Friday, March 28, 2003

Okay, this one has been bothering me for awhile, but it flits in and out at just those moments when I think I've got it pinned down, and might commit it to the nowehere... so before it makes way again, here it is:

How is it, that in post-apocalyptic visions of all kinds, when man has raised his hand in anger, and set loose whatever variety of weapon of mass destruction upon his fellow man, that those people, those strong, or willing, or unlucky enough to survive the home-brewed armageddon: are always riding horses? I mean, seriously.

Did I forget to read somewhere that nuclear/biological/chemical weapons don't kill horses? Crows and raccoons might make it, as they can subsist on diets of old sandwich wrappers and whatever else might be blowing down a deserted street at any given moment... but horses? They eat hay and oats and walk around in pastures. I'm thinking not likely, ya know? They seldom-- and by they I am now referring ot the "survivors" of whatever comet or celestial body that killed most everyone else-- drive in cars or ride all terrain vehicles, despite the fact that there would still be tons of those things lying around, many in excellent condition when compared to say, humanity, but seemingly the only people who dare to drive after the "big one" are "bad guys"... too many quote-as-identifier uses? Oh well.

Is it because they're afraid of ruining the environment? Perhaps nuclear struggle makes people Amish. Nah, I can't imagine the Peoples of the Wasteland churning their own raccoon butter out of concern for the "new" (look, another one) environment. We're too into our machines. At least the people of the Terminator-envisioned post-apocalyptic wasteland future didn't all decide to ride horses and live in huts-- they still had LCD screens and Chevy pickups. Which somehow actually makes me feel better.

I'm just frightened by the idea that whatever comes, if it's bad enough to wipe out those people that make a continual effort to keep us down, "the Man" as it were, and we're all cut free of the shackles of work and other involuntary confinements, that we'll all for some reason go all Henry David and run out into the woods (if there are indeed woods) with shovels in hand to dig our own root cellars and fight and subdue the mutagenic raccoons, so that we may drink their milk and track our progress in leather bound journals with quill pens, because all of the ballpoint pens will have been detroyed in the conflagration.

I'll stick to a laptop that I've converted to run on ambient radiation, and try to stay in the shade, because the rain stings and the same thing that runs my computer makes my skin kinda rosy and painful to the touch. But I'll not turn down that milk if you should offer me any.

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