posted on February 19, 2013 08:00
I have a near-legendary (in my little “circle”) history of hypochondria and sadly spend many a sleepless night unnaturally obsessed with my own mortality, as well as that of my loved ones.
As a youngster, my face was regularly buried in medical encyclopedias, finding whatever new disease I could convince myself I was afflicted with, and this only got worse with the invention of that internet thing, as you can imagine.
Yes, in case you haven’t already formed that opinion, I am fucking insane.
I believe this is the #1 reason for religious beliefs and I’m actually jealous of those normal folk out there who don’t fret over such uncontrollable shit, or have come to peace with our impending demise, whether through simple acceptance, or with the aid of The Jesus.
The times I did force myself down that path were very much dictated by a desire to conquer this fear, as well as a few other crutches. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t be convinced and it was back to my fears and the bedroom ceiling.
In spite of all my writing to the contrary, I truly do wish it were that easy for me and I could just look forward to that ballroom in the sky instead of focusing on one day…just…being…nothing.
Now take a guy like me, with all of this horseshit going on in his head, and step inside that skull for a few seconds last Friday when he watches multiple videos of a random meteorite, the size of a fucking Walmart, plunging directly into the Russian landscape. Yeah – exactly.
The only way this story could’ve been good is had it actually HIT a Walmart, preferably of the Lemay variety, but luckily, no lives were lost and that shithole lives to see another day of half-shirted dads and early 80’s velour, halter-topped moms sludging up and down its’ aisles with their dirty-ass feet.
It wasn’t hard enough quieting my fucked up head each time it hit the pillow from the noise of cancer, liver failure, car accidents, fires, lightning and tornadoes, just to name a few, but now I have to add in a goddamned meteorite potentially slamming itself into wherever I happened to be located as a feared means to my end.
This little occurrence makes that whole theory on how the dinosaurs went away a whole lot more believable. T-Rex was standing around thinking the worst of his problems was not being able to do a pushup or scratch his own ass and give that curious little hand-sniff afterward (you’ve ALL done it), when BAM!!...giant fucking rock – lights out for a million goddamned years!
We finally stir again and the only sign of him and his oversized buddies are in museums surviving solely on elementary school fieldtrips and shitty Steven Spielberg movies.
Which begs the question: What will they dig up when our meteorite hits?
Will whatever creature comes next, eons after our dying off, reconstruct our overweight asses and dedicate wings of tourist traps to them? Will there be a section for the “Duck-Faced, Mirror-Posing Whore” who caught her first finger in the 5th-grade and a statue of “21st-Century Douche Bag” that looks like this fucking guy --------->>
There could be an entire section encompassing McDonald’s, those guys at the gym who dress in the shitter stall and the ever-growing population of motorized scooter operators, based on “lard-assity” over actual handicap.
Movies will be made of our ilk and endless jokes will be told of our stupidity and excess. The Paleofuckstick Era will be taught to the children of 23717, or whatever measure of time they use, and lessons will hopefully be learned by the inevitable dragging of their disinterested asses to the halls of these buildings on fieldtrips, to be followed by lunch on the Arch grounds, because that useless fucker will never die.
They’ll dig beneath multiple layers of earth to find that most met their doom clutching a fucking cell phone tighter than their own children, while wasting much of their valuable time and energy battling a farce known as “Global Warming”, sorting through garbage for hours and driving around in the gayest cars produced in the history of man – not that there’s anything wrong with that – only to find that all that shit they printed on t-shirts and got all self-righteous and goddamned preachy at me about would be no match for a giant fucking boulder hitting their beloved soil at a zillion miles/hour, but Al Gore died happy.
Jesus Hilary Christ, my collective English/Grammar/Composition teachers from my entire schooling history would gang rape my asshole with a sentence diagram if they saw these run-ons and 100-word sentences I actually get paid to type…but I digress.
I’m off to lie down once more and add “being bombarded by space fucking rocks” to the shit those sheep I try to count scream at me as I battle the ever-elusive Sandman. I ever catch those things and they’ll wish I’d go back to just counting them.
BAAAAHHHHHH, mother fuckers…KMFP-out!
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