On Survivalism

My friend, Dan, has a very nice little second-story apartment one town over. I keep meaning to ask what he pays in rent, but at our age I feel like that's the equivalent of asking a woman over thirty for her exact height and weight.

Anyway, Dan lives right above his landlord, who actually has a pretty sizable property. In his backyard he happens to have a large, fenced-in run and a coop. The man keeps chickens. Like a dozen of them. (There used to be more but now they are down to about nine. No one's sure what happened, exactly.)

He also has a single, needs-to-be-shorn gray sheep.

Oh, and three little goats.
Yes, goats. Not necessarily pygmy goats, but pretty small little goat creatures.

Dude also taps the trees on his property for his own maple syrup. He's like some kind of crazy-awesome, low-level survivalist. Dude's like half set for the end of the world: wool, eggs, milk, meat, maple syrup; he's like his own warm and fuzzy IHOP.

When the revolution comes, he will be the first against the wall.

Assuming, of course, that the wall is made of delicious pancakes.