The other day I’m driving to work after some pretty serious diarrhea (How’s that for an opening? Eat your heart out Hemmingway.) and played my favorite game: what’s the worst that could happen? Obvious answer. I poop myself.
The diarrhea seeps into the seats tainting the trusty Toyota making it impossible to turn in when our lease is up. Stuck with a stinky compact car I have to live through yet another Minnesota winter without four-wheel drive and will likely crash and become disfigured during the first snow fall. Bummer.
The night before I got married my husband left the rehearsal dinner with a terrible migraine. Before going to bed I made some changes to the seating chart since the next day’s reception would be a wake celebrating the life of my darling as he succumbed to brain cancer in less than 24 hours.
For the nine months of my first pregnancy I planned on delivering the baby myself once the grid went down and we were on the run from our neighbors turned zombies.
Of course none of this happens until you don’t think about it. Like with my second pregnancy when I cruised along all cocky until I accidentally gave birth at my house. I suppose it could have been worse. There were no zombies.
Now there is so much that could go terribly terribly wrong. What’s probably going to happen is a civil war after the media, internet, and all communication is completely seized and run by the White House.
Tanks roll into Minnesota once peace talks in the Wisconsin Dells fail. Armed militia in giant foam cheese hats flood the streets.
My husband bravely joins his country-men to defend the sacred mega mall. He dies heroically at the battle of the third-floor Foot Locker.
Devastated, I have no choice but to forge ahead for the sake of my children and my asshole cat, who of course, is still alive. We fit whatever we can into the Toyota Corolla and head even more North.
The drive is slow moving and dangerous. Twice we are attacked by land pirates. We are spared as no one wants a Toyota Corolla that smells like diarrhea. During one attack they were going to take the cat for food. But we were not that lucky.
We make it to the Canadian border in a mass of starving snowflakes. Justin Trudeau is at the gates handing out hot chocolate and his personal email address. From across the masses of polite Minnesotans being rescued by politer Canadians, our eyes meet. An instant connection. I mouth the words “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for every failed summit. For every embarrassing tweet. For not doing more to stop the rise of a reality TV Dictator.
He grabs my hands and with the voice of an angel responds “It’s not your fault.”
I am surprised that I can love again so quickly, but it’s Justin Trudeau so….
We move into the castle and the children flourish. They quickly learn to speak Canadian. I am a reluctant but compassionate Princess. We keep caribou as pets and I help write legislation requiring drinking fountains to dispense La Croix. Life is wonderful and the horror of the time America tried to make itself great again, is behind us.
Until Secretary of State Dennis Rodman brokers a deal with Putin. They put the broken United States back together again and unveil “New Russia.” Trump, who has been dead for years but occasionally gets rolled out to do a C+ “Weekend at Bernie’s” bit needs to divert attention from Melania’s most recent disappearance and facelift. His puppet masters start a nuclear war. Not believing in science, they didn’t realize the non-blown up parts of the world are also doomed.
Nuclear winter encompasses the scorched earth leaving survivors in a radio-active land of raining ash and barren fields. Once the stock piles of canned goods and beef jerky are depleted, we are left with no choice but to hunt and eat each other.
Justin, an excellent marksman, only brings home the bodies of white supremacists. We continue to brave each day for the sake of our children, the asshole cat, and the people of my great adopted homeland. But I just can’t get over the taste of Canadian flesh. I don’t know if it’s the texture, weird shape, or just the flavor. I much prefer American bodies, but those are a rare delicacy.
And that is the worst that could happen.