See the circle? That’s Fillmore South, so I may well be dead from Zika, or have my face eaten, or be gobbled by an alligator, or T-boned in an intersection by a douchebag in a BMW or an old Jew in a Lexus (they are equally poor drivers), or shot by a maniac because everyone down here is a maniac with a gun; I will not be affected by the hurricane, which is named Harambe.
In case you’re in the storm’s path, well: better you than me. Here are tips on surviving the hurricane:
Be prepared.
Purchase all the bread, batteries, and handguns you can afford, then use the handguns to procure more bread and batteries, and also get the money back that you spent on the handguns and the first batch of bread and batteries. Fill up your bathtubs with water, and some jasmine: hurricanes are stressful.
Wait it out.
Do not travel during a hurricane, unless you’re LeBron James, and then the refs will never call it. Curfews and stay-at-home rules will most likely be in effect, so ask yourself if you’re in the company of people you can avoid murdering for twelve hours or so. Do not take a selfie with the hurricane.
Strengthen your house.
Pre-break all the windows in your home, and while you’re at it, throw the pets off a bridge. If you live in a tiny house, then you should put your house in a real house, or in the garage of a real house. Set your lawn on fire, just in case.
Hunker down.
Farther. More. Right there: good hunkering.
The aftermath.
You must be ready for anything after a hurricane, so you should already have both a Trump bumper sticker and a movie poster from Madea Fucks Up Thanksgiving Again. This way, no matter who has won the inevitable post-hurricane race war, you will be allowed to live.
Good luck, everybody.
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