Hope you packed your SPF 1,000,000 sunscreen because it looks like this might be the hottest summer on record since, at the very least, 1945. With blustering blowhards who carry nuclear launch codes in their front jacket pocket engaging in worldwide pissing contests, let’s be pessimistically honest: chances are we’re all going to be immolated in a blinding ball of atomic fury within the next few weeks.
Say goodbye to your loved ones while you can and get down to that faulty storm shelter under the house, loaded with enough Jim Bakker Fiesta Food Buckets to ride out the wave of mutilation as your skin sloughs off and you cough your lungs out in a fit of massive radiation poisoning that might as well be the home version of The Day After, where everyone’s a winner!
When that moment does come, however, and the electro-magnetic pulse seals those sliding doors, turning wherever you are into a living tomb and the blinding flash of Hellfire resulting in a sad fact and even sadder fate that you might have to choose between banding with survivors or going rogue and eating them. After much deliberation without hibernation, here’s five Metro areas where I feel we might have the best chance for post-nuke survival, common morals be damned. ¡Cómpralo ya!
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Academy Sporting Goods
With enough Met-Rx bars and Gatorade to keep anyone superpowered with proteins and electrolytes in the following weeks of destruction, as well all that workout equipment to make those long quiet hours of forced solitude more palpable, as the radiation levels drop to somewhat livable standards, I can emerge with a prison-built body for intimidating those left behind to join a savage band of marauders, either as fellow wasteland warriors or chained pansexual slaves. Either way, don’t forget to load up on durable name-brand sporting gear as well to create the perfect kicky mushroom cloud man-fashions.
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The Underground Opium Tunnels
As ash falls and the long hard nuclear winter sets in, those of us that were lucky(?) enough to make it to the collective warmth of downtown’s underground opium tunnels—now dubbed the Kingdom of the Mole People—will need a strong leader that has no problem coaxing them into tricking delicious surface dwellers into coming down various manholes and sewer grates as our food supply—that one Chinese buffet—finally runs out. I promise meat for all! All hail the Mole People!
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The Red Dog Cafe
If growing up on a steady diet of Heavy Metal magazines with Frank Frazetta covers has taught me anything, it’s that the buxom shall inherit the Earth. Why not hole up—literally—at Oklahoma City’s raunchiest T&A electric smut-palace in the hopes of becoming a reproductive man-slave to be used and abused by these sword-wielding Amazonian warriors when they return home from a hard day of slaying giant mutant dragon-beasts called Gorlocks, desperately desiring to repopulate this scorched Earth using your fertile seeds. Just call me the Load Warrior!
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Penn Square Mall
When there’s no more room in Hell, the dead—or those that will wish they were dead—will walk the earth. And even though, with my luck, I’ll probably end up a Shepherd Mall with nothing to eat but Social Security forms, I’ll be aiming for that commercial monstrosity of brick and mortar over on Northwest Expressway, quietly crafting an unstoppable fortress of glass and commerce where survivors from all over will come to barter and trade for goods and services, as well as to settle disputes, bet on a complicated futuristic form of a popular sports game starring the irradiated b-string debris of the Thunder, and maybe even indulge in a little vice in our Café Flesh food court, if the price is right. Anything goes at the new Penn Square!
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The Closest House Of God
When it truly comes down to it, you better give your heart to God, because your ass belongs to whoever has his finger on the button. Would you really want to live through the sheer nightmare of what life will become in the ensuing melee: rampant disease from radiation poisoning, a lack of clean water and sanitation, martial law and a return to firing squads, the stench of death permeating the streets from the inability to bury or burn the corpses…sounds fun right? Sorry, but when it comes right down to it, I’m probably just gonna seek solace in a random church full of believers, committed and foxhole alike, huddled together in apocalyptic prayer as the final flash-bang moments of life as we know it ends, the eternal hope that as I am vaporized to nothing but a burnt shadow on the pavement I wake up in a world far better than this one ever was.
Thanks, Trump.
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Every Mole King needs a Mole Queen. Follow Louis on Twitter at @LouisFowler.
