Thread by @angryseattle

Here’s a #snowpocalypse2019 thread from the near future.

Day 54: life in the city of Seattle Snowtundra is starting to come apart.

As the coffee shops run out of beans and the co-ops run out of kombucha, people are turning to creative ways to subsist.

Bob down the street from me has a stash of ground 5-year-old Folgers. He’s only told me and one other person about it.

It tastes like fermented shoe leather mixed with manure, but he drinks it, mostly to remind him of what life was like before the Big Snow.

Another couple a few blocks over is trying to make more La Croix by sticking a can in the ground.

I don’t want to break the news to them.

One can dream, I suppose.

The forecast calls for 1-2 feet of snow tomorrow, followed by another 6 inches the next day.

So, pretty typical.

The neighborhood factions are starting to exert their power. Each one is trying to take over more land. And each has their own strategy.

The Queen Anne Queens is using SUVs driven carelessly into a circle, like wagons from the pioneering days. They then take yoga pants and spin them over their heads to throw rocks. It’s more effective than you think.

Meanwhile, the Georgetown Grunts have modified their motorcycles to shoot flames and play obscure, bad punk rock.

It’s hilarious and terrifying.

The Seattle Center Space Cowboys have enlisted the help of Blue Origin to try and modify the Space Needle into an actual space craft.

I think the Blue Origin people are just in it so they can eventually eat the Space Cowboys.

There are some people on Capitol Hill that are melting down the statue of Jimi Hendrix and plan to recast it as a statue of Rogor, the ancient god of snow.

Maybe it will placate him. Maybe not.

As for me? I’m part of no faction. I just strap on my skis and head out each day, scavenging what I can from the abandoned farmer’s markets and community centers.

And hoping, just hoping that we will eventually get a little relief.

A little time above freezing.

A little return to normalcy.

But for now, time for another glass of whiskey as I look out across the frozen urbanscape, wondering when Bob is finally going to puke from all that Folgers.