Pain is the initial reason I didn’t want to have kids. I passed out in my 9th grade sex education class when they showed a film strip (that’s right – I said film STRIP, remember those?) of an OB-GYN exam, so how could I survive a watermelon coming out of my hoo-haw if I can’t handle a picture of a doctor’s hands getting all up in there?
Also, I don’t know about you, but I don’t do so well with torture, either. Don’t hire me to be your spy. I’d sing like a canary the second my kidnapper opened his ribbed aluminum case of shiny blades and corkscrews. Hell, I start to confess about my poor flossing habits as soon as my my dental hygienist swings the tray of torture in front of my face. You know, the neatly lined up stabby pokey devices? They may as well start the tape recorder right there, ’cause I’ll tell them everything!
Would you expect me to protect my country when I’m accosted and taken behind enemy lines if I have to fast forward through the slow slicing scenes of 24?
But anyway, I didn’t call you all here to discuss my weak knees. I was talking about the End of the World.
So, I’m okay with dying because of the earth acting like the Ford Pinto of planets in the event of a giant asteroid on one condition: everybody else has to die, too. It wouldn’t be fair (although with my karma, it would be typical) if I had to give up the rest of my life while a bunch of jackasses got to keep living. Call me competitive, but if other people got to live, or WORSE, if I didn’t die, but got MAIMED by an alien visit gone awry, that would totally piss me off.
And if a bunch of A-holes survived whatever catastrophe, do you think that would teach them a lesson about living a better life? Heck no. It would enable their bad behavior. Jerks.
Oh sure, maybe at first they’d be all, “Oh I’m just lucky to be alive. Maybe this is a sign that I’ve been given a second chance at life. To do something good for my fellow man.”
But it wouldn’t be long before they forgot all about their promises to God and they’d be selling the movie rights of their close brush with death and get right back to taking life for granted. Idiots.
And boy, would I be super angry if I got annihilated by a fireball because here I am, scrimping and saving for retirement and for what? Nothin’, that’s what.
So if this 2012 alien/asteroid/whatever thing is going to happen, I want to know now so I can blow my wad. Of dough, that is. But once again, with my luck, I’d splurge like there’s no tomorrow and then 2012 would come and go like all the other Doomsdays and then I’d have to get a job as a Wal Mart greeter until I’m 100 because there will be no such thing as Social Security and Medicare to carry me through my Autumn years, all because a bunch of prognosticating bozos promised that this time, THIS TIME it would be different. Morons.
This whole End of the World issue is exhausting to debate. I mean, do I live it up for the next three years, maybe travel the world before it’s blown to smithereens? Or do I ignore yet another Chicken Little prediction and grow into an old and bitter cantankerous woman chasing robot children off my lawn with a broom?
(Photo courtesy of Flickr)