Last Saturday, a gang of gun-wielding Oregonians attempted the-little-coup-that-couldn’t by taking over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, a federal building that also serves as a satellite headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Land Management. The proposed occupancy, which was an attempt to squabble with that got dern oppressive federal gub’mint, ended as quickly and hilariously as it started with many in the militia making heartfelt pleas for supporters to send snacks as they were woefully underprepared.
While the nation discusses this event and how it highlights the disparity in response force severity between these white men and those men, women, and children who don’t share their complexion, what this whole ordeal made me think of is what I’d do with my time if I barricaded myself in a federal building.
After securing the premises, I’d start to go through the workers’ desks looking for the candy stashes that every office in America is hiding. The health food craze of the past few decades would likely render some former Snickers troves into Luna bar disappointments, but there would undoubtedly be more than a few desk drawers with secret caches of Cheez-Its.
After looting the rank and file, I’d make my way to the managers’ offices where I’d probably be able to score a congratulatory bottle of Glenfiddich or Maker’s squirreled away for a rainy day. I’d have a glass or two upon finding the bottle but ultimately save most of it for chugging should it look like death is immanent towards the end of my stand off.
Once snacks and drinks were locked down, I’d clear out the longest stretch of hardwood, concrete, or marble flooring in the building and spend a good few minutes seeing just how far I could roll in a wheeled office chair. Things would likely get dizzy, which is another reason I’d have practiced moderation with that whiskey from earlier.
Next, presuming the cops hadn’t surrounded me and cut off the electricity yet, I’d make a bunch of photocopies of my butt because when else will I have the opportunity? Big office copiers are going the way of the dodo in this digital age and I gotta get my kicks in while I still can. Of course, not wanting to exclude the equally endangered fax machine, I’d probably send the above copies of my bare ass to the police or someone I didn’t like. LOL.
If this were a cubicle farm (and since it’s a federal building, it likely would be) with high enough ceilings, I’d probably try to run across the tops of the cubes trying to make it from one end of the room to the other. Not wanting to miss out on my own probably hilarious failure at this effort, I’d be sire to prop up my phone to film me. If nothing else comes out of this whole thing, at least I could wind up on a World Star Hip Hop Vine compilation.
I’d then get into just underwear, a shirt, and socks and practice some Risky Business power slides on the polished marble foyer. After another glass of whiskey, of course.
Knowing my time was probably coming to an end, I’d start setting up some rinky-dink Home Alone style traps for the SWAT team that was about to come in and end me. Nothing deadly or nefarious like in Home Alone 2. More of the oil on the floor and hot doorknob stuff.
Time to polish off the rest of the booze. The end is nigh. While mentally preparing to meet my maker, I’d find the best speaker set connected to the work computers and plug them into my phone so the authorities would be forced to come in and end me while “Yakety Sax” blared at the loudest setting.