Thanks to 'stay at home,' we're closer to post-apocalyptic life than you think

Gas is so cheap now that every time I go to the station I reenact the scene from “The Road Warrior” where Mad Max tosses any container he can find under the bleeding tank of a wrecked dune buggy — a construction helmet, a water pitcher, a dinner plate — anything to capture as much of the gas as he can.

It is impossible to watch a “Mad Max” film and not covet its devil-may-care way of life. Sure, nuclear war is a thing, and most of the population has regressed to lizard brain levels. But you never saw landscapes so vast, so free, a new adventure waiting around every corner, all daily grinds ground to a so-what halt. And while in Max’s world showers have become a thing of the past and every rest stop is boobytrapped, the allure of the open road is hard to deny. You want to get in your car and drive into the sunset? Maybe watch a little nature overtaking civilization around the edges? Now’s the time.

Thanks to “stay at home,” we’re closer to Mad Max living than you think.

Consider your car once more. I get that we’re not supposed to congregate, but there is no one in your car. You can turn the music up as loud as you want, DJ Road Dawg. You don’t need a destination because nothing is open anyway. You can go full “Easy Rider,” baby. If you need a restroom break, gas stations are still open. There aren’t any howling scavengers with crossbow wristbands on I-270... yet.

No one cares how they look anymore. Pants have become negotiable. There’s no reason to get cute to go pick up toilet paper. You might as well be wearing football pad armor, for all anyone cares, so save yourself a water bill and switch from casual wear to leather chaps and breathable chainmail. I nicked my hair so bad giving myself a haircut that I decided it was time to bring sexy back to mohawks.

Every “Mad Max” film is defined not only by its titular hero, but its flamboyant villains: Toecutter, Lord Humungus, Aunty Entity, Immortan Joe. Our reality is similarly thwarted by the machinations of a boss level caricature in Donald Trump. In keeping with canon, Trump’s plan is to hoard whatever resources exist, dangle them over the gurgling pleas of the less fortunate, and growl through frenzy-inducing monologues.

Calendars have become moot, with endless days piling on top of one another. There is scarcely any reason to keep track of where we are in time. Who cares what the weather is when you’re not going anywhere?

Through it all, though, I must admit: I am still waiting for Tina Turner to show up in a stainless steel dress and serenade me.