on dead stock and the zombie apocalypse

of course, of course I was wrong

My wife came into the basement today at the perfect time.

I bent down to sweep up a massive pile of shop floor bullshit. She came in to check on one of her stashes.

This is my cold, dirty whittling space. It’s where I keep the woodpile and the tools and the chainsaw and all the stuff I like.

It has stashes.

I think we’re overstuffed with stashes. She thinks we’re prepared.

Of course.

Of course I was wrong.

She has stashes all over the house. In this room alone I can count no less than five sashes. The tee vee and video game room has so many stashes you’d think it was a moustache party. There are fuzzy stashes everywhere!

What about the zombie apocalypse? We’ll be ready. We’ll be at the peak of 2018 fa-shon.

She tries to convince me that I won’t be voted off the island first. I know what a pain in the arse I am to live with. I know I’m zombie food if I don’t comply.

I tolerate the in-process security blankets that occupy every flat soft surface in the house. That’s a macro satash.

Then there…