We closed the blinds, locked the doors, and hid in the bunker. We turned off the TV and the Internet to keep Skynet and doomsday asteroids from discovering us. We protected our precious brains from apocalyptic Mayan cosmic alien rays.
To stop anybody from breaking ranks and running outside, screaming, “I can’t take it anymore,” we played games. This somehow resulted in (a) the Husband portraying Angela Merkel through pantomime and (b) me re-enacting Boromir’s death scene in The Fellowship of the Ring. We told tales about what happens when you venture from the house during a disaster: “The power was still out and no buses were running in Brooklyn, so we walked to the only place that was open. Inside… my God. It was full of deep hipsters. A French Canadian band was playing. And people were line dancing with dogs.”*
We tested the best method of precious-brain protection.
To quote the Son-in-law: “Some use pans. Some use Panettone.”
We watched 2012 — which, even with John Cusack and Woody Harrelson, is a disaster. Finally, we ran out of ham.
So tell me: Is it safe to come out now?
*Actual verbatim transcript.