You Think There Are Fights Over Who Cleans the Cat Box NOW...

I go places. I do things. I listen as often as possible and I interrupt far less than I used to. It’s a pleasure, being out and amongst the peoples, not to mention that it is the field from whence I glean any number of perplexing ideas not my own.
And just the other day a conversation with my friend Sarah revealed something I had not previously considered.
She told me, over ice water (her) and a pale ale (me) that one of the men at her Condo Board Association Meeting last week wanted everyone to know that he had 40 fifty-pound bags of kitty litter in storage.
You know. For 2015, when “it all goes down” and the water is no longer running.
For “waste management”, as he put it.
Let us now pause and consider the Condo Board Association on their way to the litter box, newspaper tucked under their arms.
“’Mornin’, George.”

“’Mornin’, Ralph.”
You know, it’s a question I hadn’t previously considered, but now that I have, I have my concerns.
Just where will us city folk poop when The End comes and the facilities of the porcelain variety become elaborate and impractical kitty-litter holders?
It does give one pause.
Not that I consider The End much. There was, of course, the Millennium, the misnamed year that was to see the computers unable to digest the numbers “00” and send us back to a simpler, more kitty-litter-free time. People I thought I knew bought guns, ammunition, and sought real estate with defendable hilltops, while I personally bemoaned the upcoming loss of summer-time ice.
It’s not that I don’t believe that the End is Near. For some, it is; and for me? Well, it certainly could be. Of this I remain unaware, which is as I like it.
Until then, I shall continue to go places and do things.
Because there’s a lot of funny ideas out there.