I want to thank the small gathering here tonight. The half-dozen or so of you are probably the last of the living humans, so congratulations! I know we all had different approaches to surviving the viral apocalypse like underground bunkers. Gordon, well played. And self inoculation. Celia, let's just put you on the “we'll see” list. And experimental medical treatments. Good for you, Miranda. I hope the gamma-ray induced Hulkification isn't too unpleasant.

For me, I used a simple paper surgical mask and, well, obviously, it did an outstanding job. The virus didn't get me. And, frankly, I feel vindicated.

Sure, there were plenty of naysayers who labeled me a kook for thinking that a flimsy paper mask could stop the viral plague that decimated nearly all of humanity. But who is the lunatic now? Not the medical experts, late-night talk show hosts, or all my so-called friends and family members. Nope. They're all dead! And who is left? Just us free-thinking, illogical, hypochondriacs, doomsday preppers, and Hulk lady.

So, I'm just gonna go there — I told you so!

Sorry! Sorry! I know I shouldn't shout.

Obviously, that is directed at the dead, not those of you alive and shivering with me in the dark, and I mean that both figuratively and literally. It's best we don't start a fire.

I tried to tell my stupid husband, Jerome, but would he listen? No. And now he's dead, or undead. What is the term we're using now? We were initially calling them dead-heads, but Gordon said that was triggering for him, so we changed it to brain eaters, but that was deemed culturally insensitive. So, I think we settled on, living impaired? Right? Let's go with that.

Anyway, Jerome is now living impaired, feasting on the brains and viscera of the other too-cool-for-school-and-for-paper-face-mask jerks, and we're here alive in this rusted shipping container, half-starved, filled with dread about our horrific futures, with no physical or emotional comforts, knowing that we are now the hunted. Who is laughing now? Me! That's who!

I'm proud of myself. I had the courage to put me first and say, “Shelby, you go, girl! You do you and wear that paper mask, no matter how ridiculous it looks!”

I'll tell you what—I feel empowered! I know that's weird to say when there's a roaming hoard of infect-oids aching to chow down on our emaciated bodies. But it feels good to know I was right. ‘Cause I'm gonna be honest, I wasn't always so spot-on, not about these bangs, my bald eagle tattoo, my multi-level marketing franchise, or Scientology. But I am right about this!

And good for all of you, too! You were also right about your various fears and antisocial quirks that kept you isolated from loved ones and experiencing life. You did it!

Please don't clap. It attracts the ghouls. You know —I'm just gonna whisper from here on out because I'm pretty sure they know we're in here.

Anyway, congratulations to us all. We are the last of the humans. And while it isn't as enjoyable to be alive as I thought it would be—I'm actually freezing, hungry, and trembling with fear and remorse—it does feel good to know I was right. We are all winners! Well, not Celia. She's not looking so good.

For the rest of us, let's crack open that door and embrace our prize!