In Which We Prepare Ourselves For The End of The World

The Year 3786 Can't Come Soon Enough

by Tess Lynch

Global Warming. Threats of Nuclear bombardment. The AFL-CIO Forum being totally snore-bores, with the only glimmers of hope being when Hillary referred to herself as our girl. Chinese food, and other types of food that are still, confusingly, from China, being unavoidable, but also poisonous. Scientology. The inexplicable, shockingly random and undeniably soul-numbing way they yank Popcorn Chicken off the menu at KFC every so often (and then sneak it back in, but it's gone again by the time you get it together to go buy some). All signs point to one spooky fate: we are nearing the end of the world.

The sexy bits are dog-eared

Instead of doing anything about this (and as for the Popcorn Chicken, you're in luck, because it's back on for now; a couple of months ago, the gloomy big-piece-sized chicken cloud seemed like it would never lift), I've opted to try to prepare myself as much as possible, and think you should do the same. I have decided to turn to Nostradamus, because he's the only old psychic dude who has that creepy je ne sais quois that transcends time; there's also a shitload of info on Wikipedia (and here; and here; and here: here) about him. Including that his prediction of the World Trade Center attacks was somehow off, but c'mon. No one saw that coming except the president.

Zing!

"Be My Husband (live)" -- Nina Simone (mp3)

For my purposes, I have paraphrased the great bearded prophet, because making sense of all the yammer-jammer from the sixteenth century will make you go see what's up with your Scrabulous game on the facebook.

'Twas the trend.

NOSTRADAMUS SAYS: There will be a twenty-seven year long war, possibly involving nuclear arms. Actually, he said this would be in 1999, but occasionally his dates are off (I know, I know, but I too am bad at math and great at mystical predictions, so I'm still on board). There is lots of fire, and everyone faces possible annihilation. People everywhere make the  face.

Just like Pagliacci did.

PREPARE BY: Refinancing your mortgage. Ignore the housing market's bipoar disorder and rejoice: chances are your thirty years will be up before your payments are! Also think about getting lots of baby animals, which you may never have to trade in when they get old and no longer have tiny baby faces.

Chris Hansen's newest decoy.

NOSTRADAMUS SAYS: While the puppies and kittens and villages have been decimated, you might have a shot at going about your business for awhile longer: if an alliance forms between the Northern Pole (Russia?) and the U.S. (maybe?), the war will end and we can party on, Garth, into a new golden age of peace and, if this fourteen-year-old gets his wish, legal weed-smoking.

PREPARE BY: Considering moving from your charred, formerly Cribs-worthy new pad to one of the islands on which any season of Survivor took place. Even the tyrant Nostradamus predicts will start the three-decades-long war isn't going to bother wreaking havoc on Fujilwai or Karnakomea. Study how to cook caterpillarsand, always keep a flint in your pocket, and some Neosporin so you don't end with legs as grode-riddled as Colleen from Season 1.

Water and airbrushing = no sores.

NOSTRADAMUS SAYS: The actual end of the world occurs in 3786 or 3797. He pretty much just quit writing quatrains then, but his son reportedly (according to Star magazine; no, no, I'm kidding) said that he was always goin' on about how that would be the end of the world anyway, so what was there to write a quatrain about? Plus, he had mad callouses from writing with a goosefeather in the ancient dust.

He looks different here.

PREPARE BY: Telling your children to tell their children to tell their children (and so on) to stop having babies by 3700. Slip them some condoms to keep around, just in case. That expiration date thing is an old wives tale, anyway.

NOSTRADAMUS SAYS: Of more pressing relevance and untimeliness are the major earthquakes to come, pretty much any time now, to Southern California (and seismologists, apparently, agree that the Coachella Valley is overdue for a 7.8 or greater; hippies and emo kids everywhere utter soul-shattering sighs); in addition, this site echoes the bummer-song with the chorus 'and we'll get hit by a meteor too, he says, by a meteor too, he says, he says.' And that will be in 2028 or 2029.

PREPARE BY: What did I say about the Cribs house? Go buy the Cribs house. And make sure it's got reinforced concrete before you cover it with luxurious furs.

Do you!

*By the way, I'm not sure about some of these websites; a lot of them seemed like they could easily have been broadcast over the interweb from someone's basement underneath a Popeye's Chicken. But my logic in presenting you with this information is in line with what your mother told you about wearing pajamas to sleep in case you suffered a medical emergency and cute paramedics came to drive you to the hospital. You simply never know.

Tess Lynch is a writer living in Los Angeles, California. You can find more of her work here and here.

"Black Is The Color of My True Love's Hair" -- Nina Simone (mp3)