Be Ready When the Sh*t Goes Down( A Survival Guide to the Apocalypse)

by Griffin, Forrest

  Sure, there might be other authors who claim to be able to write a perfect apocalyptic survival guide, but none of them are destined to be a post-apocalyptic leader. This is not a joke—it has already been written. When Forrest was fifteen, his mother informed him that while he was in the womb, she had crazy dreams about him walking over a barren wasteland of a thousand corpses, followed by a group of lost souls. She truly believed that this meant he would lead mankind into a new age. Of course, she told him this after the first Terminator movie had come out, which led him to believe that his mother had trouble deciphering between “dreams” and the “movie she had just seen.”

  He proposed his doubt, but she held fast. (Note to Editor: This actually really pissed me off. I was like, “Mom, why do you have me taking piano lessons then? Why not have me learning something more valuable, like how to be a ninja or a Jedi warrior?” And it wasn’t like I was even good at the piano. The first day, my teacher said, “I can’t rightly take your money because I know for a fact that you will never play the piano.” Maybe my mom kept me going because it was free, I don’t know . . . but you could imagine how humiliating this was for the future post-apocalyptic leader.)

  Unlike John Connor in the Terminator movies, Forrest did not depend on his mother to teach him how to traverse a soiled planet. To prepare himself physically, he joined the secret society of the Webelos (if you read my last New York Times bestseller, then you know I was quickly ejected from this survivalist society for chucking a can of soda pop at my scout master’s head, but we will leave this fact out of this book so that the reader thinks I was a super-badass boy scout).

  To make himself mentally tough, he purposely got rejected by every hot girl in high school and let everyone, including smaller children, severely pummel his face on a regular basis. To train his skin to handle the darkness of a nuclear winter, he spent all his free time in his bedroom with the lights out, listening to Nine Inch Nails and softly weeping to himself.

  When he grew into a man, his mother’s words were not forgotten. He became a police officer and learned how to shoot to kill. And to ready himself for the inevitable day when all the ammunition has been exhausted on roaming bands of marauders, he became a professional fighter and learned how to kill with his mitts. (I know what you’re thinking—really, you became a cop and a fighter solely because you wanted to prepare yourself for the apocalypse? If it’s going to help sell this book for half a million bucks, then yes, it’s a hundred percent true.)

  To complete his training, he teamed up with author Erich Krauss, a survival expert who spent ten years of his life living in the Amazon rainforest and other godforsaken terrain. (Seriously, this guy is fucking crazy. He sleeps in a closet, pisses into an old milk jug, and lulls himself to sleep with visions of the downfall of man. I was kidding about a lot of the other stuff, but I’m being serious about this . . . Krauss is nuts; I was also being serious about the half a million bucks.)

  Having spent the last four months riling up each other in the deserts outside of Las Vegas (really, it was more like a couple of hours a week, but who’s counting?), they have completed the outline to their manifesto—Forrest Griffin’s Survival Guide to the Apocalypse. In its pages you will learn to prepare yourself pre-apocalypse, such as constructing your getaway bag, which should include an assortment of weapons to help you get out of the city, as well as an assortment of sexual toys that will help you kill time once you’re sitting in the middle of the fucking desert. It will teach you how to handle the various types of apocalypses, including viral, nuclear, economic, and natural disaster. It will inform you on how to do all sorts of really smart survival-type thingies.

  And did I mention zombies? Yeah, it will have all sorts of methods for killing zombies with your hands. And for the readers who think the death of 99.9 percent of all people is somehow a bad thing, it will look at the upside of living in a barren wasteland, such as being able to leave your most humiliating stories behind you. Forrest will reveal his most traumatic moments, including the time he had sex with a post op. In case you are not hip with the lingo kids, a post op is a man who has had his junk removed, his Adam’s apple shaven down, the whole dealeo. If he didn’t believe that the apocalypse was coming and all you fuckers would die, would he admit that? I think not. (Public Service Announcement: Be aware of post ops—some can pass as women for two or three nights of sexual intercourse before you realize something is amiss.)

  If you still doubt Forrest’s future role as the Messiah of all mankind, he only has two words for you—ketchup packets. Even before he learned of his mother’s visions, he had a hoarding mentality and would constantly steal ketchup packets. If you’re smart, then you instinctively know that hoarders are survivors. Just look at squirrels—they hoard everything, and they’ve been around longer than sharks (not sure if that is true—might want to get your fact checker to look that shit up).

  For now, all you need to know is that when the world ends, Forrest will be King, so bow down, bitches. Blow off one lesson as stupid or idiotic, and you could end up as a whore to a leather-clad motorcycle gang that travels the desert looking for oil. Seriously, Forrest is going to fill that empty head of yours with some knowledge. And let me tell you, he’s got some knowledge to spill. That summer in the Webelos, he didn’t spend all his time jacking off. He picked up some skills. There is no escaping the coming of the end. When that day arrives, tucking that small pecker of yours between your legs and clicking your heels together won’t bring back your loved ones or all your shiny toys. You’re in the wasteland, motherfucker, so become a soldier in Forrest’s legion and pillage your way into the new age. This is Forrest Griffin’s Survival Guide to the Apocalypse.

  Note to Reader

  If you are standing in the bookstore, reading the last chapter in an attempt to save a whole bunch of time and some money, please stop reading immediately and go to the checkout line. I say this because I want you to actually buy my book so I get that $38 in royalty money.

  PSS. Seriously dude, close the book and go buy it!

  PSSS. I’m standing right behind you, and I’m starting to get pretty fucking pissed off. If you read another word without shelling out some cash, I am going to hurt you.

  PSSSS. I’m really sorry about getting so harsh before. Totally uncalled for, and I don’t blame you if you dislike me now. But I really want you to like me, and I think you buying this book will really help my goal. I am begging you, brother. Please!

  PSSSS. I really don’t care if you buy this book or not. I hate everyone, my writing sucks, this book sucks, I don’t have any friends. I’m going home to sleep for two days.

  PSSSSS. I just woke up and I feel much better. Mood swings, you know. Did you buy this book yet?

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Lucas Rakofsky for not suing me for passing his ideas off as my own . . . which, by the way, I have been doing for years . . . At least that is what he says.

  I would like to thank Chuck Norris for saving America. I have a Total Gym that I’ve never actually used, but I’m sure it’s phenomenal. It’s also an excellent clothes rack.

  I would like to thank Ben & Jerry for making it so damn hard to make weight. Fuck you, Ben, and fuck you, Jerry.

  I would like to thank myself for teaching all of you how to survive the apocalypse. You should thank me as well.

  I would like to acknowledge my freshman English teacher, not because she changed my life for the better, but rather because she gave me a B for my apparent incorrect usage of commas. That was bullshit. Nobody with a life has thought as much about commas as I have. If you, want to connect two, thoughts without having to start a new sentence, and rename the subject, use a comma. I mean is, that so fucking hard (comma) bitch! . . . Telling me I don’t know how to use commas. I used eight commas in this paragraph, and I did an excellent job.

  I would like to thank the chief medical adviser for this book, Anthony Rakofsky, who happens to be allergic to peanuts. As a matter of f
act, he is allergic to nuts of any kind. Despite his help on this book, when I start my new utopia in the aftermath of the apocalypse, I will ban people like him from breeding. Seriously, how are people who are allergic to nuts still alive? Talk about pampering the weak! Personally, I have Gladsens syndrome, which is an immune deficiency. Although this too is a pretty big weakness and makes me terrified to shake people’s hands, I am bigger and manlier than Anthony, so I will be exempt from any of the postapocalyptic rules or restrictions that I create in my kingdom.

  I would like to thank Tucker Max, author of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, for making me look like a good guy in comparison.

  I would like to thank my mother, again. I thank her for everything good I do from now until the day I die. Everything bad I do, like this book for example, I blame entirely on bad sitcoms, violent video games, and heavy-metal music.

  I would like to thank Bill O’Reilly and Bill Maher for making me the angriest person on the planet.

  I would like to thank yoga instructors for being totally and completely insane. Seriously, yoga will not cure cancer or make your erection stiffer (we all know the only way to get a stiffer erection is to allow your penis to get repeatedly stung by bees).

  I would like to thank my management, Zinkin Entertainment, for making it seem reasonable for companies to pay enormous amounts of money for me to do nothing.

  Thanks to Zakk Wylde and Eric Hendrikx for supplying the Vehicle of Death section.

  Thanks to Frank Scatoni and Raffi Nahabedian.

  And finally, I would like to thank coffee for helping me find my inner rage.

  A very special thanks goes out to contributing editor Bret Aita for outstanding work. I’ve never met Bret and don’t know what a contributing editor does, but Erich told me he’s doing a phenomenal job.

  ALSO BY FORREST GRIFFIN AND ERICH KRAUSS

  Got Fight?

  Copyright

  This book is intended for postapocalypse use only. If you use this book preapocalypse, the authors and the publisher are not responsible for any losses, injuries, or damages that may occur as a result of applying the information contained herein. If you use it postapocalypse and sustain any injuries, good luck trying to find a lawyer to sue us . . . haha.

  BE READY WHEN THE SH*T GOES DOWN. Copyright © 2010 by Forrest Griffin and Erich Krauss. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBN 978-0-06-199825-6

  EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780062018366

  10 11 12 13 14 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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  1Of course I am referring to my book, not the No Fear clothing brand, which sucks huge donkey cock—and I mean that in a bad way.

  2You know, the people who devour those awesome Twilight books.

  3Did I mention that it was on the New York Times bestseller list for nine weeks?

  4Or a man could have placed them in his fanny pack, which would be much worse.

  5Anyone that drinks chamomile tea does not deserve to survive the apocalypse. Decaffeinated tea defeats the purpose of tea—it is the same as drinking Near Beer.

  6It’s good to be prepared for this type of encounter, but as of yet, I have not found a firing range that allows you to shoot out of a moving vehicle. Occasionally I do this in the desert, and I’ve found that my aim is absolutely horrible. But I haven’t given up hope because they make it look pretty easy in the movies.

  7Yes, I too was once a babysitter. Think that’s funny? Fuck you. I babysat my brother Leaf when I was fourteen, and he would often cry for hours upon hours. Of course I didn’t shake him, as that would be a horrible thing to do. But I did scream at him for a while to make him stop. Probably not the best tactic now that I look back on it, but, man, it sure did work.

  8If you are one of those nerds who read this sentence and thought, “Well, in Europe, ‘football’ means soccer, and the Russians aren’t half bad at that,” if you are thinking anything along these lines, do the world a favor and run your head into a brick wall. This book is distributed in America, and that’s my freakin’ target market, so “football” means fucking football. Get it! Oh, and fuck you. I seriously doubt you could come up with a better analogy.

  9And it is super-duper scary when you learn that you had a one-night stand with a chick that used to be a man. Trust me, that shit is fucking terrifying.

  10Again, I am personally going to be just fine, as I am a naturally born hoarder. Back when I was a kid, I used to steal ketchup packets everywhere I went, and then suck them down in the privacy (pronounced with an English accent—priv-a-see) of my room. If you are smart, you instinctively know hoarders are survivors. Just look at squirrels—they hoard everything, and they’ve been around longer than sharks (not sure if that is true—might want to look that shit up).

  11Seriously, if we didn’t have a government right now, I would have killed half a dozen people because of road rage.

  12A Real Man.

  13I actually did not know this because I am not a nerd. I figured you were most likely a nerd, and I wanted to make you feel at home.

  14We already established the fact that you are a nerd, so you obviously have a laundry list of afflictions.

  15Seriously, we’re still on this. You are a nerd, which means you are one of The Few. Deal with it! Step away from World of Warcraft for a moment and open your fucking ears.

  16Bon bons are delicious.

  17It will make you look dead.

  18Personally, I was not able to hide under the sink as a child because my mom got those damn cabinet locks. Probably had something to do with the fact that I constantly tried to drink the Windex. It’s not that I liked the taste, I just thought it was a pretty color.

  19Giraffes are evil, evil animals that should be avoided at all costs. Unless, of course, you are trying to milk them from a motorcycle like Evil Knievel would.

  20It is good to be like me.

  21Ensemble. Definition: A slab of metal forged into a giant steal cup. Usage: You kicked me in the groin, but thank goodness I was wearing my ensemble.

  22Such as being my manservant.

  23I do that every night, and wake up disappointed every morning.

  24Does anyone actually watch Ricki Lake anymore?

 

&nb
sp;