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The Last Seven Things I’m Going to do Before I Die Horribly on Mayan Doomsday

(By Groovey) It is estimated that 12% of the U.S. population actually believes the end of the Mayan calendar means the end of everything:   Including Skittles, wheelies, and Jennifer Aniston’s nipples.   Which means there are exactly 37,391,030.04 people walking around America for the next week like human time bombs because they know on December 22nd they will no longer be able to watch Friends reruns with the sound off to watch Jennifer Aniston’s nipples harden like quick dry cement mid-scene for no obvious reason.     The beloved government of the United States is still swooning from the post-coitus haze of the 18 month long elections to do anything but light up a smoke and whisper Thanks Baby, how about a sammich?” to us, its citizens, leaving us to fend for ourselves against over 37 million death-bent morons and their demonic Mayan overlords.   Which of course I’m not going to do.   I am joining the morons and here is a list of the things I am doing to do before this big fuck train piles into shit town, Baby!

Ladies and Gentlemen Mr. Dean Martin

Ladies and Gentlemen Mr. Dean Martin

1) Saturday – Fly the Friendly Skies and Bang it in the Can

Back before the galactic-sized-shit-dick killed a bunch of innocent people you used to be able to smoke on planes, and talk on planes, and wear shoes, and look people in the eye, dress up like Dean Martin, and walk around with your pants down with a smoke in one hand and a Scotch in the other banging stewardesses in the crapper like they were a six woman percussion section.    No, really you could.   This being our last week on Earth here is exactly what I am going to do.   I am going to dress up like Dean Martin, steal Rob Halford’s Harley the one he rides on stage and deep throats the handlebars, ride it onto an economy carrier flight (Christ, I’m not made of money after all.) bang every stewardess and if they say I’m a flight attendant!” then I know it’s a dude and he gets the handlebars.   Then, in-flight between sweet toilet based love making sessions, I’m going to do wheelies with Rob Halford’s Harley up and down the aisle much to the joy of the passengers and crew.   And I will get away with it because I will make sure every person on that plane is one of the 37 Million that I illegally printed coupons for to get them a very smart choice for their travel budget.

I think I just squatted.

I think I just squatted.

2) Sunday ““ Explosive Diarrhea Gym Day

Hey Sporto! Fuck you and your gluten free bullshit!   We the 37M (Cute logo huh?)  have 6 days to live and we are spending the first part of our Sunday eating absolutely everything at Taco Bell except first we are smothering all the tortilla-turds in roasted garlic and Lipton’s French Onion Soup Mix.   We will be eating literally  bucketfuls  of the devil’s bean based bile and then we are slapping on our cute little satin gym shorties and our Dickhole’s Gym” perfectly sweat stained tank tops.    We will infiltrate your beloved temple of tone and cathedral of cut and we will ALL ASK TO BE SPOTTED FOR SQUATS AT THE EXACT SAME INSTANT!   37 million downward pointing Mount Vesuvius’s pushing upwards against a weight impossible for our flab to handle.   Something has got to give and it will be your ability to stay conscious and vomit free during our collective bowel jihad.

Geologic Gynecology

Geologic Gynecology

3) Monday ““ Soccer Mom Fight Pit

The soccer mom plague which has run ruin over the entire planet like an apocalyptic IKEA franchise must be stopped or at least slowed down so we the 37M can enjoy our last few days alive without having to endure another overheard conversation in line at the grocery store about how special your children are while your dull-eyed offspring stare wantingly at anything that might cause them harm to finally escape your overbearing grasp while cheering, Sweet Death!!”   Now here’s how we the 37M are going to handle the situation.   Military members of the 37M are going to nuke both ends of the Grand Canyon turning it into a giant radioactive rocky vagina of death.   Which in no way an allegory for the soccer mom culture itself.   (PPthhhthbbthh! ) The entire American soccer mom population will be placed ever-so-gently into the massive geological metaphor and forced to fight over Pilates instructors and rear view cameras for their Disney themed SUVs.

What's the difference between a duck?

What’s the difference between a duck?

4) Tuesday -Drink Beer and Drink Beer .   Oh and Weed and Video Games Too.

Christ, we deserve a day off after having to deal with soccer moms.


Wow, you really got that ex-boss of yours deep in there.  Yep real deep.  Gonna need a rope and a winch.

Wow, you really got that ex-boss of yours deep in there. Yep real deep. Gonna need a rope and a winch.

5) Wednesday ““ Shove Former Bosses Heads up Cow’s Assholes Day!

We are winding down now.   Facing death in the face.   There are choices to be made.   When a human being with a natural life span finds out they are dying they go through The Five Stages of Grief” which are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and, acceptance. These stages can actually happen in any order and the hypothesis is known as the Kübler-Ross Model from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s 1969 book On Death and Dying.   However we the 37M have a three stage grief system: 1) Kidnap former boss. 2) Kidnap cow. 3) Shove former bosses head into cow’s asshole.

International space station and concert hall

International space station and concert hall

6) Thursday ““ Motorboat Super Model’s Boobies on the Space Station While Iron Maiden Performs

Most models (Not all, but most, relax the one smart one.) are as dumb as my ass hair.   I have dated two actual models in my life and both chicks had skulls that you could have made outdoor grills out of and it would not have caused a shift in their intelligence in the least.   But god damned do they look good naked!!   Now we the 37M realize that the space station can’t hold our masses and the 37 million super models we have chosen to copulate with and even the mighty Iron Maiden cannot perform for that many people at once.    However, we have come up with a solution.   We have renovated 1 million RVs with spacey looking tubes and blinky lights and bleepy bloopy sounds, glued 1 million fright wigs to 1 million iguanas let them go in the RVs so we could say that they are our pet alien Sparkles”, and then filled the whole inside with just enough aluminum foil to fool stupid girls with big tits.   Also, the 37,391,030.04 of us formed exactly 6,231,838.34 Iron Maiden tribute bands to perform in the RVs while we make luvins on the cuties.   Now, I know we don’t need that many tribute bands but at the meeting I asked, Okay, so who all wants to be in the Iron Maiden tribute bands?”   And every single hand went up and I was like Fuck!”   So then I asked, Well is there ANYONE who doesn’t want to be in a Iron Maiden tribute band?” And all their fucking hands dropped.   All 37,391,030.04 of them.   Fuck what the hell am I supposed to do with that?   And I didn’t even get to be Bruce Dickinson.   Dicks!   Anyway, do you want to go see Iron Maiden on the Space Station?

I’m going to make Snake River Canyon my bitch!

7) Friday – Resurrect Evel Knievel as a 100 Foot Tall Robot and Bruce Lee as an Equally Tall Robot That Looks Slightly Different so We Can Tell Them Apart.

This is it.   The final day.     Of all things to think of at a moment like this but did you ever read the short story by Arthur C. Clarke called The Star”?   It’s about a doomed civilization who knows their sun is going super nova and they spend the final days of their lives building a vault on the outermost planet in their solar system whose orbit was distant enough to survive the supernova. In the vault, they build a complete record of their history, culture, achievements, and philosophy, hoping that it would someday be found so that their existence would not have been in vain.   It’s really a beautiful thought provoking story about the deepest meanings of life and how we all are together in this seemingly random mess of an existence.   Very thought provoking, you should really read it on this our last day.   It might just change your life.   Me? No, I already read the fucking thing.   Which is why, instead of worrying about some god-damned Aztec calendar maker who got tired of extrapolating out more than 500 years while running from some white guy with a murder-shaped-bloodlust-hat and an overheated musket, I decided to write this shenanigans about Rob Halford, wheelies and tits.   If you actually believe the world is going to end in one week FUCK YOU AND GIVE ME YOUR XBOX 360 GAMES! DUMBASS!! And any Batman shit you got too.   You’re an idiot.

Okay Europe, take us out of here!

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I sit next to people with famousosity and try to make them laugh.

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