We all braced for the worst when the announcement was handed down that Oregonians would have to here-on pump their own fuel into their own cars like savages. We braced for the worst because we knew the worst was coming, and savages we became.
It started off with silly pictures. Maybe you saw them and laughed, but as the country laughed around us, we stood transfixed in horror. We were like children abandoned, and alone in a world of mystery and terror.
How do you gas pump, Oregon? pic.twitter.com/UV9TZUQYXn
— Brandon Morse (@TheBrandonMorse) January 5, 2018
It was during dusk on day two that the madness kicked in. Faced with our own helplessness, insanity took hold for some of us. Gas pumps became centers of chaos, with Oregonians spraying gas haphazardly at anything, and everything. Even each other.
Live shot of Oregon residents attempting to pump their own gas pic.twitter.com/PabwrbMteD
— Matt Walsh (@MattWalshBlog) January 3, 2018
That was when the true destruction began. Explosions rocked neighborhoods as Oregonians poured gasoline over live electrical wires, scared that without fuel the power would go out. Fires spread, burning down the Starbucks, cutting of our supply of delicious, but overpriced mocha lattes. But we knew the worst was upon us when the Targets caught fire. With no one willing to step foot into a WalMart, we knew our doom was upon us.
The apocalypse in Oregon came faster than anyone thought it would. Those who aren’t dead or dying now eke out their existence in fuel rationed communities scattered throughout the state. Our world is now dust and grit, and constant danger. Trade caravans between communities risk their lives on the open roads in order to bring badly needed supplies like bottled water, and free-trade coffee, as well as ukuleles, so that we might make cute songs about socialized healthcare.
But we are plagued by the roving bands of raiders. Sometimes the caravans leave and never return. Some nights the communities we kept in contact with over the radio will suddenly go quiet, and not speak again.
We are fewer every day, and the gas we managed to store is running low. Some of the young men have volunteered to risk life and limb to bring back more.
I, myself, have before braved the destitute wilderplains in search of the gasofuel springs from the long long ago. I have faced many dangers. Raiders, thirst, and wild lap dogs abandoned by their owners in the days before the fires, but my tribe needs me to succeed. Their ability to charge their phones depends on it.
I write this now, in case I do not return. Pray for Oregon. Pray for Oregonians.