Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Stuff I'll do if I become Last Man on Earth
I was wondering what I’d do if things take a bad turn and I wind up being the last man on earth, which was the premise of an often-hilarious Will Forte show (2015-’18, Fox) called, duh, “Last Man on Earth.”
That’s how it feels some days. I miss both the refined and the rabble.
Here’s what I’d do assuming certain logistics left the joint reasonably functional and I become LMOE.
It’d be petty and makes zero no sense, I know, but the first thing I’m going to do is go around peeling Trump bumper stickers off all the cars. I’d engage in more political yapping if I believed I could change even one mind, but I don’t believe that’s possible.
So why prioritize removing Trump bumper stickers in a world devoid of all but me?
I have no idea.
I guess it’s just one of those itches that must be scratched.
After that I’m breaking into the library and assembling the old water bed right there by the circulation desk. I’ve always reveled in the cerebral peacefulness of of feeling at home in a good neighborhood library. Might as well take it to its logical extension.
I think I’ll continue to try and blog every other day or so. I’ll do this fully aware there’ll not be a single other person on Earth left to read the stupid thing. But there’ve been entire years when readership statistics made me feel like I was the only person on the planet so what’s the difference?
I’m going to tastefully loot the crap out of my favorite men’s stores, scooping up posh suits and other fine garments by the trunk load. I’ll awaken every morning to a proper grooming and spend the day dressed like a royal dandy.
Why would the last man on earth care how he dressed when there’ll be no one around to admire the finery?
He assumes there will there will still be plenty of mirrors.
I intend to joy ride the Gateway Clipper Majestic up and down Pittsburgh’s three rivers. And by “joy ride” I mean sink. I’m a big Titanic fan and will enjoy recreating scenes from the movie and pretending I care as the waters rise.
I plan on playing a lot of golf at a lot of golf courses like Augusta and Pebble Beach and, depending on the weather and the skeeters, playing naked because, well, why not?
One place I won’t play is Latrobe Country Club. Remember, I’ve been banned from the grounds (me and Ben Roethlisberger!) and I will abide by the ban (see link) until club officials come to their senses and apologize, which given the mortal logistics of sudden global depopulation, I just don’t see happening.
Just for kicks, I’ll head to Canton and the NFL Hall of Fame to do some creative rearranging that’ll emphasize the dominance of the Pittsburgh Steelers over the rest of the league.
Not sure what kind of vandalism will occur, but the bust of O.J. Simpson will not go undisturbed.
One of my happiest experiences in what I’ll call my “crowded life,” was a honeymoon hot air balloon ride over Napa. I intend to take a solo balloon ride and hope I can figure out how to land the contraption before it blows out over the Atlantic.
I’ll run the bases barefoot at Yankee Stadium, bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, and pin the speedometer as I cross the finish line at Indy
Oh, and I plan to learn to speak French so when I talk to myself I’ll at least sound like a friendly stranger.
It’ll be a life so hollow it’ll have an echo all its own.
Maybe it’s getting to me. I miss seeing my friends. Heck, I’m starting to miss seeing my enemies.
It wasn’t uncommon a few short months ago to hear people complain how people can drive you nuts.
Some of us are learning the absence of them can, too.