I personally am probably going to douse myself with lighter fluid, set myself on fire, and throw myself from our balcony. I am sure as shit not going to sit around and wait for 20 inches of snow to hit and try to survive that calamity. What if all the snow catches on fire and the whole city burns to the ground as everyone writhes in skin-melting pain? What if the snow crushes everyone to death under it's own weight? What if all the stores run out of provisions and we have to survive for 8 hours on the food that is already in our homes? I'm not eating the canned fucking beans! Who the fuck could survive on that? What if the snows starts stabbing people to death? Did you fucking think of that? Did you? Listen, a large snowfall total is nothing to sit around and wait for with your thumb up your ass and your mouth agape like some kind of obese West Virginian. An impending snowstorm is time to get your fucking ass to the grocery store and start fighting over provisions that you've never used before in your life, with little old women who are convinced that FDR is going to have to send a platoon of Public Works Administration workers to your house in May when the snow melts to retrieve all the dead bodies. It is time. To fucking. Panic. All the food you usually eat day-in, day-out, and is currently residing in your fridge and pantry.....that shit ain't gonna fly if there is more than a foot of snow on the ground. You simply cannot eat a chicken breast with rice pilaf and broccoli during inclimate winter weather. You need milk, you need flour, you need bread, and you better fucking believe you need eggs. Lots of eggs. If necessary elbow someone in the head if they attempt to take the last of the eggs. While waiting for the bus this morning next to Dominick's, I saw some of the local crack head alcoholics (that is what we call a "dual threat") stocking up on extra 22oz pounders of Steel Reserve and cigarettes. And I don't blame them. You cannot sit around your snowed-in Chicago Housing Authority hovel, sobering up, waiting for the city to pay Mexicans to shovel a path over to Robbie the Rock-Dealer's house. You've got to maintain a buzz somehow. Those are the planners and the survivors. I don't have the fortitude for that. You are going to find me, when all this snow melts, in the corner of my condo rocking back and forth crying in a pool of my own excrement.
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