Regarding Those Handbaskets

I was told there'd be handbaskets.

I'll concede that no one promised me a rose garden, but I distinctly remember the mention of handbaskets. Since, clearly, everything is going to hell.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what a handbasket is. Is it similar to picnic baskets of yore, made of smooth woven wicker with two hinged lids and a sturdy handle? That doesn't seem like the best choice of vehicle to transport me through the eternal fires of damnation, being that it's wildly flammable, but at this point I'll take what I can get.

This nicely apportioned doom buggy
can be found on Amazon.

I'd like my handbasket to be woven of rattan imported from Indonesia, preferably an idyllic hilly countryside amid a lush tropical forest. Source the vines from trees near a turquoise lake or Hindu temple, please. Imagining those picturesque scenes will help pass the time while I float in my handbasket down the river, like a modern-day Moses, except to my destruction rather than salvation.

If my handbasket will be lined with fabric, I request a paisley print. The intricate and ancient design originates from the Middle East, not too far from where governments are currently collapsing, and the teardrop shapes are in memoriam of the millions worldwide who have died of coronavirus.   

I'm going to need the outside of my handbasket to be dotted with artificially bright plastic daisies, violet and fuchsia and cobalt, like the handlebar basket on the bicycle I got for my 7th birthday. The one I promptly fell from, smashing my head against a particularly sharp rock in the middle of our rural gravel road. The flowers will remind me of the sweet whimsy of childhood, and how thoroughly it can all go wrong.

Take me back
to just before the fall.

Will snacks be provided during this road trip to perdition, or do I need to bring my own? Maybe some chocolate made with cacao beans harvested in Haiti, brought to market before the ground heaved and swallowed itself, and some cool clear water from the once-mighty Colorado. Dip your cups quickly, before it's just a trickle.

The adage is unclear; will there be other travelers with me in this handbasket? If so, my handbasket will require explicit signage stating that masks are required regardless of vaccination status. There will be no COVID in my exit wagon. Nobody knows how long this trip might take, and I don't want to be gasping for air the entire time. 

Just allow me to enjoy the ride while I still can.