Patrick Miller. Patrick FUCKING Miller. Were you happy when your little snacky guide got picked up by all of the survival enthusiasts? Funny little joke for everyone trying to seriously survive the bombs? Excited about all the mice running to the cheesed trap? Deer to the salt lick? Lambs to the slaughter house? Flies to that light thing they love?
Well you made me feel like all of them. Duped. Swindled. BAMBOOZLED by your velvety words and clever references. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I was a little too late stockpiling food. Thankfully no one actually wanted any of the shit you recommended.
And so I got 365 days worth of every. Single. Ingredient. Every single one! And it’s been six months. Let’s take a stroll down the menu, shall we?
I eat this on days that I have to scavenge. It’s high in protein, carbs, and suicide-prevention. Perfect for murdering desperate mutants with a street sign.
I rigged my stationary bike to the toaster and this is the only one I can really prepare easily every day. So I eat it. Every day.
Slightly burnt? Fuck you. The world’s already burnt with the fire of Chinese revenge nukes. I eat mine black. Both sides. Keeps me sharp and cleans my teeth.
Slight revision: I don’t use salt because I have a water ration to consider. I bet your faucets still worked when you thought up this little gem. Ass.
I gotta hand it to you, Miller. I loved this shit. It was like crack wrapped in the stench of Delhi. You may have accidentally saved the last piece of Indian culture in the hundreds of these tiny-ass packets. I ate it every night for three months.
Until the coil on my rice cooker failed me. Then my stove short-circuited along with the walk-in fridge. Someone’s torso clogged the exhaust vent for my generators. Almost blew the place sky-high.
Now I know what a thousand slowly-rotting eggs smells like.
Every so often I’ll get desperate and rip open a packet, just to remember the taste. The warm, supple rice, the rich depth of flavor. After the second mouthful, I can’t handle it and I have to blow my water ration washing everything down before enduring the razorblade-like shits of raw rice grains.
The good news? It was on sale.
The bad news? MY FRIDGE BROKE SEE ABOVE CRITICISM WHY DOES SO MUCH OF YOUR SHIT REQUIRE ELECTRICITY THE GRID DOESN’T WORK IN AMERICAN HELL DIDN’T YOU GET THE MEMO WHEN A BOMB DROPPED ON YOUR FUCKING HEAD?!
Coconut was the only flavor left. I drink it with every meal to save on water. Since it tastes like sunscreen I pretend that it’s keeping my insides from tumoring. Every time I open a can my taste buds numb themselves on instinct. I take my anti-radiation meds at the same time so I don’t have to taste the charcoal.
You ever try shotgunning one? My fastest time is .1 seconds. Bet you can’t beat it.
My best friend’s family started stockpiling this shit and they taught me how to keep it from going bad. I figured I’d fuck something up and throw the entire batch to the corpses in about a week.
Boy was I wrong. I haven’t thrown a single leaf out. At first I thought it smelled. Now it’s my air freshener. The eggs went, the yogurt followed.
My mattress got moldy, so I restuffed my bed with the vacuum-sealed bags.
When the eggs went bad, I rubbed it on the walls to mask the smell.
It drives away the mutants, stings their nostrils. I wear a wreath of it when I go out.
Everything else rotted away. But not that fermented cabbage. You could say that it’s my best friend.
Kimchi saved my life. The rest of it sucks.
When he isn’t critically reviewing Patrick’s choice in snacks through character satire, Steve enjoys planning for the zombie apocalypse through TV, movies, and video games.
You can send him your favorite plans for the apocalypse @Jawsthemusical_ on Twitter.