Magical Experience At The Gym Tonight - This Time It Wasn't In The Locker Rooms

In a rather bully mood this evening, I decided to venture down to the local gymnasium. Sauntering up to a giant behemoth of a Homo Sapien, about three times my size with arms like tree trunks and a chest like a 44 gallon drum, adorned with a sailor cap and smoking on a corn pipe, I said to him, "Hey buddy! Reckon you could load up that overhead press with another 63kg after you're done with it? You see I'm recovering from a car accident and I've a touch of arthritis. Might need you to rub a little jojoba oil into my pecs while I'm at it."

I then proceeded with a casual warm up that maxed out the overhead press, and snapped the cable on the leg press as I was flexing my calf muscles. "I have never seen anybody that strong in my entire time on the professional body building circuit", the large gentleman exclaimed. "I haven't any idea how you did that. It is extraordinary. Truly you must be the strongest man in the world. I doubt the machines were even built to handle such wanton abuse. You are a beast, sir", he said.

He then sighed, "Well, I'd best get back to studying for my philosophy major - it's got me beat."
I had a quick skim through his reading material as I brushed over the pages like a flip book animation, before handing the books back. "Not being as well versed in Sartre as I am in Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, I doubt he is arguing here that there aren't some preconditions to our existence, merely that whatever material conditions one inherits in this world, one is still inalienably free to make of oneself whatever one wills - not necessarily precluding a predisposition to make something in particular of oneself."

"Once again I am in awe, sir" he remarked. "I wish my wife were as understanding as you."
I picked his phone up off the bench and speed dialled his wife. "Cindy", I said, "Frank still understands your needs as a woman, he's just having some difficulties at work to try and get that promotion to secure your financial future in the midst of a global economic downturn because he wants to maintain the sort of lifestyle you two had together when you were first married and used to vacation in Acapulco during the summertime. Remember those days, Cindy? Frank does." She promptly burst into tears and drove down to the gym to be reunited.

Donning my sunglasses on the way out, my elbow bumped the broken vending machine and it began dispensing Coca Cola once more.

The Fault-Co Premise

It really gets my gander up when people mistake this site for some kind of parody or humor value. Those people can just, like, get out. Most people could appreciate that this blog is a premium source of survival information, and would make life or death decisions based upon what they read here accordingly. So we thought we'd take a moment to lay out the essential Fault-Co premise in a nutshell:

1. We're all gonna die.

We had this figured out way back in 1983. We're not a prophet, we're just able to walk and chew Wrigley's Extra at the same time.
This is Australopithecine gene expression, as archaeological evidence amply suggests that the species often had to dangle from a tree branch with one hand whilst grooming himself with the other. Contrast this feat with your average homo-sapien of today, who couldn't organise a bang in the ass with a fistfull of fifties.

P A C K   Y O U R   T O R T I L L A S

The Ideal Bunker Environment

Way back in the day, my first attempt at a bunker was to bury a shipping container with a pipe coming out of it with a 40mm NATO gas mask filter stuck on the end of it as a pièce de résistance, if you will. Even though some basic military experience should have clued me in to the fact that all the shipping container occupants would have suffocated, this was my magnum opus.

Well, that bunker quickly became a death trap as it rusted away and collapsed. Shipping containers are only built to bare weight on top of them from the four reinforced corners, you see, and have a nasty habit of not being entirely rust proof. Nevermind. Onwards and upwards!

I sank the GDP of a small country into burying a corrugated steel barrel painted with a thin layer of tar beneath a few tonnes of crushed rock shards. What could possibly go wrong? Apparently everything. I decided to take a hot shower in my underground enclosed space, and was happily lathering up with my shower cap and scrubbing brush whilst belting out my favourite Whitney Houston number where no-one could hear, when all of a sudden, 32 new species of fungal mould sprang up before my eyes over every surface of the bunker which had now been covered in warm dampness. They rapidly mutated under my 12v bunker lighting into some kind of a horrible new hybrid - part lichen, part Tony Danza. I was lucky to escape with my life. I have fumigated Firehold Alpha Romeo Tango with an industrial supply of chlorine, but it remains uninhabitable.
On to Plan C.

Having found a cleaning maid on an overstayed working holiday visa, my new bunker will be the biggest, the best, and the coziest place to survive the coming apocalypse. I've already moved in the jacuzzi and the plasma screen, and for five bucks an hour I can have sparkling clean walls and a bloody good foot rub.

The under-floor crawl space is ideal for cellaring my 1978 Dom Pérignon, which I shall enjoy with roasted lemon & garlic butter spatchcock while Jonny Sixpack is outside hiding from hunter-killer drones and sucking moss off a brick.

Fault-Co Punches Through 50 Views

Bare in mind that we've never actively promoted this site at all, and yet evidently we've become a real monster in the search engines. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and we certainly do have our fair share of pale shoddy imitations out there.
Accept no substitute for that which is genuine - right here you're getting the pure, undiluted, Mex Arcane ramblings straight from the tap. Grab a pint while it's cold.