LIFEBOAT

We were cruising along, as we had for what it seems like forever, on the massive good ship S.S. Civilization, the culmination of countless generations of technology and knowledge.

Bobby McFerrin’s “Be Happy” playing over the loudspeakers, over the all-you-can-eat buffets.

Then bingo.

We’re in this crappy little lifeboat.

What happened?

Cruisers aren’t losers!

But all of the sudden, we’re sharing too little food and too little water with too many people.. . . the plastic surgery influencer blond, with millions of followers, the guys from the engine room who don’t speak English and the idiot from the owner’s suite who claims he’s building a rocket to fly us all to Mars!

Our room steward, Mahatma is here. He’s OK. Nobody can fold a washcloth into a swan like Mahatma and he always gave me an extra pillow candy every night. Who knew he had a doctorate from MIT?

But the shit. On the big ship, it just went away. What did we look like, sanitary engineers? We were on vacation for God’s sake. Now you throw the shit over the side of the lifeboat and the next wave just sweeps it right back into your face.

And then there are the scared people. Scared people will believe almost anything. A combover idiot was trying to tell us that we really didn’t sink. That it was just some wild crazy plot by the guys in the engine room who were eating babies and sacrificing virgins.

He wasn’t rowing, so we threw him overboard.

But it still seems there isn’t enough to go around.

Except for the booze and drugs of course. We’ll run out of food and water way before we do booze and drugs. Which is a good thing because familiarity does indeed breed contempt.

All of a sudden, it’s all “us or them”. Everyone for themselves. Appropriate in an all-you-can-eat buffet line but dangerous in a lifeboat.

Then there’s disease. One cough could kill us all.

Of course, there is a bright side.

All of us with a 30-year mortgage or a student loan are feeling pretty damned smart right now.

And everyone over 60 knew their best cruising days were over anyway. So even if they’re the first ones thrown overboard or eaten, they’ll go with fond memories of the all-you-can-eat buffet.

And while we row, we can’t help but giggle about all the times we spent worrying about the future. Will we have enough for retirement? Will our child marry a loser?

Now it’s, “What future?”

And, at least, we will have gotten our last damn annoying robo text.

Plus, someone gets to be the last man standing.

Literally.

And it might have as well be me. All liquored up, clutching my washcloth swan, stuffed to bursting, after an all you can eat buffet of influencer blond, picking the plastic out of my teeth, popping just one more OD inducing fentanyl filled, pillow candy into my mouth.

Bon Voyage, losers.