In case of rapture, I'll just be here.

My dog can predict stuff too.

It seems that an 89-year old man successfully maneuvered through the social media and crazy train networks of Christers to broadcast his urgent message of (dubious, cynical, perverse?) hope.  Hey!  Yay!  The world is going to end on May 21!  Save the date, 'kay!?  Because, kind guy that he is, he didn't want anyone to miss the fun by... say... visiting a luddite uncle or seeing a movie or something equally mundane yet out of hearing range so they'd miss the fireworks as 200 million naked folks streak into the sky for Jesus's big, boring bash in the clouds.  No spiked punch for them.

I'm of the opinion that the faster these folks get siphoned off the planet, the better.  Don't let the stratosphere hit you on your way up and out, okay?  I'll kick it down here, sigh contentedly and throw my arms wide for the calm age of reason that should follow.  And the legalized pot.

Okay, the whole rapture business is bat shit crazy, but what's crazier than the bat shit is the bat food gobbled into the pious (probably Tagament-coated) digestive track of the hordes of the fat and holy hopefuls.  There's an incredible hierarchy of unbelievably insane homework that had to be completed to finish the term and receive one of the cool Rapture t-shirts folks are sporting under smiles that don't know that getting saved means getting dead.  Yay, kids!  We stopped saving for your college tuition!  Who's ready to meet the maker?

First, the impatient rapture ticketholders had to believe that Harold Camping's reading of the bible is somehow authoritative.  He's a civil engineer, for pete's sake.  For chrissake, I mean.  (I'm really anxious to be among those left behind.)  Second, they had to follow his math, which, if I remember anything from math classes, usually requires numbers that aren't randomly made up just to get the correct answer.  Mr. Flattum always frowned on my creative number replacements while he gently massaged the shoulders of the boy in front of me.  Mr. Flattum had soft-hands, I'm told.  Third, you have to add up ages in the bible because the bible is really precise on the longevity of those tribal elders.  For example, some guys lived over 150 years.  And Noah, well he was in his 600th year when he decided to build his ark.  So, you take those ages and add them all up because there's no reason to question how those Old Testament guys were living to such ripe old ages  when most humans would have fully ripened and started to rot by 35, if they actually made it through their first five years.  Finally, I guess, they also have to believe there's some dude who's going to plop down to earth, take a look around, then hop back up into the sky to report to some other dude who's got the power to smite us all.  And that we will be smote by him.  And that somehow, a good smiting will be different than the physically torturous adventure of getting sucked through the earth's atmosphere with no clothes on.  Oh, geez.  I mean, oh fucking lord.  People really buy this shit?



Shit.  I'm pretty keen to see how this all shakes out.  All joking aside... no.  I can't do that.  It's too fucking funny.  I mean, like, it's funny in that way that I want to point at everyone who exhausted their savings because they had the hubris to think that they'd be specially selected to clear out of this mortal coil and I want to hold my stomach while I laugh at them.  And I'm usually pretty nice.  But with this.  Nah.  No need to be nice while they squirm to abandon ship.

Yeah, well, there's always a DIY option since you won't be able to pay rent next month, dumb-dumb.  And maybe that's mean, but come on.  It's actually really fucking funny.