Waiting for the end of the world for fun and profit

The world’s going to end in late September. Asteroid strike.

If you’ve been thinking of making things right with the IRS or calling that girl you used to date in high school, don’t bother. I mean, what’s the point? By October 1st, we’ll all be dead.

Now, the scary thing here isn’t the asteroid, which is entirely fictitious. The scary thing is that some people believed me.

Scarier still, some folks will continue to believe me even though I just admitted I was lying through my teeth. 

In fact, if I found a dozen NASA scientists willing to testify as to the baloney-ness of my asteroid apocalypse claim, some folks would STILL spend the weekend digging asteroid shelters in their back yards!

I know all this because for the past couple weeks I’ve been watching it happen in real time on Facebook. Somebody somewhere (or, in Facebook parlance, an “expert”) posted a scary-looking Photoshopped picture of an asteroid the size of Texas zeroing in on Manhattan, along with “data” about the big rock’s trajectory. 

The claim was 100 percent pixie dust and had no basis in fact, but in less time than it’s taking me to write about it here, that post was “shared” a zillion times on social media sites around the globe.

A few hours later, real NASA scientists did weigh in on the subject, assuring the public there was no danger of an imminent cosmic collision. This denial only added fuel to the conspiracy theory flames.

Now, claimed the breathless posts, the government was “in on it.” The government. You know, those guys that can’t find their backsides with both hands. Somehow, they were managing to keep the end of the world a deep, dark secret from everyone on the entire planet.

I mean, c’mon, Bill couldn’t even keep Monica a secret. If the world really were about to end, somebody would spill the beans.

My point is, there are people out there that will believe anything. P.T. “There’s a sucker born every minute” Barnum knew it, and unlike me, he figured out how to make a buck off it.

I figure I’ve got about a month to cash in on this fictitious asteroid. Deep impact insurance? Ten buck discount baptisms guaranteed to get even the most grievous sinner into a decent after-life situation? Asteroid-resistant sunscreen?

I dunno. There’s got to be an angle somewhere.

It’s hard to come up with anything good when you know the world’s going to end in less than a month.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Beach volleyball beats the end of the world any time

I was yakking with one of our sportswriters the other day about good jobs and bad jobs. We both agreed that, in the newspaper world at least, sportswriters have it made in the shade.

Instead of  three-hour city commission debates over whether to ban gum chewing on city sidewalks, sportswriters enjoy free hot dogs and beer at White Caps games. Rather than spending hours on the phone trying to get a quote from the governor's assistant to the assistant press liaison's secretary's cleaning lady, they are front row center carefully monitoring the All Girls Collegiate Beach Volleyball Finals. 

It ain't fair. But since I know nothing about sports, there's not much I can do about it.

Oh, I’m not really complaining. My job is better than most. Better for me, anyway.

I get to write for a living, which I would probably do for free if nobody was willing to pay me (that's between you and me, by the way). I meet a lot of interesting people, I'm always learning new stuff and I don't have a bunch of middle management overlords breathing down my neck day in day out.

One thing I've learned through decades of writing human interest stories is that most folks — not just newspaper writers — like their jobs. My oldest son, Jordan, was a car-show model, one of those guys who stands around all day in a $2,000 suit talking to people about Mustangs and Miatas. My youngest son, James, milks cows and bales hay for a living. They both love their work.

My daughter, Aubreii, runs her own web development business. It involves all sorts of  stress, late nights crying over her laptop, and has birthed in her a great fondness for wine. But again, she loves her job.

My fiancee, Lori, is an accountant. An accountant, for heaven's sake! Like, with numbers!! Personally, I'd kill myself. But yet again, she truly enjoys what she does for a living. Although I can't help notice, she, too, is not averse to the occasional glass of Merlot.

For every job, it seems, there is someone, somewhere who actually enjoys doing it.

I did think of one real stinker, though. I was on Facebook the other day and noticed  one of my friends had posted a link about a world-killing comet that's supposed to destroy the earth in a couple years. I clicked the link and it turns out the guy doing the predicting also predicted the world would end on Jan. 1, 2000. 

He was mistaken. But he's not this time. He says.

Now, it seems to me this guy has a really lousy job, apocalyptic prognostication — predicting the end of the world. If he's wrong, everybody laughs and he looks like a schmuck. If he's right, there’s nobody left to turn to and say, "I told you so!"

Nope, not a fulfilling career at all.

I think I'll just stick with writing. Though maybe it wouldn't hurt to learn a little something about beach volleyball. You know, as a backup plan.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

‘Snowzilla’ failed to crush the Midwest, dammit!

Well, it’s the day after the snowstorm that was supposed to herald the end of life as we know it, at least for those residing in the Midwest and most of the rest of the country.

The frothing, manic meteorologists predicted we would be buried beneath acres of frozen precipitation the likes of which haven’t been seen since the dinosaurs were wiped out, virtually overnight! The frozen bodies of those too weak to turn up their thermostats would provide food for the few ragtag survivors remaining when the storm finally passed. If it passed.

Polar bears would roam downtown streets, picking off any survivors crazy enough to venture out in search of chicken and waffles.

Madness! Chaos! Anarchy!

I was really hopeful.

As I mentioned last week, the only thing that’s going to save me financially at this point is the complete and utter dissolution of anything resembling civilization. The “storm of the century” seemed as good a way as any to bring about society’s downfall. And snow has the added benefit of not leaving behind A) radioactivity, B) exotic pathogens, or C) zombies, the way so many other apocalyptic scenarios do.

But nope. Snowzilla didn’t come close to wreaking the sort of havoc I’ll need in order to start over with a clean slate and assumed name (I’m thinking Demitri Papageorgio).

Oh, sure, it snowed, and pretty hard, too. The wind howled, the flakes piled up. But by noon of “the morning after” most of the main streets were clear and it was back to business as usual.

The sort of folks who tape black plastic over their windows every time Homeland Security raises the government’s National Threat Level (remember that?) from green to blue came up from their cellars and began phoning friends and family to make sure nobody had resorted to cannibalism.

 In short, no Armageddon. Again.

It really ticks me off, being teased this way by meteorologists. I’ve been preparing for the end of the world for decades and these near misses are getting frustrating!

When I say “preparing for the end,” I don’t mean I run around the woods wearing camouflage clothing and carrying a paintball gun with a bunch of like-minded nuts. My preparation is of a slightly more passive variety; namely, watching all three Mad Max movies (none of which cover snow-related disasters, by the way).

Actually, I’m kind of glad the world didn’t end, even though it’s darn inconvenient for yours truly. When it does happen (any day now, I’m sure), I’m hoping for the sort of end that leaves behind some zombies.

Maybe I’ll be able to train ‘em to shovel all this snow.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.