In the middle was a big cauldron that they were stirring, stirring,
And there were trees around that they kept burning, burning.
I asked a toothless man who all these people were and
he said, "The soapmakers, and we are working, working."
So are we all fucked or what?
I mean sure, most of us probably aren't going to die. Most of us probably won't even get very sick. Still, it's hard to shake the feeling that in a matter of weeks we'll all be medieval peasants - either toiling in fields with donkeys that have all manner of clattering pots and pans strapped to them or dead and buried in unmarked mass graves. At least we're hotter than the original breed of diseased medieval waifs, or at least most of us are.
It seems that it is critical at times like these to make sure to panic as much as possible. Really just go hog wild and get it all out of your system. Make flagrantly irrational shopping choices and strain all of the parts of the global supply chain that really haven't been pressure tested for this kind of thing to the breaking point because, honestly, a toilet paper shortage is never actually conceivable until we all turn into idiots lumbering around grocery stores like panicked cows.
Alas, I've trapped myself in my Emergency Command Bunker - which is normally reserved for elections and any time we're landing something on Mars - with enough nonperishables and toiletries for a siege, enough fruit and vegetables to watch rotting away for weeks of entertainment, and enough booze and cigars to live out my own delusional Prince Prospero fantasy.
Wash your hands and stop touching your face and remember that mo End of Days is complete without a good soundtrack, so enjoy.
