Before You Rush Out to Celebrate New Year's Eve, Follow These Handy Tips to Ensure That You're Still Around on Jan. 1, 2000
BY CHRIS DECKER
Ooooh, the year 2000. Y2K. Millennium meltdown. Power out, no water, anarchy. Ooooh, I'm so scared. "Buy my dehydrated food!" "Buy my generator!" "Buy my piece of rock-covered dirt in North Dakota!"
Buy my ass. This is the biggest rip-off since fallout shelters, if you ask me. Listen: You don't have to buy nobody's nothing. This is gonna be great. Fun, even. You don't have to go all mental and drop a wad of cash you don't have. I can tell you how to make a few simple devices that will have you all ready come midnight.
Liquor. First off, make yourself a still. Yes, a still. Just like the ones Barney Fife was always accidentally drinking from on "The Andy Griffith Show," and then he'd act all goofy and the mayor would show up and–well, you know: a still.
Liquor prices will be skyrocketing as we get closer to 2000, and you're going to
need that calm, leadership quality that only being half in the bag can provide you.
Note: I'm talking half in the bag. Don't get so calm that you start a group sing or try to call Dick Clark person-to-person to tell him that Y2K is a communist conspiracy. Because a) there aren't any communists left and b) the phones won't be working.
Anyway, I can't go into all of the details here, but you'll need some copper tubing and about a bushel of potatoes. Go to the library or ask someone from Kentucky.
Money. Make yourself some. No, I don't mean work overtime, and I don't mean withdraw some from the bank right before D-Day. I mean make yourself some. You've seen those new 20-dollar bills. How real do they look to you? I'm thinking a green felt-tip, a picture of Bette Midler, and the Xerox machine at the library. Nobody'll know the difference. Make plenty in case you have to overthrow the government.
Commodery. Get your big mixing bowl, the one you use for potato salad on the Fourth of July. Now get your gallon-size baggies and some heavy-duty rubber bands. You put a baggie in the bowl, use a rubber band around the rim to secure the baggie, and you've got yourself an alternative toilet. Portable, too.
Bonus: Once you've made use of your new invention, you can take the rubber band, seal the baggie, head for the roof, take aim at one of the rioting nitwits setting fire to your house, and let ’er fly. It'll be like having two Halloweens (or Super Bowl riots) in one year.
Security. This is probably a good time to talk about self-protection, seeing as how those folks you just nailed with a Montezuma water balloon are not going to be happy with you, and since they were already trying to torch your house you know it doesn't take much to set ’em off.
You don't need a gun. Everybody's going to have a gun. A gun'll be worth about as much as a ruble in Russia. You need something that'll make you stand out, fear-wise. Bus in one of your crazy relatives. Not just irritating, but one who's truly insane. We've all got ’em.
Excessive body hair is a plus here, especially if it's a woman. Just push her out the front door and–gun or no gun–anyone coming after you is going to move on to the next house. There's nothing like a raving lunatic to really freak people out. Of course, it'll mean putting in an extra dog run for Aunt Etta, but that's a small price to pay for security, my friend.
Water. You don't have to buy nobody's de-stilled, de-chlorinated, de-cootied water. There's nothing wrong with what's coming out of your tap. Just fill your bathtub sometime before midnight and don't give it another thought.
Wait, back up a second here. You do need to give that tub a good scrubbing before you fill it up. For one thing, there's your presentation aspect, which means you don't want black hairs and mystery suds floating on top of the water your New Year's Eve guests will be using as a moonshine mixer; it just isn't appetizing.
For another thing, I believe I remember seeing an article about human hairs + water = botulism. Or cholera. Whatever. Both of them will land you with your head in the potato-salad bowl by the time the clock strikes 12, and if the rubber band slips you're looking at potential asphyxiation, depending on your calmness factor. Not a good way to launch the next 365, I'll tell you what. So get that bathtub slick and clean before you reservoir-ize it.
Food. There are people who are willing to sell you dehydrated roadkill if you're willing to buy it. The thing is, you can dehydrate roadkill yourself and save, save, save. You have two options: Either run over something that's still moving, or scout the roadside for prekilleds (although you can't beat freshness).
Once you've made sure whatever it is is dead, skin and gut it. Then salt the parts and stick ’em on a cookie sheet in a 150-degree oven for a day or two or until the house stops smelling gamey. Voilà: You have a food cache. Double voilà: It's a food cache and a party game. "Great jerky! Hey, what's this little bone?"
Start hunting early, though, before cars are swerving all over the highway in search of that something special for New Year's Day breakfast.
Power. Power? You don't need no stinkin' power. You got your cocktails, your money, your portable toilet, your water, your, uh, food. If you're absolutely compulsive about having a little electricity, you could hook up a hamster-wheel contraption and get some juice off Aunt Etta's nutzoid adrenaline (or Uncle Bob's or Cousin Eulene's, or whoever you brought in as a security buffer).
If you have to, I suppose you could break down on this one point and buy a generator, but in my opinion, that would be a big mistake. You really want to have the only house on your blacked-out block that's blazing with lights? The neighbors won't just come one by one this time. They'll come in herds like the zombie undead, arms stretched out and walking all stiff-legged. You counting on Aunt Etta to scare off that group? I don't think so.
Locusts. I've left this for last because locusts are one part of Y2K the government doesn't want you to know about. I hear there are going to be swarms of them, and I have no idea how to combat the pesky critters. "Ha!" you say. "What are locusts going to do to me?" "Ha!" I say. "Ask a Mormon."
Whoa–brainstorm: Mormons. Scout out the Mormons in your area, just in case you run low on your mowed-down bounty. Mormons always have tons of food. They have to; somehow, they got the whole deal worked out so it's part of their religion to stash at least 10 years worth in the basement.
And they're generally real nice people. Kinda clannish, though. Maybe you could start growing sideburns and get yourself a black hat so they'll think you're one of them. Hold on; I think it's Amish people who look like that. Or is it those Jewish folks in New York with the bags of diamonds? Shoot, I don't know. I can't figure out every little thing for you.
All right, then, that's about it. Everything you need to know in order to be ready for the big day, and you're basically out no money getting there from here. If you have any questions, ask a survivalist, get creative, or get drunker. Just don't call me; I'll be out shopping for a short-wave radio, canned food, and bottled water. Æ
Chris Decker will be changing his name to 204382.029830 in 2000.