A friend actually emailed me wondering what to think about her sister’s stockpiling food for whatever that rodeo clown is threatening will happen once there’s nothing left of America but a bunch of goldbugs (a k a roaches for the next millennium). Not just because I read “The Road,” I don’t quite understand what good a Y2K2.0 bunker is going to do. All food eventually goes bad, even if it is much later on than easily cowed consumers expect from the “best by” imprints on their cans and jars. And if you have a full subterranean supply, won’t it leave you even more vulnerable to the savages who will be desperately hungry when the money’s gone? I’d think the best solution would be to lay in serious esoterica, not the crap the cretins are being sold. Because one thing I will never get over is the strongest similarity between the super-wealthy and condemned killers. In ordering up their last meal, they both would prefer to eat the unchallenging food they grew up with. To stay safe, invest in tinned foie gras and pasteurized caviar. Leave the Campbell’s Comfort and Chicken of the Chicken to the heathens.