Well, 2012 is almost upon us. On Dec. 21 of that year—according to an interpretation of an ancient Maya calendar—the world is supposed to end. To that I respond, “Thank Christ Quetzalcoatl! It’s about frickin time!”
One of my greater pleasures in life is observing the hilarious backpedalings of certain crackpot prophets when the horrifying doomsday scenarios they champion don’t arrive. A recent example is radio minister Harold Camping, whose explanation for his incorrect rapture prediction was to claim that God was still collecting data. Then he predicted a new, modified rapture date, which came and went without so much as a single frog falling from the sky.
This is why I can’t wait for Dec. 22, 2012. Because there will be not one, but thousands of kooky soothsayers who will have to backpedal like hell once Mayageddon is proven to be horse shit. And I know it’s horse shit for three reasons:
The first is because I’m not an idiot. I realize, as a person with a full-functioning brain, that human beings are unable to predict what’s going to happen when they step out the door tomorrow morning, much less what will happen 5,126 years in the future.
The second is because the Mayas made no such prediction. This is a common misconception. There are no ancient hieroglyphs, no tomes, nor scrolls, nor scriptures that say, “Homies-of-the-future, beware! The world ends in 2012. Sucks for you, yo.” Read the rest of this entry »
A few months ago, I bought an iPad for my wife. W had been hinting for a while that she wanted one, and when I say “hinting,” I mean telling me every day to buy her an iPad or she was going to staple my lips as I slept.
Gallup recently reported that 50 percent of Americans are in favor of legalizing marijuana, while 46 percent remain opposed.
Well, hoe-lee crap did my last column thwack a hornets nest or what?! The angry responses are still swarming in.
I was zip, zip, zipping through Ocean Beach on my little, black and silver, 150-cc Lance Milan putt-putt motor scooter when I pulled alongside a real biker, dressed in full-blown biker-gang-guy regalia, leaning on his Harley waiting for the light to turn green.
I was home when the lights went out, lost a little bit of work, but not a big deal. W. and I hung out by candlelight and listened to the transistor radio. It was pleasant and peaceful. Turns out we were fairly prepared. Lots of candles, lots of water, lots of batteries and flashlights and alternate sources of lighting. We even had internet. I have battery powered modem so, when W. went to bed, I watched Netflix on my iPhone. It was a thriller called House of 9 which I watched all the way up to the last 15 minutes of the dramatic conclusion, when the internet finally died.
So, this week’s column is about the fatwa-like death threat against David Letterman for sayi—waaait a minute! What the hell is that!? Right there to the left? Is that my picture!?
“They defended [Bill Clinton] for his indiscretions in office but want Anthony Weiner run out of town….”
