Can't Wait for Tomorrow to End, part II OR, It's OK, There's Enough Whipped Cream Left.

Well, we have survived.  Minor damage to the premesis, all repairable with a vacuum cleaner. 

The End began yesterday.  Just like a Hollywood disaster movie, the cataclysm started on the other end of the neighborhood and rolled this direction.  Wind was displaced.  Clanging sounds were heard.  Dogs barked.  Fence posts rattled.  Trees bent and debris stirred along the streets.

Then they arrived, each one carrying packs of mischief draped from their 11-year-old frames.  You've heard of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, these were the Seven Packmules of Judgment.  The single most prevalent item in these bags of terror were Airsoft pellets.  A Homeland Security warning was put out against such items; still, they found their way through security.  Preppers, every last one of 'em.  One even conveyed his private stash of Wavy Lays - now that's survivalism.

I thought we had dodged the worst of it for most of the evening.  Our stockpile held out.  The toilet didn't clog, although it appeared that one or two of the survivors made an unauthorized discharge of their poop chute in the executive washroom.  But then, the unexpected.  The Birthday Boy came screaming into headquarters that toilet paper was being flung at our walls.  Upon inspection, a small gang of 6th grade females were seen fleeing in terror, their efforts completely busted.  Some still carried the rolls in their hands; caught brown-handed, I guess you could say.  Others stared, frozen.  One was so bewildered that her shoes flew off.

Our only female, a 9-year-old, who was part of our group was seized with panic and excitement.  She grabbed a broom and held it high against the assault team of other girls.  "Let's get this party started!" she declared, shaking her hips.

Eventually, the zombies were chased off.  Shoes were returned.  The 911 call was rescinded.  The National Guard stood down.  Quiet was rediscovered.  The leadership of the band of survivors prepared for rest.

Then the giant 14-year-old arrived, having temporarily joined another camp.  He trudged into headquarters and collapsed on to the carpet.  "Dad, you're carpet's so comfortable..." and trailed off to sleep.  Not wanting to awake the monster, I left him as I was when I retired.  Lights out, however, I could not fall asleep in spite of my exhaustion.  His zombie force wheezed in and out of his greasy mouth and nose, making a maddening guttural sound.  I decided I had to risk it.  I gently roused the beast and directed him to the light, down the hall where other creatures of the night had gathered.  There were no repercussions, fortunately.

The next thing I remember was looking at the clock and seeing 6 am.  The sounds across the premesis were identical to those I heard the last time I saw the clock, when it read 11:42.  I gave them an hour, and just as I predicted, Birthday Boy came in and asked when the pancakes would be ready.  There was no, "I can't believe we survived the End of the World, Dad, I love you.  Thanks for giving me NCAA 2013; we're gonna make it through this 'cause we're men."  There was only, "Don't worry we have enough whip cream left for breakfast, so get up and start cooking."

Normalcy had returned.  I have lived to tell this.