So the evildoers are gonna get us again. I can feel it; they’re getting ready. Leon Panetta for C.I.A. head? Were Warren Christopher and Richard Simmons both unavailable? Not to worry, I’m sure the incoming secretary of state will have the terrorists quaking in their boots, postponing plans to make kaboomies. I’ve been watching the 35^th anniversary Death Wish fest on American Movie Classics. My fiancée loves the whole franchise, thinks they’re comedies; every time Bronson wastes a switchblade-wielding mugger, she’s cackling away.

Anyway, I’m putting together my survival kit. Remember when everyone promised themselves they’d pack one after 9/11? And how no one did? Suckers.

So here goes.

Au poivre buffalo burgers, scallion cream cheese, crab cakes, matzo ball soup, creamed spinach, salmon caviar, cheese, pigs in a blanket, beef jerky from the Mast General store in Boone, N.C., 50-year-old Macallan’s single malt whiskey—O.K., some 23-year-old pompous ass with a beard is now thinking, Ha, what a dope, he doesn’t know you’re supposed to call it Macallan. Well, dudes like you are only good for one thing: ruining my drinks. Go back to fuckin’ Wesleyan. Let’s see, where was I? A pound of White Widow marijuana; the whole trick is to catch a slight buzz throughout the day, every few hours, then continue going about your tasks. I pity anyone who doesn’t do this on a regular basis. At the same time, I don’t like advocating marijuana use for anyone but me and am not in favor of softening Rockefeller drug laws—I’d make ’em even tougher for people in Hollywood.

Just looked into purchasing a bong at my local deli. Two prep-school dudes checking them out, too. I asked the very nice Muslim man to show me the bong; the price tag had a 5, a 9, and another 5 on it, so I figured all right, we’re in a depression, bongs are even cheaper than eighth grade. Nope. Guy wanted $59.95. Three of us burst out laughing at him. Then again, beginning to worry that after a month of sparking up every day and no exercise, I’m becoming somewhat lazy.

More for the kit: At least five different kinds of croutons.

CDs: the Band’s Music From Big Pink; Jethro Tull’s Songs from the Wood; Erik Satie’s Oeuvres Pour Piano Volume 3; Barry Manilow Live; Funky Kingston/In the Dark by Toots and the Maytals; Beach Boys’ Endless Summer; the Who’s Tommy; Bob Dylan’s Desire; all Miles Davis; Van Morrison’s Moondance (music freak friend argues he’d rather have Astral Weeks because Moondance is “too polished,” but you know what, he cried during Marley and Me so he’s disqualified); Judith Owen’s Mopping Up Karma (because of karma—I called her bonkers in this newspaper); the greatest hits of Joni Mitchell, Fats Domino, Ricky Nelson, John Denver, Neil Sedaka, George Jones; Are You Shakespearienced? by Trip Shakespeare (Check this OUT: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwlHcFj0W_E); Hong Kong Gooey Volume 7—don’t know what that’s doing here, or the Vanessa Del Rio flick; the Stones’ Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out; Comedy Minus One by Albert Brooks; Pride and Prejudice read by Jenny Agutter; and Steve Martin’s Comedy Is Not Pretty!

Let’s say I’m one of the last who survive, I Am Legend–style, and I appoint me emperor. I’ll ban Brits saying “massive” and “proper” (a proper flat, a proper lorry, etc.). Australian guys will be outlawed. In fact, dudes in general can take a hike.

May or may not pack up my Complete New Yorker with the eight DVDs. The mag irked me last night, Nancy Franklin writing about the Elvis Costello talk show, said she’s “not crazy” about the studio audience: “I noticed only two black faces and no young proto-rockers, just a monotonous sea of well-groomed upper-middle-class white people...” What does she expect? So that bothered me along with all the gratuitous Bush bashing in the magazine. Guess the deal is, if you include a sentence dissing Dubya, everyone winks at you when you walk down the New Yorker hallway, like a secret handshake: Pssst, nice goin’ with the chimp reference in your “pop notes” column or restaurant review, keep fighting the good fight, Obama’s gonna change the world, he’s gonna change it and rearrange it!

I’d bring 12 to 25 songs by Bob Dylan. Not saying which ones, it’s “my” Bob Dylan, not yours, so go away. “Visions of Johanna” is not on my list, if you must know. That’s on yours, though, isn’t it? Yeah. Of course it is. “Isis” is on mine. Had that album when I was 7. I win.

So glad I don’t happen to be, say, playing air drums or whacking it now. Window washer four feet away from me all a sudden.

Also in my kit: Fiber Con, the bulk-forming laxative; monogrammed PJs fiancée got me, and the red cowboy pair with opening in the seat. Comic books: Sgt Fury and his Howling Commandos, Little Lulu, X-Men, Dame Darcy. Anusol. Just wanted to write that. Don’t even know what it is. Funny word, though. Probably has something to do with your ass. No porn. Gonna have a whole posse of exotic girls. Second thought, not worth it. Can already hear them whining and squawking and scratching and giggling and talking about stupid stuff. It’ll just be me, the cat and the fiancée. Lubricated rubbers. Not gonna have much time for foreplay when I’m off the grid.

Books: Modern Times and Intellectuals by Paul Johnson; Peter Pan; My Life by Golda Meir; Sister Wendy’s 1000 Masterpieces; Liberal Fascism; that Robert Mitchum bio; Henry Miller, Balzac, Dickens, Twain, Conrad, Shakespeare, blah, blah, blah; 1000 Places to See Before You Die; Blame It On the Dog: A Modern History of the Fart; Alive; The Mr. and Mrs. Bridge novels; Gulliver’s Travels. I’m cool with small “independent” bookstores going out of business, by the way. Hope the Goliaths crush ’em all.

I’ll bring Sharky, Monkey, Plumpy and Piggy. Leaving Beary and Scruffy behind. Sorry, guys. From the bathtub I’ll take my yellow rubber ducky; my black ninja one; scuba-diving man; Smush Bush; bubble bath. Also avocados; Breathe Rights; Rogaine; Progaine; Selsun Blue; flushable Preparation H moist wipes with aloe; tube socks; milk; ice skates; banjo; singing saw; ranch dressing.

DVDs: Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Brief Encounter, Laura, E.T., 2001 A Space Odyssey, Breaker Morant, Wizard of Oz, A Christmas Carol, L’Avventura, City of Women, The Grateful Dead: Dead Ahead, The Fugitive, Cocaine Cowboys, Alive, Bad News Bears remake, If These Walls Could Talk Part 2, Dumb and Dumber, Stagecoach, Red River, Jeremiah Johnson, Tin Cup, Coffy, American Gigolo, Hot Rod, Helvetica, The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh, Dawn of the Dead, Black Snake Moan, Young Sherlock Holmes, Jesus: The Complete Story, Eddie Murphy Delirious, King Solomon’s Mines. TV shows: Everybody Loves Raymond, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Lucky Louie, Maude, Cheers, The Complete Tonight Show. Speaking of movies, back in 2002 I was talking to these Hollywood peeps, said I’d like to see a movie where the main character’s always pissed off, screaming at people on the street, smacking taxicabs if they got too close, because really, there’s nothing funnier—and I’m pretty sure they ripped me off with that Anger Management flick.

Bringing the Internet but getting rid of AOL once and for all. It’s bad enough to be on Facebook. Guy I last saw in boarding school in 1986 just friended me, wants to have drinks with two other guys I never want to see again. Can’t figure out what percentage of Facebook is catching up with dear old friends/connecting with new acquaintances versus Pure Evil. My conclusion: 25-75. Terminating my account.

Yoplait key lime or banana. Coats your belly better than raw eggs; Farts: A Spotters Guide with battery-powered fart machine; fish oils; Wellness Formula Herbal Resistance drops; tent; tarp; poncho; a mini point laser; rope; a hose; treasure pouch for sentimental items; Mr. Grouchy instant hand warmer; a disguise; sleeping bag with wedge pillow for acid flux; one of those aluminum blankets those dopes wear, looking for attention after they run the N.Y.C. Marathon in six hours; bug repellent; snakebite kit; snowshoes; Chapstick (which doubles as something you can hurl at a zombie’s head—done it before, whipped one at a guy on 57th and Park, scared the hell out of him); a stress-reducing squeeze ball. For the cat: Cat Chow; litter; Friskies Party Mix and Temptations; a good wire and bristle brush; Piggie and Lambie; large and small water bowls; honey-baked ham; Dover sole; catnip; cat dancer; furry blanket; jungle gym.

Also American flag; a penny farthing bike; whips, paddles, riding crops, gags, muzzles, collar with spikes, spreader and truss bars, cock and balls toys, leather hoods, ankle shackles (zero interest in any of this but might be good for trades); Nana by Zola that’s gotta be worth $2,000 if anyone wants to buy it and I’ll throw in an Avedon print of that bald guy covered with bees; 17 refills of Viagra; a Giant Big Wheel™; every issue of Playboy from ’64 (the issue with the Ayn Rand interview) to November ’78 (Monique St. Pierre, 36-26-36), which was the last year before American women became fake; Beano, Gas-X, Tums. I don’t care what my gastroenterologist says, I’m not getting a colonoscopy anytime soon; apparently during the procedure this thing called an intracolonic explosion can occur, where the colonoscope ignites the methane gases in there, and you explode. Which can be fatal.

ggurley@observer.com