Photo by oregonmildep
Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:
My great aunt recently died and left me her antique armoire, the same armoire that my sister had always commented on and pretty much coveted from the time she was old enough to care about such things. I told her she could have it but no, no, she said, Berta left it to me, all’s fair, right? Wrong. I can’t prove it but I swear the small but deep scratch in the cabinet door wasn’t there before the last time she and her family were over. I’m not saying it was her because she could have bribed one of her ingrate kids to do it. But I don’t know what to do. Should I confront her about it or just pay to have it fixed and never speak to her again?
CONFLICTED
Dear Conflicted:
When the Earth’s core temperature reaches 12,000 degrees Fahrenheit, dismantling the magnetic field and leaving the planet exposed to the Sun’s unfiltered radiation, the oceans will evaporate and the reserves of boiling oil beneath the crust will explode to the surface. Those still alive to see the great lakes of petroleum aflame will sing briefly of their vicious beauty.
Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:
My mom is soooo annoying!! I just know that when she dies she’s going to hell and somebody’s going to be standing over her shoulder like every second reading her text messages and saying who’s Evan? what’s that mean? why don’t I ever get the emoticon with the winky face?
4COL
Dear 4COL:
For the next century the few scabby but callused survivors and their descendents will tread ground as brittle as the graham cracker pie crust from the days of yore. They will search for a new water source with which to impregnate the stagnant soil. In the meantime they will learn to eat ash and wear clothes made of bone and hope.
Dear Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia:
Apparently it’s not common knowledge in today’s society that you don’t just plop yourself and your g.d. Macy’s bag in the middle of the escalator. If spending the day shopping for a juicer you’ll never use turns you into a mouth-breathing lunk, park it off to the right so the rest of us who aren’t slaves to automation can move past you on the left. Do you think it’s better to start a petition to change state law and require all public escalators have the rules posted, or should I just post them myself and write off the expenses on my taxes?
ESCALATING
Dear Escalating:
1,ooo years after the core and crust fires have erased the old, a new civilization is born. People are divided into colony-pods based on smell and ruled over by a tyrannical elite odorless class. A brighter future soon looms, however, when a headstrong young heroine from Mentholated Lint and a delinquent young buck from Forgotten Broccoli embark on a perilous search of the outer wastelands for the Missing Stink: the one entity that could unite the tribes and lead them in rising up against their scentless masters.
Dear Mr. Post-Apocalyptic Distopia. Or are you a Mrs. or Ms.?
How do I stop all these spiders? They’re all over me!
My name is DANE, I tell you!
Hi Dane, I’ve relayed your message to the (genderless) Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia. It’s response: “The Great Un-Cleaving ceremony for the girl from Mentholated Lint and the boy from Forgotten Broccoli ended in the spitting out of the overlords’ ansomia elixir and making haste on their mongoose-sleds for the Wastelands.”
Good luck with those spiders!
Dear PAD,
My mother’s sister, Aunt Minnie, is coming to visit next month and I don’t know what to do. Aunt Minnie has these long hairs that come out of her ears and she always wants to hug me and when she does, those ear hairs tickle my nose. One even went in my mouth once. It creeps me out so bad I just want to throw up. I don’t want to be rude, but how can I ask that she pluck her ears without offending her?
Hi Tim, wow, ear hairs in your mouth! Not cool, Aunt Minnie. Even Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia shuddered before offering this response: “They bring 40-50 mongoose on their journey, and not only because it takes that many to pull their sleds across the Wastelands. The only other sustenance out there is the fecal worm, and really once you’ve wiped it clean of its viscous coating there isn’t much left. So it’s roast mongoose every night, yet the boy still hasn’t learned how to eat around the bones. The girl has saved him twice now from choking to death; there will not be a third time.”
Mr. Dystopia-
I saw your movie and it doesn’t compete with mine because yours is not based on my favorite book. When the world ends, your roving horde of clothespin collecting oafs will be washed away by the gout of Arrowhead I have ordered from the big box store in the sky and don’t give me that crap about Aquafina because it is nowhere in my favorite book. Now, my question for you is: In your sorry ass version of “The Truth”, what am I supposed to do with my reams of spotless, polka-dotted taffeta?
No- ahhhhhhh
Mr. Crowe, you seem to have multiple issues; unfortunately Post-Apocalyptic Dystopia can only respond to one. So, here’s it’s response to your taffeta problem: “When the poison rain fell on their camp the headstrong girl and delinquent boy had no choice but to huddle together under the tarp they’d made out of mongoose skin. As the carcass-cover slowly liquified and turned gaseous, the girl realized that apart from the searing damage it did to her skin the smell was more pleasant than forgotten broccoli.”
You glorious weirdo.
Oh, okay, thanks.
R. Crowe
I am moonlighting. Don’t tell the missus.