Tagged: tv

Poultry Passion

Dear Planet Earth,

There’s a lot of grumbling going on today about the lack of diverse food options. Some of the guys raided a distribution warehouse and brought back a shitload of fried chicken originally intended for KFC or Chick-fil-A or Heart Attack Express. But with an expiration date that might as well read “when hell freezes over,” no one’s convinced it’s actually fried chicken.

Whatever. You won’t hear me complaining. This is some of the best stuff I’ve eaten in months and I’m not about to start watching my calorie intake during a global invasion of mole people. I’m not the only one who gets passionate about poultry products:

Ha ha! I wonder if they’re all dead now. . .


The Campfire

Dear Planet Earth,

Against my better judgement, I took Dr. Eimer’s advice about integrating into my “tribe.” I invited myself to the cool kids’ table (composed of three gossipy old women and their 50 year younger counterparts) and tried think of any conversation topics that didn’t involve mole men, how mole men have killed everyone we love, and how we’ll all probably soon be killed by mole men.

It wasn’t easy. But the dialogue eventually turned to our favorite TV shows we’ll never be able to see again. Believe it or not, some of the old biddies actually used to watch Game of Thrones, and one of the girls and I repeated random jokes from Community to each other for about an hour. The tribe mentality really set in as I imagined our evolutionary ancestors gathered around a campfire, retelling stories to one another, creating a common culture.

I don’t know if I’m exactly off everyone’s shit list now, but it’s a start. Maybe tomorrow I’ll set up a karaoke bar.

Wink Wink

Dear Planet Earth,

I was able to catch a couple winks last night (that means “sleep” for all you Bieber-lovin’ toddlers in tiaras out there) and have some nightmares that don’t involve running for my life from technologically advanced mole people.

My on-again off-again strictly platonic male friend Dr. Eimer revealed to me that General Talpa and a small squad have been scouting the surrounding area. He seems pretty convinced that they’re not ditching us slow-moving civilians, and I don’t have any choice but to agree. I do have to wonder though, with about 100 of us and only enough food and water to fit three trucks, how much borrowed time are we running on (that means “period of uncertainty during which the inevitable consequences of a current situation are postponed or avoided” for all you Tweeting E-Trade babies out there).

But I need to stop thinking the worst and focus on my more immediate concerns. My leg is still killing me. I can’t sleep for more than six hours. And I badly need to shave. I grow facial hair at an incredibly slow rate, even by seventeen year old boy standards, but I currently look like a mugshot for Gary Busey’s stalker.


Dear Planet Earth,

I changed the layout of the blog, and after turning over on my right side, watching static on the TV, and counting all the water stains in the ceiling, the only thing left to do today is to write about something.

I’m in a lull here, a stagnant void that could easily make me forget that the mole people are out there, intent on killing me and the rest of humanity. I need to keep my brain active. I need to use this time for something more productive than just scoring free drugs and waging war on orphan children. It would be good to lay out the facts, to remind me and anyone else willing to listen what the hell has happened to the world we once knew.

I’m working on a timeline now of everything that’s led to this moment. I’m going to need a minute or two.



Dear Planet Earth,

General Talpa wasn’t lying about those drugs. I’ve got enough painkiller flowing through my body right now to satisfy Paris Hilton and Rush Limbaugh combined.

It’s morphine or analgesic or some other weird word you hear thrown around Grey’s Anatomy. That’s right — I’m so high right now, I’m not ashamed to admit I used to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

Shit, I wonder if the mole people killed the whole cast now. I guess I’ll find out soon; if all goes according to plan and a doctor says I’m ship shape enough to walk without a cane, Talpa’ll take me along with his new army to California, where there’s supposedly a growing resistance set up.

Ship shape, ship shape. That’s a weird expression. Is that even an expression?

Okay, blogging time is over. I think I just saw a little boy come in here and steal my skull.

Events Occur in Real Time

Dear Planet Earth,

I’m slowly but surely gathering more information about our latest guest on base here. Dr. Eimer let me know I was correct in assuming she’s one of the countless homeless mercenaries piling up outside the fences. He also told me that after hours of grueling “interrogation,” we know that her name is “Matha.” And that’s it.

I’m going to pretend to ignore the hours of Guantanamo Bay-like screaming I heard last night and say that this situation falls under the ticking clock scenario that can only be solved by God or Jack Bauer. I’m not going to contemplate the morality or politics of it. I’m not sure if there’s still even a government left to complain to if I wanted.

Outside, things are only getting more tense. More and more homeless people are coming everyday. They look hungry and ready for war, even if they all do look like they’re smiling.

We Are the World

Dear Planet Earth,

If this blogging thing doesn’t work out as a life-long (now estimated to be two more weeks) career, I may look into becoming a professional freeloader.

Today at Fort Doomsday, an old guy with no eyebrows caught me trying to steal some power for my netbook and phone. I tried to pretend I was just another soldier, but he saw right through it and laughed. He invited me back to his tent for drinks.

Now, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen enough Dateline specials about the Neverland Ranch to know you’re not supposed to go to dark secluded places with strangers to get drunk. But there was something in his eyes, something stern but paternal, that told me I could trust this guy. That sounds really stupid and Dateliney now that I see it written down.

Whatever. It turns out, he’s actually a very cool guy. Dr. Eimer is the head of the civilian consultants here. He’s also the only civilian consultant. When I tried to press him further and find out exactly what he does, he laughed.

“I’m a historian,” he said.

He poured me another glass of whiskey and asked what I do. It was strong stuff — my first alcoholic drink that I couldn’t associate a TV commercial with.

“I guess I’m a historian, too.”

That made him laugh again, but the conversation took a much darker turn soon after when he told me about how his wife died during the earthquakes. I told him about Diana, which started our sharing of condolences and philosophies of life, death, and the universe. I think we may have tried to drunk dial the Pentagon at one point.

To make a long story short, I’m keeping him company in exchange for food, showers, and whiskey. Even MJ never offered whiskey.