If it really were the end of the world as we know it, I’d feel fine

Doomsday is taking too damn long to get here. First, I read the world was going to end Sept. 23. I planned accordingly; stopped paying my bills, left the dirty laundry in the hamper, didn’t bother to buy more beer even though my stash out in the garage refrigerator was running perilously low.

I texted a couple people I hate and told them so. I called three of my four former wives and apologized, you know, just for being me. I chatted online with an IRS agent and confessed to not claiming the money I earned while posing nude for a “life drawing” class back in college.

I told my oldest son I’d loan him twenty bucks. I figured, hey, the world’s ending anyway; I won’t have time to get mad when he forgets to pay me back.

All in all, I found the impending apocalypse to be very liberating. It’s little wonder I was willing – no, anxious – to believe conspiracy theorist David Meade. I’d never heard of Meade up until then, but if Facebook says he’s legit, that’s good enough for me.

Meade predicted the end would be Sept. 23. The asteroid “Wormwood” – spoken of in the Book of Revelation – would hit then. Or maybe we’d just have a lot of planet-ripping earthquakes. Meade was a little light on details. Either way, we’d be able to kiss our collective backsides goodbye and abandon this veil of tears forever.

Then I woke up Sept. 24. When I realized I wasn’t dead and neither was the rest of the world, I was understandably disappointed. Checking Facebook to find out what went wrong, I learned Meade had phoned the Four Horsemen and rescheduled the apocalypse for Oct. 15.

Well, great! Now, I’d have to gas up my car at least one more time and listen to my son’s excuse for not paying me back that twenty bucks. Probably have to buy more beer, too. There’s no way I could make it three weeks with what I had left in the garage fridge.

I planned accordingly. Again. Made a beer run, filled up the Bug’s gas tank, considered calling that fourth wife and apologizing to her, too, but decided against it.

Then Oct. 15 passed and I did not. I was starting to lose my patience with Mr. Meade. But third time pays for all, as they say (though I have absolutely no idea what “they” mean by that).

Meade’s now saying the Big Day will be Nov. 19. Near as I can make out from skimming the news sites (and I use the word “news” ever-so-loosely) is we’re either going to be wiped out all at once by a “mystery planet” – called Nibiru – or else there are going to be a lot of earthquakes, which will in turn lead to famine, nuclear war and other nasty stuff.

Frankly, that last one doesn’t sound like a fun way to go, at all. I’m rooting for the “When Worlds Collide” scenario. One big, noisy bang and – poof! – you’re jamming on your harp in The St. Peter Quartet. Also, planet-smashing will make for some great visuals when Disney comes out with the movie version.

Officials at NASA keep denying the planet Nibiru even exists. But NASA only put men on the moon, invented the Hubble and built a space station; Meade posts on Facebook, man! Who you gonna trust here? Frankly, my money’s on Meade.

I mean, NASA’s saying the world probably won’t end for several billion years, and then only when the sun expands. I can’t wait that long.

The IRS is going to want their cut of that money I made getting naked for the art class and I can’t afford to give it to them because I loaned my son that twenty dollars. Also, my remaining beers won’t even last until Nov. 19, much less billions of years! The world's continued existence is getting damn inconvenient, lemme tell ya.

So, I’m giving Meade one more chance to get it right. If I wake up Nov. 20 and the planet’s just a ball of dead ash floating in space, well, OK, we’re good. But if I have to get up, brush my teeth and then try to get the IRS to believe I was only kidding about that art class money … I swear, it’s enough to make me stop believing at least some of what I read on Facebook.

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