I’ve decided to name the next historic, transcendent, life – altering, unprecedented and earth-shattering storm “Pickles,” perhaps this will draw some more subscribers to my blog. It is a great shock to me to learn that it is going to snow at least once more in February, they used to call this winter, but it is now far more serious than that. Superstorm “Pickles” will last four months, it will snow every day, European computer models show the storm washing Manhattan Island out to sea, and turning New Jersey into a sand dune. It’s time to move those computers out of Wall Street and onto barges.

The Weather Channel is calling this snowstorm “Marcus,” but I had a cousin named Marcus, and he was a real jerk, cheap and mean. I don’t want to call my storm “Marcus,” it sounds like a wimpy rabbi, not a Superstorm.

I have some tips for you, they have worked for us (further details this summer at the Bedlam Farm Workshop On Hysteria, Emergency Preparedness, Armageddon, and Scaring The Shit Out Of People For Money (BFWOHEPASSOOPFM) while remaining brave and independent at the same time. You can, in fact, have it both ways. People will love you for it.

I’ve decided to throw my rifle, shotgun, 9 mm Glock, bow and arrow, hatchet and spear out and take them to the dump. I am freeing my attack hen, she will have to fend for herself. I’m keeping my black belt, it keeps my bathrobe on.

I’ll barter all my weapons for some dump stickers. It’s not like I could kill anybody with them if I tried – I can shoot a rooster at close range –  and it is expensive to war against marauders. It occurred to me that if I have all of this good stuff here while New York City becomes a ski slope, some of those city people will just come up here and hit me on the head and take all of my defensive gear. Better to get some money for it now.

I know that farmers always help one another in emergencies like, so I called my friend Carol Gulley. She and her husband Ed are real dairy farmers and so they might help me, I thought, if I posted a really pathetic message on Facebook (“oh, I am buried in snow and am out of everything! Can my farm be saved?”). I don’t know if they know that I am not a real farmer, but I’m not going to bring it up. This is a big snowstorm, and nobody will notice.

“Hey, Carol,” I said, “you hear about the Winter Storm “Pickles,” it will be like Noah’s flood they say, only colder and wetter. Life as we know it may be over by Tuesday.” Carol doesn’t watch the news much and we get along well, I thought this would get her attention, soften her up a bit.

If you want people to give you things, they have to feel sorry for you.

“Lord!,” she said. “Can I bring a jug of raw milk?”

I cleared my throat. “Hey, you know Ed and I talk all the time about farmers helping each other out when they stumble or get into trouble. We got this big storm coming and I am in need of real help here.”

“Gosh,” she said, “anything. What can we do for you?”

“Well,’ I said, “my car needs new spark plugs the mechanic tells me. It will cost $1,000 and I don’t have it, and I’m pretty upset.”

There was a long pause. “What does this have to do with the snowstorm?,” she asked, warily, I thought.

“Well, ” I said, “you want a car that runs smoothly, especially in a snowstorm that lasts four months or so. Till Labor Day.”

I guess we got cut off, the phone went dead.

The big thing here at the farm is to be prepared to ask for help, and I am. I need food, cash money, hay, firewood, snow-shoveling, (pet friendly) salt, sweetfeed for horses and sheep. Some treats for the dogs, too, maybe. And hair dryers for my frozen pipes.   I’m going to post that dire message on Facebook about how much trouble I am in, and just go out to lunch and leave the barn door open. There are a lot of good people out there, they are ready to go,  eager to help, all I need is for a few of them to feel sorry for me and bring me stuff. When the storm is over, I will be set.

How neat that we can all help one another. I’ll be sure and send some notecards of appreciation.

So that is my survival guide for “Pickles.” Oh yes, we are heading out for wine and cheese popcorn and some more pistachio nuts.

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Sign Of The Times:  Note, in our humorless and anxious world – there are places where satire or challenge is not permitted, even punishable by death. This column is meant to be a satire on many things, including me. The post is meant to be humorous, not serious, I am not in need of anything I cannot provide, just in case there is any confusion. Some people on social media can be very literal and do not laugh much. Stay home and watch TV or read a good book. Stay warm and dry. But I was not kidding about the cheese popcorn, I am heading out to get some.