On May 21, 2011, the world once again failed to end. Honestly, I’m fine with that. It’s the kids I feel bad for. This was their first big apocalypse, they’re not used to disappointment. They don’t remember the purple sneakers of Heaven’s Gate (Little known fact: Ishtar was the second choice cult name) and the total let-down of Y2K when we all rushed into the streets at 12:01 AM, only to find that everything was working just fine, and we had to sheepishly drink up all the bottled water and eat all the Progresso soup we’d been hoarding in giddy anticipation of total collapse.
Plus, the kids, they’ve got a lot of big challenges ahead of them and they were really counting on the apocalypse to bail them out. For me, things aren’t quite as bleak. All I’ve got to do is scratch out a living for a few more decades; slurp up the last soggy Apple Jacks of Social Security and pink Medicare milk from the bottom of the government cereal bowl; drive around a bit in an RV; and die as expensively as possible. They have to figure out how to find jobs, pay off student loans, clean up this bankrupt shithole of a planet and somehow retire at the end of it. It’s like returning a rental car after a long road trip. I feel a little guilty about the condition, but mostly glad that I don’t have to do anything about the dog hair in the back, the Cheez-Whiz stains in the front and the pervasive stench of Sausage McMuffin and Ass.
