Be Ready When the Sh*t Goes Down( A Survival Guide to the Apocalypse)

by Griffin, Forrest

  I almost wrote this animal off as a practical source for milk, but a lightbulb went off in my head and I decided to use a motorcycle. This actually works really well. The goal is to drive directly underneath the giraffe, stand up on your seat, suckle for a brief moment, sit back down, steer, and then stand back up for another quick hit at the teat. It takes a little while to get full, but giraffe milk fucking rules. (For fuck sakes, why aren’t people stopping me? I really didn’t think I could get away with this much simply for being semi-famous. In addition to being allowed to put complete nonsense into this book, Revolver magazine, which is a pretty big magazine, allowed me to write an article on the sexist animal. Just how far do I have to go before someone stops me? I am crying for help here, people. Why can’t anyone hear my screams?)

  Animals That You Should Not Attempt to Milk

  • LIZARDS: If they have nipples at all, they are too small to find.

  • PENGUINS: They keep slipping from your hands as you try to suckle.

  • SLEEPING BEARS: Not down with being milked in any way, shape, or form.

  • HUMANS: I am still researching this one.

  • WOLVES: Very, very dirty animals. The milk from their one protruding red udder strangely tastes like piss. Other times, it is just waaaaay too salty.

  • RED ANTS: A really bad experiment on my part

  • LOCUSTS: Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to milk a swarm of locust.

  THE FORREST GRIFFIN SURVIVAL EXPERIENCE

  I know I’m sending you mixed messages. I tell you I hate the wild, and then I go on and on about all these survival tactics. You are probably starting to wonder if you can trust this hot knowledge I am giving you. Well, although I personally don’t like spending time in the outdoors, I have been cast ruthlessly into the wild on several occasions and survived.

  The most traumatic of these experiences was just before my twenty-first birthday when I was in the police academy. In the evening after class, I went back to the dorms and discovered the doors were locked. I tried my key card several times, and each time it did absolutely nothing. A few seconds later, I read a sign on the door that said closed for spring break. Somehow, I missed the fact that they were shutting the dorms down for the entire week. I was homeless, and to make matters worse, all of the friends I felt comfortable calling were out of town. Not knowing what to do, I returned to my Mazda 626 and just kind of sat there, and not comfortably I might add. I got the car because I’d seen it sitting on some guy’s front lawn. When I knocked on his door to inquire about it, his exact words were, “If you can get that blankety-blank-blank off my fucking lawn, you can do whatever the fuck you want with it.” I had it towed away, and then my stepfather fixed it up. He took the choke off our lawnmower, drilled a hole into my dashboard, and slapped that sucker in. So, I basically had a 1920s automobile. When I started it, I would have to throttle it up for several minutes using the choke, which proved to be a real panty dropper while on dates.

  Anyway, I was fucking homeless, sitting in my piece-of-shit ride. With nowhere to go, I drove to the grocery store, purchased a box of Little Debbie treats and a cheap bottle of wine, and then sat on the curb out in front of the dormitory for the next eight hours. When it started getting cold, I purchased a ticket to an all-night movie theater so I would have somewhere warm to sleep for a few hours. I spent that entire week in that Mazda 626, subsisting on cheap wine and Little Debbies, so don’t you tell me I don’t know how to fucking survive.

  HOW TO FIGHT A WILD ANIMAL

  I included this section because it seems like every time I do an interview, a reporter asks me how I would fight a certain type of animal. Sure, they open with the canned “Who is your next opponent?” and “How is your training going?” questions, but it always comes back to me fighting animals. Unfortunately, I know very little about engaging animals in hand-to-paw combat. I do, however, know quite a bit about being viciously attacked by animals.

  The most violent animal beat-down I have received came from a giraffe. This happened as a teenager, when a buddy and I decided to pay a visit to the zoo (I know, sounds super gay, but I swear we weren’t holding hands or any bullshit like that). As we were cruising around, checking shit out, I saw a giraffe with his head reaching over the chain-link fence separating him from the outside world. He was chewing on some cud, just kind of staring blankly out at freedom. Without thinking, I ran toward the fence, climbed up it, and threw my arm around his big-ass neck. The goal was to have my buddy snap a picture of the two of us, but before he could even pull out his camera, the ferocious giraffe attacked. In one swift movement, it placed a fairly large chunk of my head into its rancorous oversize mouth, which prevented me from leaping off the fence. I, of course, screamed bloody murder, but my friend was absolutely no help. He instantly fell on the ground in a fit of laughter.

  I’m quite sure the evil giraffe could have crushed my head like a grape, but realized that it would be put down if he did. Fighting the overwhelming urge to end my life, he released my head from his death grip after a few moments, and my hat fell on the opposite side of the fence. After being viciously attacked by the brutal giraffe, I wasn’t going to attempt to retrieve my favorite hat. I walked away with a bruised face and feeling very insignificant.19

  Since that day, I’ve had numerous other very close calls with some of the more ferocious members of the animal kingdom. When I was fifteen, I spent a summer in North Carolina, and in order to get from my house over to a friend’s house, I had to cross a river. This gave me two choices—I could walk two miles to a bridge or I could ignore a series of “No Trespassing” signs, hop a chain-link fence, and swim across the body of water. Inherently lazy, every day I chose the swim.

  Then one afternoon, right before I was about to enter the water to make my way across, a group of people sitting on a deck on my side of the river began screaming and shouting at me. Ignoring them, I began walking toward the bank, but now they were not only screaming and shouting, but also waving their arms madly in the air. After taking two steps into the water, I got really pissed off and began walking down the muddy bank toward them.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I shouted at the group of middle-aged men and women. “I had to hop a fence, big fucking deal. Give me a fine, I don’t care. I was just trying to cross the river, man!”

  As with most people in North Carolina on a summer afternoon, they were all drinking beer. “Sorry about all the yelling,” one man said as he pointed in the direction I had come from. “Just look over there at your footprints.”

  I did as the man said and followed my footprints, and about two hundred yards back, drifting in the water where I had been preparing to enter the river, was an eight-foot alligator. Although it might not have been as big as the alligators you see on the Discovery Channel, an eight-foot alligator is pretty fucking huge when you see it in the wild. I almost shit my pants. The people informed me that they had posted the NO TRESPASSING signs and put up the chain-link fence for a reason—this little area was a wildlife refuge and was filled with alligator nests (not sure if alligators have nests or not, but that is what I was told).

  The next close call I had occurred in South Africa. I went there with my friends Rory and Numo, and wanting to see what the real Africa was all about, we decided to visit a lion refuge. Unlike zoos where all the animals are confined to cramped cages, this place let all the animals run free. (What’s up with that? Freedom is for people.) This obviously ruled walking around the park out of the question, but supposedly it was safe to drive.

  Photographic Insert

  Both Forrest and his cat are easily amused by paper bags.

  Forrest and Bigger John at Forrest’s wedding. Moments after this photo was taken, Bigger John attempted to propose to Forrest.

  Forrest’s thoughts: “I bet these birds taste delicious.” Jaime’s thoughts: “I hope Forrest isn’t thinking about eating these birds.”

  You have absolutely no proof that they’re gay.
<
br />   Proper postapocalyptic attire.

  I really had no idea that coming down would be the hard part.

  If you see a strong resemblance, that’s because they are related—and I’m talking about the two guys and the monkeys on the shirts.

  After Forrest’s third arrest for road rage, this is the only vehicle he can legally drive.

  Why yes, Forrest is this cat’s biological father.

  Bonding with my brother.

  Me, postapocalypse.

  Alternate cover shot #1:You talkin’ to me?

  Alternate cover shot #2

  Forrest’s thoughts: “This is the happiest day of my life.”

  Luke’s thoughts: “I can’t believe he is doing this.”

  John’s thoughts: “I give it a year, tops.”

  Leaf’s thoughts: “When did he even start liking girls?”

  Bigger John: “Does this mean Forrest really isn’t going to take me to Vermont and marry me like he promised?”

  This isn’t actually me—I just cut it out of a magazine.

  Please, no one tell him Santa doesn’t exist.

  Postcoital

  Walking cats is harder than you think.

  Someone let the monkeys out of the cage.

  Randy Couture, Some Guy, Stephan Bonner, Ron Frazier, Mike Pyle, Tim Credeur, Jay Hieron

  The only threesome my wife will let me have.

  Forrest trying to get the deer drunk so he can have his way with them . . . His most lascivious fantasy come true.

  Forrest convinces Erich you can survive off dirt. To Forrest’s amazement, Erich loves it. . . . Yeah, you are reading a book by these two guys. How is that working out for ya? . . . And yes, we went forty miles into the desert to take this picture. If you are wondering about the sprinkler head to my left, I want to let you know that confused me also.

  Don’t worry mom, I can’t get any uglier.

  FORTUNE COOKIE WISDOM

  Beware of anyone who drinks excessive amounts of Mountain Dew. Back when I was a police office, anytime I broke into a meth laboratory or pulled someone over who was trafficking drugs, I found a shit-ton of empty Mountain Dew containers on the floor of their trailer or backseat of their car.

  I figured we would be in an armor-plated Range Rover or something, but they packed all three of us into a shitty little Yugo. I was fighting heavyweight at the time, and Rory is a pretty big dude as well, so we were quite literally sitting on top of one another.

  The driver cranked up the engine and drove over to the front entrance gate, and that’s when I realized that visiting a lion refuge in South Africa might not have been the best move. The guy who opened the gate had one eye, one arm, and his face had deep scars from where a lion had mauled him. Immediately I thought, “This guy’s only job is to let you in and out of the park. What the fuck happens to the people who actually go inside?”

  I bit my tongue and didn’t say anything, and at first everything was cool—I could see a shit load of lions off in the distance, but none of them charged the vehicle or anything like that. It was actually an enjoyable experience.

  Then the Yugo started to overheat. Outside it was 112 degrees, and once the driver shut off the air conditioner, the confines of the car quickly became an oven. I asked if we could roll down a window, and the driver immediately began shaking his head.

  “You don’t want them to smell you,” he said.

  Great.

  When the car didn’t cool, the driver turned on the heater. Other than cooking our nut sacks in our underwear, it did nothing to solve the overheating problem. After another few hundred yards, steam began pouring from the hood and the driver pulled over. “I can not drive anymore,” he said.

  I figured that they had some sort of system worked out for when one of the cars broke down, but apparently that wasn’t the case because no one came by to lend a hand. There was no roadside assistance of any kind. We just sat there in the car, waiting. And with each moment that passed, the lions became more and more curious and began inching their way toward us.

  Figuring it was only a matter of time until the lions ripped off one of the flimsy doors to the Yugo and ate my ugly ass, I made my friend Numo get out and piss in the radiator. And yes, if the lions had attacked him, I would have locked all the doors and watched the feast transpire, but that’s only because you’re not supposed to disturb animals when they are eating. Park rules, you know.

  Luckily, my quick thinking paid off, the engine cooled, and we were able to get the hell out of Dodge. As we were leaving the park, I noticed that the guy who let us out had all of his body parts intact. If they had a marketing guy, he needed to get fired. Yeah, let’s have the guy who looks like he was mauled by fifty lions let everyone into the park. That will do wonders to soothe the nerves of our guests.

  But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. In South Africa they don’t make you sign waivers before participating in dangerous shit, and sticking a guy who had obviously been attacked by lions at the front gate was their disclaimer—their way of letting you know that what you were about to do was pretty fucking stupid.

  So as you can see, I am far from the Beast Master. Come to think of it, the only fight I ever won with an animal was against an ex-girlfriend’s cockatoo, but all I had to do was open the door and chase it outside with my superior, broom-wielding prowess. With my current track record, the best advice I can give on fighting animals is to simply not do it. If you fight an animal and lose, there is a good chance that you will get eaten. This even applies to dogs. I still have a scar on my right arm that constantly reminds me that even these much smaller creatures are fierce opponents.

  ANIMALISTIC ATTRACTION

  Seeing that we are already on the topic of animals, it is time to talk about a very hard truth: after the shit hits the fan, there probably won’t be that many people left to mate with, so you are going to have to get creative. What do I mean by “get creative”? What else could I mean? Have sex with animals, of course.

  Although it might seem simple to grab the nearest animal and give it a good shagging, most four-legged creatures will not willingly allow you to simply mount and penetrate them. They will undoubtedly put up a fight, and taking a hoof or paw to the face can suck big-time. It is also extremely important to ravish an animal that you personally find sexy. To avoid having to go through this type of decision making postapocalypse, I suggest that you put some thought into the animal you would most like to lay pipe to right now.

  As far as women go, they all want to have sex with dolphins. Don’t believe me? Just look at any woman’s house. What do you see all over the place—that’s right, dolphins. I think the reason for this . . . strike that . . . The reason for this is that women love a giant phallic symbol. Dolphins even feel like penises. They are basically a big blue penis, like the schlong of that dude in Watchmen.

  In fact, a lot of women go so far as to tattoo dolphins on their lower back and ankles. If you see a chick with a dolphin tattoo, there is no doubt she is into cock, and will be willing to bone down. However, watch out for chicks with butterfly tattoos. The butterfly represents lesbianism feminism, and chicks who go so far as to get a butterfly tattoo are most likely into carpet munching and scissoring and all that. The same can be said for guys who get gorilla or ape tattoos—they like to have sex with other men. It is a fact.

  Personally, the animal I find the sexiest is undoubtedly the deer. I love the way they move, with that little come-hither tail of theirs and those big glossy eyes. When you creep up on one in the forest and she pops her head up, all nervous like, and your eyes meet, you can tell she is flirting with you. If you are wondering when these amorous feelings first started, I can pinpoint it exactly. It all started the first time I saw Bambi—and I say first time because there were many. In fact, certain spots on my VHS copy of the movie are pretty much worn out. And yes, you guessed it: those spots are the scenes in which Bambi’s mother makes an appearance.

  If you go back and
watch Bambi today, you will realize what I realized at the age of five: Bambi’s mother is fucking hot. She is one hot piece of tail, literally. As a matter of fact, if you don’t want to fuck Bambi’s mom, you’re gay.

  If you find my attraction to deer a little disturbing, do not worry—I can’t actually catch them. That is a part of what makes them so attractive. Now, they do have tame deer that you can visit in the petting zoo and feed, but those deer are all fat. What kind of sicko do you think I am? I am not into fat deer—I am not into any kind of fat animals. If I wanted to hump a hippo, I would hump a hippo. But I don’t. And don’t worry, sheep are not beautiful creatures. They are ugly. They are the ugly, fat, drunken sorority girls that won’t leave you alone at a party, and who wants them? Certainly not me.