Apocalypse Wow!
It has been recently brought to my attention that this blog's obsession with the end of the world makes it about as cheerful as a bathtub full of rotting clown carcasses. What I think is being missed is how much FUN Armageddon is going to be!
For one thing, you'll never be bored again. Whether your time is spent trying to flee the burning wreckage of a burning, plague-ravaged city while losing as few of your family members to crazed militia bands and tube-neck along the way, or trying to start a fire from twigs in a refugee camp, you'll never have to worry about finding a way to entertain yourself again.
Similarly, all that post-industrial angst we've all been wearing around our necks like burning tires of existential despair vanish in the time it takes for martial law to be declared and the rape gangs to hit the streets. No time to wonder what your purpose in life is, whether or not you're exploiting someone when you buy a fleece pullover, whether you're destroying the environment every time you get in the car, if you're wasting your life when you turn on the television. Your purpose in life will finally be clear: SURVIVE!
Speaking of the environment, nothing is going to stop global warming except for a world-ending catastrophe, so that'll be good in the long run.
And the Republicans won't be running things anymore. That'll be fun. As a matter of fact, the fat-ass, neutered suburban marshmallows who find their only sense of power in life in the destruction wrought by their countries military will die in swarms. When the Big Ugly hits Mall-topia, these doughy sadists will watch, paralyzed, the scene on their plasma screens of the panicked hordes descending upon them.
The above douches will wait for Jesus and the 42nd Airborne to save them, and it won't happen. They'll be forced to take the death-fetishism that leads them to worship blood-drenched military machinery as the embodiment of the Sacred and do their own killing in the name of. They'll die, and kill, and will scatter into the winds, and, most importantly, THEY WON'T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN POWER! Who wouldn't trade undetermined decades of numb mundanity and spiritual abnegation for the chance to view such a reckoning?
And, of course, there's the slim glimmer of hope for the aftermath. The murmur of a chance that things could be different, something better could rise from the ashes. Communities based on trust, sharing and mutual aid, devoid of hierarchy, greed, and militarism. People living for the love of each other, instead of the love of accumulation, domination, status. Not likely, but goddamn it, POSSIBLE.
Even if it doesn't happen, the fireworks will still be a hoot and a half.
For one thing, you'll never be bored again. Whether your time is spent trying to flee the burning wreckage of a burning, plague-ravaged city while losing as few of your family members to crazed militia bands and tube-neck along the way, or trying to start a fire from twigs in a refugee camp, you'll never have to worry about finding a way to entertain yourself again.
Similarly, all that post-industrial angst we've all been wearing around our necks like burning tires of existential despair vanish in the time it takes for martial law to be declared and the rape gangs to hit the streets. No time to wonder what your purpose in life is, whether or not you're exploiting someone when you buy a fleece pullover, whether you're destroying the environment every time you get in the car, if you're wasting your life when you turn on the television. Your purpose in life will finally be clear: SURVIVE!
Speaking of the environment, nothing is going to stop global warming except for a world-ending catastrophe, so that'll be good in the long run.
And the Republicans won't be running things anymore. That'll be fun. As a matter of fact, the fat-ass, neutered suburban marshmallows who find their only sense of power in life in the destruction wrought by their countries military will die in swarms. When the Big Ugly hits Mall-topia, these doughy sadists will watch, paralyzed, the scene on their plasma screens of the panicked hordes descending upon them.
The above douches will wait for Jesus and the 42nd Airborne to save them, and it won't happen. They'll be forced to take the death-fetishism that leads them to worship blood-drenched military machinery as the embodiment of the Sacred and do their own killing in the name of. They'll die, and kill, and will scatter into the winds, and, most importantly, THEY WON'T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN POWER! Who wouldn't trade undetermined decades of numb mundanity and spiritual abnegation for the chance to view such a reckoning?
And, of course, there's the slim glimmer of hope for the aftermath. The murmur of a chance that things could be different, something better could rise from the ashes. Communities based on trust, sharing and mutual aid, devoid of hierarchy, greed, and militarism. People living for the love of each other, instead of the love of accumulation, domination, status. Not likely, but goddamn it, POSSIBLE.
Even if it doesn't happen, the fireworks will still be a hoot and a half.
posted by matthew christman at 8:01 PM
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