Beauty is Imperfection

(Originally posted Thursday, October 18, 2007)

Minutes From The Post-Apocalyptic Desert Community Conference, 2024

Greetings fellow tent dwellers. As president of your post-apocalyptic desert tent city, I welcome you to this year’s 2nd Annual Confab. I’m sure a lot of canned dog food will be eaten and lots of salty stories told. I see that some of the kids in the audience have lost their baby teeth since last year. Let’s hope some adult teeth grow in soon … and by that I mean, grow in ever! Huh? Can I get a laugh? I’m just teasin’ there.

Now, a few of you have sent in some comment cards. I have them written down on sheepskin vellum. Now don’t go asking me where the sheep is. Of course it was eaten a long time ago. And by the looks of Ed over there with his 20 inch waistline, I think I can tell you where it went. Just kidding about that Ed. However, I’ve got to say, some of the comments I saw this year were a little backward-looking. What I might call “Pre-apocalyptic” in their attitude, if you’ll indulge me. For instance, one of you, I won’t say who, keeps insisting that we should be doing crop rotation instead of living as vagabonds and going from place to place sucking all the methane gas out of old landfills for our speedsters. Some of you even say we should be using solar power for the speedsters. Now, I agree with you guys that solar power was a nifty idea back in the day, but let’s be realistic about what it takes to get a Bedouin desert people poppin’ in the morning. And it ain’t the unforgiving sun, amigos. It’s oil and gas. Pure and simple. That’s our lifeblood. You back-to-nature types might consider for a minute that nature’s keeping score with us, and she’s not our friend these days.

Now, also, as you know, the one last fertile female in North America, who I’ll just call Smurfette–just poking a little fun at you there, Barb–has been a little unhappy with the arrangements of having to sleep with all the male members of the tribe, or as she puts it, “Having to whelp a whole new civilization by herself.” Barb, I’m sorry that God gave you humanity’s last pristine eggs and that it was your uterus that was untouched by fallout. But put yourself in my position. I’m trying to keep civil order around here among a lot of sex-starved survivors of nuclear winter. I know it’s a lot to sacrifice to be the mother of a people. But think about the future a little and stop being such a prima donna, Madame Ovary. Morale is low enough.

Okay, now I also see that some of you have gotten a little squeamish about eating the dead. I feel your pain. I myself have eaten more of my former friends than I care to name, and the last time I looked at my driver’s license, my last name wasn’t “Donner.” So I’d ask you to remember that, when it comes to your fine Epicurean experiences, a nuclear holocaust kind of changes the calculus a bit. Just look at the rats running around here. In the old days, they were a nuisance you could chase away. But now they don’t run. They’re suddenly your equals–your competition in a hideous Malthusian game called survival of the fittest. They’re not afraid of you. No, they’re waiting for you to screw the pooch and fall asleep at the wrong time. While you sit out here bitchin’ about eating the dead, Charlie’s in the bush getting stronger. Remember that.

Now some of you have been asking, “Is old Pete going to relinquish control of the tribe this year, end the dictatorship, and reestablish democracy?” C’mon. You know I’m a democratic guy. My father was fairly elected as the mayor of New Haven, Conn., and I might have done that myself, if the city hadn’t been consumed by a vengeful cloud of radioactive bees. True, self-determination in the land of your birth is a value our elders held dear for centuries. But remember, the first order of business is stability. Until we have created the fundamentals of a democratic state–a shared ideology, a self-sustaining industrial base, and a diversified market economy–we’re all going to lick a few boots, starting with mine. So follow for now.

Okay, I saved the hardest question for last: What about the zombies? They’re attacking us with stones and machetes every night and they won’t ever die. Now, I preach love and understanding, but we’re in a holy war for our survival here. That’s why we can’t keep fighting with each other and playing Monday morning quarterback and saying, “You know who started the nuclear Holocaust? It was the Jews!” How do you think that makes Morrie feel? We aren’t Jews or gentiles anymore out here. We’re a hard-charging band of desert bad asses with souped up roadsters, fighting the good fight together. Now what are we going to do to those zombies? Come on now, everybody. What’s our motto? That’s right: “Kill, you rat men. Kill, kill!” Thanks. Have a rockin’ confab and we’ll see you next year.

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