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Pass-o-apocalypse is coming

Seth Thompson
Published: Thursday, May 15th, 2014

“Hey, man this is like, police brutality or something. These aren’t even my pants!” 
My old pal, Officer Lumpy was propelling a handcuffed tweaker past me on his way out of the big-box retail store. 
Without shifting his lip-lock on his unlit cigar, he pronounced his verdict: “Yer just too dumb to live, aren’tcha? Just bad luck ya stole some other guy’s pants, an’ they already had meth in ‘em! What are tha odds? An’ then ya dropped that baggie on the floor at the checkout while you were trying to get out that stolen credit card? Outlaw life’s hard, ain’t it?”
With that, he quickly stuffed the dirty dude into the back seat of his scruffy, 10-year-old black-and-white. He paused to fire up his stogie and noticed me. 
“Hey college boy, long time no see. Where ya been?”
“Dealing with life changes, Lumpy. I quit my job…” Just then, our old buddies Harmful Government Ray and Nervous Ned came out the sliding doors past us, laboring behind two cart-loads of ammunition boxes. 
“Ha! I knew it was them guys buyin’ all tha ammo up an’ hoardin’ it! That’s how come I can’t buy no .22 ammo nowadays!”
Ned looked at Lumpy and gulped. Ray stuck his head down into his coat collar and pretended he didn’t see the grizzled old street monster. They turned their carts-o-doom around and scuttled back into the store like oversized rats.
Lumpy chuckled as he puffed on his cigar and watched a skinny, stylish “man” wandering his way toward us through the parking lot. The male in question was busy wearing his thumbs out sending text messages to someone at the other end of his little rectangular idiot box. He was only glancing up every five steps or so, a major hazard to everyone else in the lot filled with careening SUVs piloted by other oblivious talkers-and-texters. Lumpy sounded off again.
“Hey college boy, didja see that Toyota Prius that guy drove up in? I always think those things run offa suckin’ a guy’s soul an’ manhood right outa him, an’ here’s Exhibit A, right here, ta prove it!”
 The object of Lumpy’s scorn quickly glanced up from his little techno-toy, realizing he was being made fun of. He directed a weak-chinned scowl in Lumpy’s direction, but quickly looked away when he read the message in the old street monster’s eyes.
“And, what the hell’s goin’ on with all tha commercials for them smarty phones like he’s got? Do these guys buy a new one a those things every time they change their shorts? Like every other freakin’ commercial on TV is for smarty phones. How many smarty phones can one a those pencil-necks buy?”
“What, you’re not going to rush down and get one so you can get an app to remind you to feed the cat or zip up your fly?” I said. 
“Nah, I ain’t gettin’ that old and senile yet, college boy. I don’ need all this electronical crap to get by.”
“So, you don’t go for this whole computer thing yet, huh, Lumpy? You think they’re just a fad that’s going to go away?” I said. 
“Nah, but I been thinkin’ a lot about this. Ya know all this stuff about that zombie apocalypse on TV? There ain’t gonna be no damn zombies. Maybe commies someday, I dunno. But what’s really gonna happen one a these days is tha Pass-o-apocalypse.”
“Say what?” Lumpy grinned and whipped out a stained, dog-eared notebook from his pocket.
“See this? I’ve got a list of about 50 friggin’ passwords I gotta use justa do my job an’ get around. Passwords for the report program at work. Passwords for tha office computers. Passwords for tha state’s website. Passwords for tha city’s websites.”
I reminded Lumpy he wasn’t supposed to write passwords down, because computer guys that swill Mountain Dew and scarf Pop Tarts in their mom’s basement say it’s bad security. He groaned.
“How’m I gonna remember all this crap if I don’t write it down?”
He continued, “I got passwords for my bank account, passwords for my phone bill, passwords ta look up my alimony bill. An’ every time I try ta order somethin’ on tha Innernet, I gotta fill out an account thingy, with another freaking password!
“You wait, college boy. Some morning, tha guy who runs tha power plant, makin’ electricity, is gonna forget his password, or it expired, or didn’t have tha right lowercase letters and symbols. An’ then tha lights are gonna go out, and no one’ll figure out how ta turn ‘em on again. Riots in tha streets, looting. All because of them passwords.”
“Lumpy, there are safeguards on everything. I’m sure the guys who program this stuff are smarter than that.” 
Lumpy snorted.“Yeah? You mean like that guy just walked by here? The one with tha squeezy-glasses and tha smarty phone, almost got run over? That’s tha kinda guy that come up with this password stuff.” 
Just then, Lumpy’s forgotten prisoner thumped his head on the patrol-car window glass.
“Well, I gotta get goin’,” said Lumpy. “Take this guy down to tha jail an’…” He climbed into his car, and froze with a sour look on his face.
“What?” I said.
“I forgot my password fer tha jail booking computer.”

“Hey, man this is like, police brutality or something. These aren’t even my pants!” 

My old pal, Officer Lumpy was propelling a handcuffed tweaker past me on his way out of the big-box retail store. 

Without shifting his lip-lock on his unlit cigar, he pronounced his verdict: “Yer just too dumb to live, aren’tcha? Just bad luck ya stole some other guy’s pants, an’ they already had meth in ‘em! What are tha odds? An’ then ya dropped that baggie on the floor at the checkout while you were trying to get out that stolen credit card? Outlaw life’s hard, ain’t it?”

With that, he quickly stuffed the dirty dude into the back seat of his scruffy, 10-year-old black-and-white. He paused to fire up his stogie and noticed me. 

“Hey college boy, long time no see. Where ya been?”

“Dealing with life changes, Lumpy. I quit my job…” Just then, our old buddies Harmful Government Ray and Nervous Ned came out the sliding doors past us, laboring behind two cart-loads of ammunition boxes. 

“Ha! I knew it was them guys buyin’ all tha ammo up an’ hoardin’ it! That’s how come I can’t buy no .22 ammo nowadays!”

Ned looked at Lumpy and gulped. Ray stuck his head down into his coat collar and pretended he didn’t see the grizzled old street monster. They turned their carts-o-doom around and scuttled back into the store like oversized rats.

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