Call me Bill Gates

I have bleach.

A few weeks ago, that wouldn’t have been a big deal. But now? Oh, baby, now it definitely is. I also have toilet paper, hand sanitizer and flour. Thanks to a tiny little virus, I’ve gone from being a man of modest means to a post-apocalyptic millionaire.

Like most turns of fate in my life, this one wasn’t planned. I bought all that stuff back in early February, just before the world went nuts and the nitwits among us decided they need 2,000 rolls of TP in order to feel “safe.” (If you currently have a garage stuffed to the rafters with Charmin, then yes, I’m talking about you, you hoarding jerk.)

I didn’t buy my bleach to ward off the Andromeda Strain or even sanitize the house after a visit from the cootie factories that are my grandchildren. I bought it because I wear white socks, often without shoes when I’m walking around the house in the evening. They get dirty. Bleach mitigates that.

The toilet paper and hand sanitizer I purchased for the same reason all non-hoarders purchase this stuff; I needed them for their intended purposes.

Thanks to blind luck, when the stores emptied out, I was already stocked up on these few essentials. Enough to last me for the next couple months, if I’m careful, which I intend to be, things being what they are.

I used most of the flour to make Irish soda bread for my St. Patrick’s Day repast. The corned beef and cabbage somehow escaped the attention of the hoarders and I was able to purchase that at the grocery without using my Kung-fu moves on any little old ladies attempting to balance the last brisket atop their TP-stuffed carts.

That made me happy. Not only did I not have to hurt any little old ladies, but I avoided the very real possibility that a little old lady might wind up hurting me. Win-win.

The only actual hoarding I’ve done myself was tins of Tuna. I’m addicted to the kind in sweet chili sauce and nobody else seems to buy it anyway. Plus, they were half-off last week, only 50-cents per can. I bought 30. Whatever I don’t eat myself I can trade for toilet paper once the hoarders realize paper isn’t edible, no matter how soft or strong it might be.

So, between my three packs of TP, two bottles of Purell, big bag of flour and cupboard full of Tuna, I’m set to enter our new Mad Max reality. Or as set as I’ll ever be.

Problem is, over the years I’ve grown accustomed to being a man of modest means. My poverty means I’ve rarely had anything anyone else wants to steal. Now? Well, like I said, I’m a coronavirus Bill Gates. And I’m ill-prepared to protect my new-found wealth.

Will barbarian hordes (of hoarders) storm my little house on the hill carrying pitchforks and torches? If they do, should I dump pots of boiling oil on them or just soak them down with the garden hose? I really don’t know the protocol.

I don’t want my response to seem unneighborly, but I also want to hang onto my three packs of toilet paper, which, just for the record, is only the cheap stuff from the dollar store. I actually prefer that to the “good” kind, though The Lovely Mrs. Taylor mocks my plebeian tastes at every opportunity. She uses Charmin at her house and isn’t she just ever so la-de-da!

I digress. My point is I now have the not insubstantial task of protecting my vast fortune. I’d buy a gun and some ammo, but I’m guessing if the panic-stricken masses are hoarding toilet paper then the firearms are also flying off the shelves and will soon be in short supply. Also, I don’t think I’m ready to cap someone over a roll of dollar store TP or a couple tins of tuna in sweet chili sauce.

I suppose if it comes down to it, anyone who breaks into my house can just go ahead and steal my TP, my flour, my tuna. I live on a lake that’s full of fish, so I won’t starve. And I suppose I could fashion some sort of crude bidet out of my garden hose (the one I was going to use to disband the rampaging horde of hoarders). So even the toilet paper is optional.

In truth, I’ll sleep better at night once I’m poor again. This wealth thing is just too stressful.