I Will (Probably Not) Survive
Prepping is the new black, but some people [raises hand shyly] may not be prepared to embrace the trend.
The Internet’s been ablaze lately with stories and speculation about Mark Zuckerberg’s “top-secret underground bunker in Hawaii,” a multimillion-dollar compound so stealth that a Google search for it only returns a scant 2,630,000 results.
It’s no surprise that prepping is having a moment. After all, in case you didn’t get the memo, we’re teetering on the brink of war with someone (China? Russia? Iran? Ourselves? Nobody knows!), there’s constant talk of the very real possibility of the grid going down (which obviously would result in mass chaos, looting, rioting, civil unrest, and at least a temporary halt to Amazon Prime delivery), aliens may or may not have recently descended on a shopping mall in Miami, and our very own government is spraying our skies and our food with deadly chemicals on a daily basis. (I know, the fact-checkers say the last one is false; they also said the lab-leak theory was poppycock and labeled posts containing Pfizer’s own damning Covid vaccine data “missing context,” so if you’re still buying that fact-check BS, I can’t help you.) It’s a scary world out there on the best of all possible days, and a bunch of industrious go-getters are working on an exit plan.
Today’s modern-day preppers boastfully post TikTok videos of their zealous selves raising chickens, hoarding ready-to-eat meals, installing water collection systems, and turning the “pandemic gardens” they started out of lockdown boredom into full-fledged agricultural operations. They share handy tips such as stocking up on mini bottles of booze specifically for bartering (and saving the big jugs for “medicinal use, sanitizing things, to cook with, and when everyone’s on your damned nerves” she’s not wrong) and dole out uplifting words of wisdom like, “Prep, don’t panic!” and “The best time to start was yesterday.”
Well, damn.
Make no mistake: This is not merely a trendy social media thing. It’s everywhere. My own brother has at least a year’s worth of beans, rice, pasta, and other complex carbohydrates (which everyone knows are the devil’s candy because carbs are sugar and sugar feeds cancer and cancer is death but this is an emergency stockpile not a lesson in longevity or leaning down for bikini season) zipped up into Mylar bags and stashed in enormous tubs in his garage. Dozens of them. At Costco the other day, I saw an old guy all alone pushing a cart brimming with nothing but oversized buckets of survival food plus one massive bag of kitty kibble, bless his heart. Dear God no matter how bad things get, Sir, promise me you won’t eat the cat.
My own Costco cart was actually a flat and it was piled remarkably high as well. Not because we’re prepping (although I’m admittedly a bit of a hoarder); simply because the has-it-all warehouse is thirty trafficky minutes from my house, and we eat a lot of cheese. Don’t judge.
But back to the bunkers. It’s not just bored billionaires itchy to impress with shiny new toys only they can afford building or buying them. Companies around the country are peddling low-end (relative to Zuck’s) “safe spaces” that average Joes can bury in their backyards for when *in case* the shit hits the proverbial fan.
These $55K models aren’t quite the luxury hideouts a tech mogul might fancy, mind you. (You’d have to be a magician to squeeze a gym, sauna, hot tub, multiple pools, an elevator, 30 bedrooms (not a typo), and a tennis court into a couple hundred square feet.) They’re bare bones at best, but this isn’t a vacation bunker, okay? This is about survival, and survival ain’t for sissies*.
*unless you’re filthy stinking rich, then you can be a Jason Momoa-size sissy if you want
Texas-based Atlas Survival Shelters pulled in $1.7 million in bunker sales in a single week and insist their phones never stop ringing. Their bugout huts range from 100 square feet to more than 10,000 and will set you back anywhere from $50 grand to five million (also not a typo). At the high end, you’re enjoying stainless steel appliances, a soaking tub, built-in water tanks, and a wine rack which you are definitely going to need. (*Wine sold separately and you better stock up because good luck getting H-E-B to deliver more when you run out and there are 10-foot zombies out roaming the neighborhood.)
As tempted as I may be to put on my prepper panties and deal with the very real possibility of Armageddon, here’s why I won’t be placing an underground bunker order anytime soon:
1. I don’t have $5,000,000 lying around. See, if I did have a subterranean pied-a-terre, I’d want it to be a really nice one. (I’m a Taurus; we can’t help it, we like to be comfortable.) This isn’t a crappy airport hotel I’m going to crash in for five hours while they find a new pilot fit enough to fly me to Phoenix; we’re talking about weeks, possibly months, maybe forever. Even for a weekend, I’m going to need the wine rack. And if I had a spare $50,000, I’d fix a few of the 395 things that need some love on my above ground house and maybe take the family to the Maldives. You know, before they sink. YOLO, right?
2. If you build it, they will come. Can you imagine? The world is plunged into darkness, toxic sludge is raining from the sky, aliens are staring at you though your third-story windows, buildings and trees are literally melting before your eyes. You quickly hustle your kids and your pets into your super-secret backyard bunker and breathe a sigh of relief. You can hear the screams of your neighbors, but you can’t risk opening the door or anything. They’d all want in and then they’d suck up all the air and eat all your freeze-dried turkey jerky and you’d be lucky to live three days. Why should you be punished for being prepared? You tried to tell them. They should have built their own damned bunkers. (Try not to look so smug.)
3. It’s a bunker. I don’t care if it’s half the size of Rhode Island, you’re locked in there with your cranky kids (“We’re hot! We’re cold! Ugh, not powdered potatoes again. What do you mean there’s no Wi-Fi? She’s drinking the last packet of Tang I called it first give me that right this minute I mean it Moooooooooooooom!” OMFG) and your gassy husband or your whiny wife and no air circulation whatsoever. How long do you think you’re going to last before you kick open that 16 gauge cold-rolled steel bulletproof door and run screaming into the radioactive street? Not long enough, I’m guessing.
4. Um, does anybody think about afterwards? Congratulations! You and your family and the world’s population of cockroaches are the lone doomsday survivors. You sure dodged that bullet, you clever dog. Now what? There are no stores, no school, no sports, no bars, no internet, (no internet!), no neighborhood kids to entertain yours with a friendly game of kick the can. It’s just you and an endless stretch of unspeakable carnage. Oh, and the wine is long gone. At least you won’t have to deal with yardwork or the annoying HOA bylaws anymore and you can play your music as loudly as you please (as long as your generator holds up).
5. I wouldn’t make it even if I made it. One quick glance at any prepper’s exhaustive “must have” list tells me that I am not equipped for this. (This one has more bits and bobbles than I currently own and use for everyday life including yarn and knitting needles, and half of the items are a complete mystery to me. But perhaps in a true emergency I’ll know exactly how and when to use a coping saw and a drawshave?) Commonly recommended are clubs, bats, axes, roach bait, powdered milk, safety goggles, manual grain grinders, gas masks, goats, chickens, suture and snake bite kits, and tuna fish. Tuna fish, for crying out loud. I cannot eat tuna fish, you guys. I can’t even smell it without throwing up a little. I am clearly not cut out for catastrophe.
I hope this won’t deter you from building or buying and outfitting your own bunker. If you do, feel free to put me on the guest list. I’ll bring the wine.
p.s. I would sort of hope I wouldn’t have to say this, but after some of the comments on my recent “useless eater” post got decidedly dark, I will: I write to bring humor to the horrors of this insane time we are living in. Can we try to keep this a fun zone, at least a little? If you feel I’m making a series of deadly mistakes and can’t stop yourself from letting me know, try to go easy on me. This is my first Armageddon. And if you think Costco guy should definitely eat the cat, please keep it to yourself.
If you need some reading material for your prep kit, might I suggest The War on Ivermectin?
I have reasoned through all of this as well and wind up in the same place for different reasons. First, find BALANCE. Mental and spiritual preparedness is vital. Humor, is part of the mental.
Folks need to understand that we will all die. Irrefutable fact.
The question has always been: how are you going to spend your time while here.
Nothing has changed. Latching on to fear as an energy source will kill you. They know this. They are masters at this and are sharks.
Do not fall prey to the fear. Go, go build alternative systems but for heaven's sake: find balance and live and enjoy your life!!!!
How am I going to face the next phase of chaos: with a smile and a helping hand.
The cat is more likely to eat the Costco guy. Let's face it