To the general public- make sure there aren't any hard-earned dollars left in your bank accounts, and certainly don't look forward to finally getting that coveted festive sweater on Christmas morning, because come tomorrow, December 21st, it's over. Existence. Humanity. Life as we know it. No more morning coffees from the cute barista. No more long checkout lines at Walmart. No more Dick Clark New Years Eve specials.
No more anything.
Because look around you. Everything is aligned in a pattern that makes this so-called 'dooms day' inevitable.
Come on, now. We are in a world where Psy (I repeat...Psy) is the finest example of international icon. A world where blowhards like Lou Dobbs are handed mammoth platforms to spread their bullshit. A world where Lindsay Lohan, the universe's most destructive train wreck, has enough money under her coke-stained mattress to wipe out hunger and poverty.
And now that Manny Pacquiao has been knocked to the canvas and Sockington the Cat has accumulated nearly 1.5 million Twitter followers, the only thing that was formerly 'impossible' that hasn't come true yet is those darn Mayans being right about the end of days.
As for the 21st itself? It's the day that This is 40 will release, reminding us that Paul Rudd is happily employed and we aren't. It's the anniversary of Naismith's first basketball game, providing Stephen A. Smith with the grounds to utter the N-word on national television. And it's the day, 46 years ago, that Andy Dick escaped from his mother's womb directly into a Xanax addiction and mediocre acting career.
These recent sentiments of inexplicability can only be explained in the following fashion: They are signs, precursors perhaps, of our impending descent into the destructive demise of the human race.
Adios.
