Plenty of people are writing holiday posts, but I’m gonna talk about the upcoming armageddon. No, I’m not talking about the movie with Bruce Willis; I’m talking about December 21st. You know, when life as we know it is going to end.
I don’t really believe the world will end before I get to the see the latest Tarantino movie. Because that would be a downer. Although, at least I wouldn’t miss The Hobbit. Well, the first movie, anyway.
Nasa doesn’t think the world will end either.
So, screw intellectual discussion. Instead, I’ll tell you a story.
Recently I had a dream where the power went out and the zombies came in. I blame it on watching The Walking Dead and Revolution in the same evening. In my dream, we were home here in Arizona, and our house was surrounded by Republican zombies—the most stubborn kind of zombies, but the most common here in the Grand Canyon State. Worse yet, I was under the distinct impression that they did not want us for our brains (or our vote) but for the plentiful supply of coffee in our pantry.
No way, no how.
The zombie situation turned out okay, since my husband and I have seen Zombieland enough times to have practiced our cardio and perfect our double tap. So we slaughtered them and buried them in the garden next to our roses. Like they said in Book of Eli: it’s good for the soil.
This wasn’t the end of the dream. Our neighborhood had gone all Mad Max and built a thunderdome near the community pool, which of course we had to check out. But just as things got rolling with neighbors about to fight the HOA, there was a screaming streak across the sky and a flash over the skyline. Phoenix was in flames. We waited for it to rise from the ashes. Nope, it just burned.
Cue long section of boring-part-of-the-dream where we roasted marshmallows and sang “Que Sera, Sera.”
Finally the dream shifted to being a combination of Night of Comet and 2012. Zombies were gone, but the yuppies were raiding the malls. While all this was going on, California must have been drowning: Tool’s Ænima in reality. Soon, the Pacific ocean washed over Yuma and was on our front doorstep.
We’d finally gotten an ocean view. Woohoo.
I’ll see you down in Arizona bay.
You’d think that’d be it. It wasn’t. The aliens arrived. However, it wasn’t like Independence Day, even if their spaceship was a huge manhole cover. Although… once I saw what it really was, I would have preferred something with tentacles: we were joined by the cast of Jersey Shore. Truly the apocalypse had arrived.
“Oh, here go hell come!“
On top of that, Snooki was clearly a zombie. Or maybe just drunk again.
Wait for it…
Then Daryl Dixon appeared and shot each of them in the face with a crossbow. After which, we all enjoyed some bourbon and played horseshoes until J.J. Abrams showed up with one of those power pendants and a script for the Fringe finale. We finished the bourbon and read ourselves to sleep.
What? You expected a complicated ending? I told you I blamed the dream on watching too much television. See, kids? Too much television is baaaaad for you. Either gives you weird dreams or insomnia. Stick to books.
Just in case the world ends, though: always remember the rules.