Fault-OS

For the past 17 years, I've been working on producing a bunker Operating System in BASIC 2.0 that could fit onto a 5.25" diskette.
Last night I had something of an epiphany, and scrapped the previous beta in favour of a whole new version in Commodore64 machine code that will fit onto a data cassette tape, so you don't even need a costly 1541 drive.

Lay these three facts down:

1. The Commodore 64 holds the distinction of being the most widely produced single model computer in history, with upwards of 30,000,000 units sold.
2. Every home has one in the garage somewhere.
3. There's a wide range of software already available for these little beauts, and the kids just love 'em.

Ben Daglish provided the background music

I know what you're thinking. "Mex that looks neato, but what if I already sold off my Commodore 64 at a flea market back in the 90's and I can't get hold of one now - can I still power my subterranean lair with this programmatically impeccable piece of magic?"

Our minds are on the same page. Fortunately, the answer is "Yes". Beta testing has confirmed that the software is fully operational on a Commodore 128 under the C64 emulation mode.

If my Kickstarter campaign really takes off, I may even port an Amiga version.

You know, actually...

Canada Starts Packing It

Amidst the ever present threat of invasion by a horde of zombies, it's good to know that there's one country where the male population still have the testicular collateral to address this issue head-on and prepare accordingly: Canada.

If only their neighbours to the immediate south weren't such an effeminised bunch of latte sipping girlie men, then there might be an appreciable number of survivors across the North American continent post-TEOTWAWKI. Instead, the yanks are more concerned with crotch grabbing and following Pinterest updates about the girth of Michelle Obama's ass. Yeah, let us know how that works out.

P A C K   Y O U R   T O R T I L L A S

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.