Mutant Insect Monday

Mutant insects? Where! Show me!

Lower the Raid can, Kemosabe. Mutant insects (as a potentially society-ending entity) don't currently exist. But that's not to say they can't, and, as sean b so gently pointed out, it's high time we devote a little time to getting your MISP off the ground.

Insects do two basic things: eat and reproduce. They're small, they move in swarms, and they all have ways of attacking humans. Why haven't they consumed the planet by now? Because they're at the bottom of the food chain. Everyone eats bugs - even some plants. Insects are getting gobbled up so fast it's a miracle there are any left. It takes constant breeding just to stay alive.

If you are annoyed by the presence of insects around your home, it's a simple matter to break out the pesticide and clear the area. Bugs can sometimes be annoying, but they're never a real threat.

Mutations being what they are, however, it's impossible to predict the future. Insects would require only minor changes to become incredibly threatening. Let us assume, for instance, that a given insect lost susceptibility to modern insecticides, or doubled its rate of reproduction. Suddenly, the current delicate balance of existence would be upset and insects would take over the world. Let us examine:

Termites

Termites consume dead plant material (wood). This means the agricultural threat is not total (trees and vines will be destroyed while grains and legumes survive), but the danger to modern society is still very gret. Wood and wood fiber products (like cardboard and paper) have been of critical importance to infrastructure for millennia. Widespread termite damage would cause buildings to collapse and paper records to be destroyed. The vast majority of the human population would be without shelter. Forests and jungles would vanish and shipping would grind to a halt.

Civilization would face desperate turmoil for several years until metal and plastic building materials became cheap enough to restore basic construction. Refugees would roam aimlessly in search of shelter. The global economy would collapse and then implode.

A few words of advice: fighting termites is about protecting yourself. Build your home with metal framing; use synthetic insulation; coat your drywall with a thick impermeable plastic. As always, be sure to have enough weaponry to deal with swarming refugees who want to live in your termite-proof house. If you work in construction, manufacturing, or transportation, get a new job presto.

Locusts

Locusts are not directly threatening to humans but they devastate agriculture. Before modern insecticides, locust plagues were capable of causing devastating famines causing tens of thousands of deaths. Entire regions find themselves completely devoid of crops after a locust swarm descends; it often takes years to recover.

A locust apocalypse would consume above 90% of the planet's current plant life. This would have devastating short and long term impacts. Short term: massive food shortages would cause billions of people to starve to death. With survival on the line, countries would be forced into war over the remaining stockpiles, and rationing would give way to corruption and blackmail. The rich and powerful would pay their minions with food and play subfactions against each other; anarchy would reign. The geopolitical structure would devolve into a caricature of dogs squabbling over meat.

Civilization would collapse under the weight of rapid depopulation and the world would be plunged into a post-apocalyptic stone age. Regions safe from locusts (mostly the polar areas) would be invaded by survivors who would fight bitter wars to the death over the space. Civilization would slowly return, only to face the long-term impact of a locust apocalypse: atmospheric imbalances.

Flora and fauna are extremely co-dependent. Here's a basic idea, courtesy of Mountain Empire Community College:


See how that works, boys and girls? CO2 > plants > O2 > animals > CO2 > and so on.

Take plants out of the equation, and you have a broken chain. O2 gets used up and converted to CO2 but it's never converted back. What happens now? Do we all die? Not quite - there are special machines that can decarbonize CO2 and maintain the atmosphere in a small, closed system. But we don't have the technology to keep the whole planet going. Human life will go underground and exist in air-tight cities. With post-anarchic government settling back down in easy-to-control spaces, totalitarianism will see a sudden resurgence. Citizens will be forced to toe the line to get food and oxygen or be exiled to the lifeless surface.

Preparation for a locust apocalypse is simple: first, have a survivor party capable of fighting for food if and when necessary. Second, stockpile food and make sure no one outside your survivor party knows about it. Have enough to keep your party alive for several years with some left over. Use the leftover food to buy power in one of the brutal dictatorships of the post-locust world. Third, move to the Rocky Mountains.

Bees

Africanized honey bees (also known as Killer bees) are some of the most potentially dangerous critters on God's green earth. They have everything that makes normal bees dangerous (potent, fast-acting poison, wide hive coverage, excellent communication, super-dynamic body), with the added comfort of a scent "tag" they place on enemies, causing all nearby bees to swarm and sting the target. If you're tagged by a killer bee, you're in very deep doo-doo.

A sting from a single bee is not dangerous to those of us who don't suffer from bee allergies. In fact, it's possible to develop an immunity to bee toxin (ask a bee keeper about the last time he was stung). Some cultures even use dried poison for medicinal uses to stimulate the immune system. But there's no coming back from a bee swarm. Poison effects every part of your body; swelling some things, shutting down others.

Killer bee apocalypse would cause the deaths of billions of animals, from lizards to humans (and yes, in between). Depopulation would be just the beginning. Because bees don't need their victims to survive, they could exist on the surface indefinitely, and without sufficient quantities of herbivores, plant life would rapidly overtake the planet. Humans would be forced into ironclad cities safe from both insects and the ravaging plant sprawl. With every passing year, the bees would become more prolific and life on the surface would be more impossible.

As with many apocalypse plans, you must be able to identify a killer bee invasion before it becomes serious. Get into densely populated areas, where you can stay indoors and where plant life (which is what attracts bees) is more scarce. No matter how safe you feel, never remove your protective mosquito netting. Better safe than sorry.

Life underground won't be easy, but neither will adjusting to the post-anarchic totalitarianisms of closed-city governments. You'll need a plan to adapt to harsh new realities - but that's a topic for another Monday.
Got your own Survival concerns? Comment below with your own life-and-society threatening scenario for a free expert analysis.

When Censorship is the Best Option

Dear Mom and Dad,

School is really hard this year. My teachers hate me. I have a 300 page book to read by tomorrow, and my 30 page research paper is due on Tuesday. I’d really like to work on them, but my roommate is asking me to watch Ironman again, so I just think the homework will have to wait. I failed my Chem test on Monday, and I skipped class on Thursday to avoid my Humanities exam. I feel like I'm learning a lot, so grades don't really matter, right?

My roommate never bathes. It’s like a third world country in here. But with a lot more clothes and food. In fact, the piles of food and clothing are everywhere. I don’t think my roommate knows where the laundry room is. I’ve started to find flies congregating around the dirty heaps of fabric. If this doesn’t stop soon, I don’t know if I can take it much longer. I think I'll dump a whole bottle of Tide on him tonight in his sleep... maybe he'll get my point. If he doesn't, I'm moving out.

I'm engaged! I don’t think I could have found a nicer person. Her personality is her strongest asset. We’re going out for fast food and a movie tomorrow after her anger management class. I didn't think she'd agree to be my girlfriend after I dumped lasagna in her lap on the first date. I didn't know anyone could yell that loud. I plan on bringing her home for Christmas with me. I thought about surprising you, but...

I wanted to get my nose pierced, but I’ve been having these strange dreams about being stalked by an evil giant magnet, so I don’t think that’s such a great idea.

I'm doing great. I need money. I’ll be home for Christmas.

Love,
Me

Serf of the Flies

There was a congenial, respectable old man at a church I once attended, who seemed to all intents and purposes (back then I had purpose and intentions) a paragon of decorum. Like all adults, he never wrestled at potlucks, picked his nose, or wore dirty jeans with holes in them. He was always friendly and dignified, and he loved to tell stories. I loved to hear stories, so I hung around when he talked with my dad. One day I discovered that not only was he a model adult; he had been a model boy as well. He had captured a fly.

On a particularly boring(!) Sunday morning, this man had spotted one of the obnoxious insects buzzing around him. Having nothing better to do with his ingenious brain, he devised a way to pilfer a particularly long strand of hair from a woman in front of him. With his plunder he fashioned a noose, and then caught the fly in his hand, shook the creature into disoriented obsequy, and slipped the noose around its neck. All that was left after that was to fasten the hair to his button, and watch his new pet bumble around like a frantic chihuahua on a long leash.

His dad, it seemed, had not been as amused at the feat as I was at the story of it, but the man relished his anecdote nonetheless. And I resolved then and there to be a valiant Fly-Bane. I never quite succeeded in catching one for long enough to pull its wings off, but I prowled my house with a fly-swatter and marked every kill with a notch. It was heaven.

I was dreaming of that heaven one fine afternoon this summer when a fat, lazy, insolent fly complacently settled on my dinner plate and tranquilly rubbed its hands together, as insolent flies are accustomed to do. I fancied it chuckled a little too, as it eyed me and prepared to devour my meal. Alas! Our fly-swatter was lost. Man is a weak creature, dependent on his petty tools and inventions. Without a swatter, I was helpless. My only recourse was bare hands, and since I didn’t want to upset my plate with a quick snatch, I had to content myself with a gentle flick and wave.

Gentle flicks, in case you haven’t noticed, do not bother the determined fly. Homer noticed, some 2,800 years ago:

“Therefore she put strength into his knees and shoulders, and made him as bold as a fly, which, though driven off will yet come again and bite if it can.”

In fact, I believe that flies like a challenge sometimes, and they instinctively know when they can get away with it. They will land on your sausage, take a sniff or two, and then buzz away to get their friends. When you chase them they nimbly escape your reach, often waiting until the last possible moment before flying off—for the thrills, no doubt. And then, when they discover that you are too lazy to buy a fly-swatter, their confidence grows and they eat themselves into slow, obese, noisy insects and lord it over you and your barbecue. To be lorded over by a fly is perhaps the most infuriating emotion imaginable. Almost infuriating enough to make me buy a fly-swatter.

There was one summer when even a fly-swatter was not enough though. That was back in rural Nebraska, where houseflies swarm like locusts and darken the skies with their mass. You can kill as many as you want there, and they will laugh at the casualties. It is all-out trench warfare. One morning the whole ceiling of a van was coated with black flies—sluggish in the frost. Remember that, for it is their Achilles heel. We scraped them off the ceiling onto a sheet and deposited them in an unpleasantly wet location, where they doubtless slumbered peacefully for eternity, without a single frightened buzz. Cooling a fly off is like putting salt on a bird's tail: it signals the end.

Regrettably, mornings are rather warm where I live. So my only option is to grit my teeth, wave my weary hand, and eat my polluted sausage. Until my brother drives to the store for a fly-swatter. Because I’m not going.

To Take Up Arms...

There is a time for everything, Solomon said, and so there must be a time for sleep. There must be, but but that doesn't make it easy to find. And about two evenings ago, it was more elusive for me than real estate on the moon.

It was just one of those nights. The kind that start two hours early, when your eyes begin to rebel against the light of day just as your boss is walking by full of energy that he is alarmingly ready to funnel into the gory task of setting you straight. The kind that won't completely kick in even two hours after they're supposed to, because those rebellious eyes have rechanneled their restlessness and sandpapered themselves into an insurrection against you in your weary hour of need. The kind that you must slog through despite the fact that you just watched a certain film about crystals and skulls and fiery ants that eat people alive, and every little itch on your skin is beginning to send tingles of terror and images of fiery red legs through your addled brain, and you are suddenly and strangely feeling more little itches than you thought possible just a few hours ago when your boss was glaring at you in the deliciously comfortable, air-conditioned facility.

That's how I felt, anyway, as I tossed and turned in a hot, sticky bed under hot, sticky covers trying to keep my hot, dry eyelids shut. Gradually I dozed off, feverishly reeling through fields of Martians and Aztecs and Soviet soldiers. The little itches continued in my dreams, magnified by the sincere belief that behind them were the malevolent little jaws of a hundred malevolent little army ants. My right arm, nestled safely behind my head, began to tingle with innumerable little needlepoints, and I could sense the poison at work. The dream grew louder and busier, until the jaws began to sound like Goliath playing a timpani (no hyperlink; just use your imagination).

Then I awoke, trembling and sweatier than ever, the crickets peacefully chirping outside and my heart racing wildly in a successful attempt to outpace their chirps by a factor of five to one. I tried to sleep again, but my mind was on autopilot at about 95 miles an hour, just like my car had been some time earlier. I put my head back on my lumpy pillow, and that was when I discovered my arm.

I say I discovered my arm, but the fact is that I discovered its absence. There was an awful itch on my nose, and I summoned my right finger to destroy it. Alas! My right finger had gone AWOL, along with my hand and biceps. My brain sent signals, but my muscles ignored them, and worse, the nerves wouldn't send back any reply. I reached around with my left arm and seized the delinquent appendage. It was cool, clammy, and limp, almost like a piece of dead meat or your two-year-old cousin when you have to carry him inside from a nap in his carseat and his lifeless, snoring mass seems to weigh ten times more than your barbells did at the gym earlier that day.

I lifted my carcass of an arm until I could see it. There was no mental connection between that thing and myself. For all I knew or cared, it could have been a hapless, five-pound bass or trout poisoned by CapeNature officials. Or it could have been the steaming lump of brisket that I had dropped on the driveway a while back. In the spirit of the unsettling occasion, I let this lump drop as well. It fell on my face with a thud which made me realize the gravity of the situation.

My arm was dead. I peered at it, in the dim light that an opalescent moon managed to smuggle around my window blinds, with a growing mixture of fear, surprise, and self-pity. "This is a sorry sight," I felt inclined to mummer. What could I do without a right arm? What would my boss say? What would my mother say? How would I type this post? I lifted the arm again several times and dropped it, with more curiosity than hope. Then, somewhere around the seventh try, I realized to my wonder that the ants had begun to arrive again. I dropped the arm several more times, and subsequently started pounding it with my left fist. The ants returned with a vengeance, tearing and devouring my lifeless flesh. With a supreme effort, I lifted the arm and curled my fingers. It was a fist of victory, and in a short time I was able to shake it defiantly at the ants themselves. Feeling the familiar blood course through my veins was such an exhilarating experience that it was almost worth the sleep it cost me the rest of the night.

Almost.