You are probably reading this month’s Advocate in your Y2K bunker. The only services still in operation are Federal Express, the IRS, telemarketers who have somehow gotten your cell phone number, and Advocate delivery boys.
You think back to New Year’s Eve and how an evening of unsurpassed celebration abruptly turned into a night of unprecedented chaos.
There you were with your significant other (that means “alone” if you’re schizophrenic), dressed in your finest leisure suit – you know, lime green – the “special” one. Although you normally comb your hair back with that greasy kid stuff and cover it up with your favorite old “gimme” cap, tonight your have washed it and blown it dry – and only then have covered it up with a brand new “gimme” cap, which matches your never-been-worn clip-on tie.
You have chosen a romantic corner booth in the little bistro that you patronize only on very special occasions – “Le Corral du Golden.” You are particularly excited about your selection because you plan to occupy your table until midnight, permitting a record-setting number of visits to the buffet bar (another reason for having worn the expandomatic-waistband leisure suite ensemble).
Between courses of various deep-fried and cheese-stuffed food objects, you longingly gaze over your mountain range of yummies at your special “millennium mama” only to realize that she has had to relocate to the next table to make room for all of your buffet selections. Fortunately, your recent lasik surgery enables you to see her even from a distance (as long as you aren’t gnawing on your turkey leg). Perhaps with fewer plates for dessert, there will be room for her to return. And so, you patiently gorge yourself towards this hopeful end.
But then disaster strikes. Chaos replaces calm. Trauma trumps tranquility. The lights start to flicker. The Muzak Christmas medley begins to drag. Your worst fears are realized. Y2K has arrived – and you haven’t even finished your salads, all of which are covered in a gooey combination of Ranch and Thousand Island dressings.
Patrons start to panic. People race to the cakes and cobbler, fearing an imminent shortage of sweets. Those whose waistlines have “all you can eat” written all around them bounce off of each other and into the mashed potatoes.
Before long, a veritable “food fight fantastique” has erupted. No one is safe from the flying fritters. There is no refuge from the refried beans.
The frenzy of flinging food seemingly lasts forever. You huddle under your table with a hot fudge sundae stolen from a nearby toddler. You watch helplessly as your evening escort is repeatedly peppered with a colorful array of fresh vegetables. Is this a preview of the next thousand years?
Somehow you survived and are now safely tucked away in your bunker reading this column. But what about the others? Will the Corral ever be Golden again? Will you ever be able to rid your mind of the nightmarish scene of a hungry, panicked, weight-challenged mob in search of just one more homemade buttery roll?
Some might dismiss this scenario simply as the product of an overactive imagination.
Others might say I’m just hungry.
