It’s cold here. Too cold. Frigid as a nun with a hormone imbalance. I don’t like it. The wolves are near. I hear them howling in the night. Scuttling about my door. Oh, they think they’re smart. Smarter than me. But I know they think that. And I bet they don’t know that I know. Therefore I win. I will eat a wolf soon.
My nearest neighbor, I suspect, is dead. I see the house from my back porch, a ways down in the valley there. There has been no movement in days. I know because I watch. Constantly. With binoculars. It’s not what you think. I just want to see some nudity. But there has been none lately. Paul, I assume his name is, has had no lady callers. No callers of any kind. I fear the wolves got him. Perhaps the lady callers will just move on to the next house and I will soon have bosoms. If so, I shall not eat that wolf. I shall thank him and put out a bowl of stew for him.
This winter has come on like an Irish hooker at last call – abusive and full throttle. If I’d had more time to prepare, I would have done things differently. Stockpiled comedy articles. Filled my cupboards with hilarious tweets and the odd Facebook update. Ahh, how I hate Facebook.
And now I expect this will be my tomb. I will die here this winter. In this wasteland of cold. Weather? Who asked for it? Some asshole like Al Gore. Him and his global warming. I’m not warm, Al. My testicles have a thin sheet of ice on them and they’re firmly affixed to my thigh.
I see other websites pulling through, trying their best. The Onion. The poor, poor Onion. Onions can’t last the winter, you know. BroBible? We have no time for religion in this wasteland. Amazon? The river is frozen. And there aren’t enough of those shitty drones to airlift everyone to safety. No, we’re pretty much done here. Just us and the wolves. And maybe a Yeti. Christ, I never even thought of the Yeti.
I may die here at my computer being sexually assaulted by the Yeti. And then, my somewhat stretched and gaping corpse will be eaten by wolves. And no one will know until the great thaw. And it probably won’t even trend on Twitter. Holy Taco’s Ian Fortey sexed to Death by Yeti. Not even on Gawker. Not even on Reddit.
After the thaw, when the new mankind arises, their archaeologists will find me there, bent over my laptop, a befuddled expression on my half eaten face. It will be tragic indeed. They will pick over the scattered detritus of my existence and try to puzzle out what happened. Was I some kind of Yeti gigolo who succumbed to his final client? Was I a computer thief who had broken into this Yeti’s home only to face harsh, yeti sex justice before the deep freeze left me permanently caught in the midst of my crime.
Will my words be remembered? Will cyber archaeologists be able to refine these thoughts from the remains of what we once called the internet? Or will I just be that guy who got porked to death in the snow? Ahh. Who knows what the future holds.