I heard on Facebook that the Mayan apocalypse was supposed to happen at 6:12 a.m., but stilllll waiting. You know what did happen at 6:12? The cat threw up on the iPad. That’s it?
We live in a world where eagles can’t even properly carry off babies. Children don’t know enough to rush a gunman. People know how to comment on the Internet, despite incomplete second grade educations and missing chunks of their cerebral cortex. Matt Lauer still exists.
I, for one, am ready for the end of the world. But we got burned on the Rapture of ’11, so I don’t know. It’s like you just can’t trust prophets of doom anymore. At least we made a killing on Rapture Insurance back then. But I’ll be the first to admit we have not properly monetized this apocalypse.
Since the world did not end, it looks like I will have to go to the gym after all. Dismal.
Looks like we are in for a #winningweatheradvisory, chipmunks. Yeah, I wrote that hash tag a few weeks ago, and then a shiny object caught my attention, and I spent numerous hours drooling on myself and refreshing TMZ to see if Charlie Sheen did anything depraved or predatory in the last 18 minutes. And the world is ending, but I’ll be damned if I am paying for The New York Times to find out exactly how and when. I am sure someone on Facebook will tell me. Or some part of my body will actually sizzle and fall off. Whichever.
I have some kind of granite-like writer’s block, but I realized the problem was that I was waiting around to write what I wanted to write. I so very much wanted to write something good. Until I can do that, I should keep my thoughtcrime to myself, right? Except the real world doesn’t work that way. He who blabbers most frequently within the confines of 140 characters wins the future! He who deploys the most ordnance without approval from Congress gets to… well, you can’t really win with that one.
So why am I torturing myself, holding out for inspiration for the perfect screenplay when I could just write a Katherine Heigl movie? I am going to cast my cares unto the Lord and torture the internet instead. That’s right, I’m going right over to Sheen’s house to borrow a cup of hypomania, and then it’s balls to the wall here in the United States of Vomitola. I am calling in Steve Strange, Pete Burns, and that walrus with a bucket if I have to. Content is irrelevant anyway. You can please half the people half the time, but you can never please Morrissey.