A Perfectly Normal Reaction
by Bill Shein

SO THERE I was on a recent Thursday night, doing exactly what you were doing: Slouching in front of the computer, horned Viking helmet on my head, a mug of grog in one hand and a second, larger mug of grog in the other.

Then, as often happens in our rural Berkshire towns — where most electrical wiring was installed by Thomas Edison himself — the lights flickered and everything went black.

My computer whirred down to utter stillness. Had my hard drive been zapped into an unreadable melange of bits and bytes? Did I just lose important documents like "Recipe for Grog" and "Directions to GrogFest 2007" and "Groggy McGrog: A Comic Novel about a Wisecracking, Always-Sleepy Mug of Scottish Grog"? There was no way to know.

As I sat nervously in the dark, I asked the obvious questions: How widespread is the blackout? Will my ice cream survive? Is Mitt Romney really running for president, or is that whole thing just an expensive and uproarious joke? Will the power ever come back on? Or will we be forced to live electricity-free lives, unable to watch old video clips of Mitt Romney saying the opposite of what he says today?

While pondering these relevant and hilarious questions, I felt a small bead of sweat trickle out from underneath my horned helmet.

After a few minutes in the dark, I began to panic — just as many of you surely did. Was this blackout "the big one" that we all fear? You know, when the Alpha Centaurians use a massive electromagnetic pulse to knock out power across the earth so they can swoop down in their flying saucers, steal our women, imprison our leaders, and turn the rest of us into slaves and/or food?

Terrified, I thought about what to do next. Resorting to the obvious, I employed ideas found in the book, "Rearranging Deck Chairs: How to Stay Calm While Waiting for the Interstellar Human Transport Ship."

First, I lit candles and placed them around the house, bathing my furniture, pets, and piles of "Romney for President" gag merchandise in a warm, flickering light.

Next, I checked to make sure the backup generator that keeps my grog cellar at the right temperature was functioning. (It was.) Maybe our new alien overlords would be thirsty after their journey, and a mug of grog would get me on their good side, right?

I also tried to reach friends on the phone — to warn them and say goodbye. Incredibly, every single call went unanswered.

Yikes! My breathing became rapid and sweat poured from the Viking helmet. Images of good friends inside of giant hot dog buns, about to be consumed by 30-foot-tall Alpha Centaurians, made me shudder — and also giggle, because the image of a human being inside of a giant hot dog bun is always, always funny.

(The irreverent logo of the "Romney for President" campaign features a photo of our not-so-beloved ex-governor inside of a red, white and blue hot dog bun. It's a hoot!)

So where was everyone? If not drowning in mustard and sauerkraut, were my friends already busy mining dilithium crystals in Centaurian work camps? (Boo!) Was every Earth woman now married to a 30-foot-tall extraterrestrial? (Boo!) Were our nation's leaders already behind bars? (Yay!)

Before I could find out, the lights flickered a few times and then stayed on. Power had returned! The ice cream was safe! The alien invasion had been thwarted by the heroes at National Grid!

As I walked around the house blowing out candles, I felt a wave of embarrassment. What would happen if anyone learned of my irrational response to an all-too-common, small-town power failure? I'd be too mortified to show my face in public.

So, as I put my heavily dog-eared copy of "Rearranging Deck Chairs: How to Stay Calm While Waiting for the Interstellar Human Transport Ship" back on a shelf, I swore an oath to never reveal any part of this story. And that's a vow I intend to keep.

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Bill Shein is the founder of "Overreactors Anonymous."

(This column first appeared in the Berkshire Eagle newspaper on Saturday, May 19, 2007. Read Bill's previous column, "The Real 'Prescription for Chaos' ").