We all have one within our circle of extended family and friends.
We’ll call him “Noah.” He is the modern day cowboy expecting and preparing for a worldwide end-times cataclysmic event of epic proportions. An event similar to what happened in the ancient “days of Noah.” Noah’s not scared though. He fully expects to escape the coming tribulation with pickled food, an embarrassment of generators, and thousands of rounds of military ammo.
He is a man of old school MacGyver-esque type sensibilities which include breeding goats, building raging fires, and blowing up stuff with homemade mortars.
I envy Noah a bit.
My very limited talents include teaching math, coaching football, and writing semi-intelligently about subjects I actually know very little about. But when the second Great Depression hits and people start eating each other again, screw all that: I want to be on Noah’s team.
Tangible survival skill will rule that day, not inane activities like introspection and art.
Noah has got a backup for everything. If his flashlight goes out he’s got a backup one in his back pocket. If the back pocket backup flashlight goes out, you don’t even want to know where he keeps the backup to the backup back pocket flashlight.
Noah is hardcore.
You better identify your respective Noah before it’s too late. Because in time, everyone will come to grips with that chilling realization that rushes over the body like a winter wave:
I’m not prepared for a zombie apocalypse
I mean I do have a months supply of freeze-dried astronaut food left over from a failed diet program. I also have a 12 gauge shotgun I haven’t shot since I was seventeen and a couple of sharpened shovels in my possession. But when it hits the fan, those limited resources are not going to keep the chaos in the streets from spilling into my house in less than two weeks.
But thank goodness for Noah.
He saw all of it coming eons ago. And all of it will probably come together for you in one surreal watershed moment. As you huddle together in Noah’s tornado shelter gripping one of his M3’s in one hand and the hand of your night-gown clad great-aunt in the other, you’ll say:
Now I know why he needed all these unregistered machine guns that shell out 1200 rounds a minute.
Now I know why he needed nine deep freezers stockpiled with enough deer and goat meat to feed the Duggars for two whole days.
Now I know why he stopped investing in stocks and bonds and started stockpiling gold and guns.
No, we’re not ready for the zombie apocalypse right now…but we can be with Noah.
So reader, I implore you: Find your Noah. Before it’s too late. Before you find yourself in a stale security sweat box with a capacity of 12 yet holding 21 of your closest family, friends, neighbors and house pets. Out of nowhere a heart wrenching dilemma will present itself to you: You’re aunt is having feverish chills and developing a catatonic stare. And now you’re gonna have to figure out how to take care of that strange oozy bite on her upper thigh in the most bloodless, humane, fatal way possible.
What will you do?
What would Noah do?
Find your Noah.