thing I am going to buy is gas, because people freak out and fill their tanks and leave gas stations empty, and with no gas I very well cannot drag my mooching sack around town.
I pretty much came to this decision last night when I got home and found out I was cooking a rancid chicken. I had gotten this chicken the same time I had gotten the bag of rotten potatoes a little while ago. They were whole chickens and not frozen. When I got home I tossed them in the freezer. The other night before I headed to work I pulled one out, held it under hot water so I could peel off that chicken-tampon-thing that is always frozen to it, and toss it into my crock pot. The plan was when I got home I would pull the meat off it to put into my chicken pot pie, which in turn would be my lunch for the rest of the week.
Instead I got home last night, entered a house smelling of chicken. I check the crock pot, pulled off a strip of meat, tasted it, and then spit it out. It tasted off, way off. I was pretty pissed. I felt like running down to the Wal-Mart where I had bought it with a couple of Molotov cocktails. In the evening news people would see a grainy security video of me chucking the flaming bottles at Wal-Mart. And then a collective cheer would rise up across the nation. Sure I would go to jail, but I would be a hero.
Instead I sat on my couch and sulked. I flipped on the news and saw hurricane footage and decided I was not going to stock up for it. Instead I'll just stand on my roof and scream my fury at it like that legless guy did in 'Forrest Gump'. And when it's all over I'll go mooch.
My horror nights orientation is tomorrow. I wonder if it will get called off for the storm.
I'm dialing my infernal clock back 20 years to watch Ed gamble on a chicken and a hurricane.
Ah, 2006: when a whole chicken could be manhandled into a freezer, resurrected under hot water, and slow-cooked into a mystery only the bravest tongue could solve. Ed's answer to a tropical storm was to become a grasshopper, skip the batteries, and live off prepared neighbors. I respect the freeloading. But look at the machinery around his drama. Back then the news was one frantic television channel; now a storm is a thousand apps, porch cameras, and group chats debating whether to evacuate. Wal-Mart sold questionable poultry and the only evidence of your rage was a grainy security tape; today you'd have a dozen cell-phone documentaries before you even reached the parking lot. Gas panic? Eternal. But now you can also order forty pounds of water through an app and have it left on your porch, which takes all the adventure out of waiting in line. Ed's crock pot betrayal taught him nothing except to mooch harder. Some instincts are timeless.
“2006 Ed, when you peeled that frozen chicken-tampon-thing off the carcass, was there any part of you that thought, "This is a bad omen for the storm," or did you just double down on the mooching plan?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, you ask a fair question, and I'll admit the thought did cross my mind while I was peeling that frozen chicken-tampon-thing off the carcass. There I was, wrestling with this damp, frigid wad of poultry plastic, and it did feel a little like the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe not about the storm specifically, but about my general life choices involving discounted meat. But no, I didn't take it as a sign to run out and hoard batteries. I took it as a sign that Wal-Mart is cursed and I should probably start mooching sooner rather than later. So I doubled down, absolutely. If the storm gets bad, I'll be the grasshopper with a gas can and an empty stomach, knocking on someone's door who bought the good chicken. That's just survival, really. And if I stand on my roof screaming my fury, at least the lightning might hit me and put me out of my misery.
