Why I can’t Wait for 2012

In Steve Sigl’s “Saved Admission” review of the yet to be made film “The Pick Up Artist”, Steve asks why can’t the reader wait for 2012? December 2012 marks the end of the Mayan calender. As with the Judaeo Christian calendar, most scientist theories the end of the Mayan calender will be met by the start of the next cycle in the Mayan calender. Mayans may have not felt the need to map out more than 3000 years. Who could have known 3000 years would go by and humans would still be around? Hell some of us think humans won’t be around for another 30 years, let alone 3000. The rational mind says,  2008 begot 2009 and the day after the doomsday 2012 will be like any other day. The intent of a calender is to track time. The end of one cycle is the start of another. Yet, the fear of the unknown shows every end is met by mass hysteria from the followers of Armageddon, as we have seen countless time and exemplified by the Y2K Bug.

But let us say, for the fun of it, that the mass hysteria is right. A Google search for “2012” reveals a herd of modern day Armageddon worshiper. My own neighbor runs a website devoted to the end and is active on many doomsday forum pages. He excitedly told me his pitch over jelly beans and, while he is crazy, who among us can say what the future will bring? The end of the world could be in December of the year 2012 and some future predictions back the story. Sir Issac Newton claimed the ultimate end of Christianity would fall in the next 20 years. The Peek Oil crowd has dated 2012 as the year of the roving black outs, the year we are no longer capable of powering our misguided way of life. The end of our mass consumer generation and the point at which we are at the mercy of reality.

The meek will inherit the Earth at the demise of the corporations tumble. Yet, we find our collective generation ill equipped to live in a common sense based world. Forced into a time where every member has to provide for himself, coal mine like societies shall pop up like California wild fire. Slavery will become en vogue. Desperate men, with no family ties, will sell themselves to the corporation with a Alex P. Keaton lust for pictures of dead presidents or what ever passes for currency in the dusk of our great fall.

If I look forward to such a day with a positive outlook, it is only to show the world my “I told you so” grin and dispense sarcastic merriment upon the general public. Smile, we are all peasants now! Social equality through mass economic failure. Gender equality, I won’t hit a woman but I’ll punch a bitch for a half full can of beans! Half full for the optimistic mind set and emptied into my full apocalyptic tummy. We will eat the swill and kill each other with dull and rusty spoons.

The reasons have been under our noses. We have come of age in a society where the error of our way is written in giant neon letters that no one cares to read. There is no distortion of the imagination, our way of life has an inevitable limit. Oil, in itself, must have an end. Every party ends, even the 30 year gang rape the American population has suffered at the hands of men who play politics as if humanity were pawns in a game of chess, and the global assimilation into the world economy will crash on rocky shores. A generation of 21st century digital boys, ignorant in their toys.

But there is hope.

A steady diet of Red Dwarf, the award winning British Sci fi situational comedy, has my mind in a fractal reality mind frame and I wonder how many post Apocalyptic dimensions exist in the ether? The Dimensional theory follows that every choice splinters into two alternate realities. When you get up in the morning and choose peanut butter instead of jelly, at the exact same instant in another dimension, an altered version of yourself chooses to eat jelly. The ramifications are extraordinary, I know.

However, this predicts that we live in the reality where the world is saved countless time from the destruction of man upon himself. Hitler could have won the war, but he didn’t. Bush could have ignited a Nazi like pulpit of faith based SWAT teams and thought police, but he didn’t yet. There are many times in our past where alternate dimensions could have led to Apocalyptic ends.

Take the Bay of Pigs. Under the dimensional theory, it fractured into two realities. One that we occupy, where Capitalism kicked the ass of Communism and we were all sold on brand label fascism. The other where the tables of economy turned towards Communism, the World’s population waits in long lines for bread, and State run fascism takes the place of Corporate run fascism.

What of the Dimension where Jelly tastes like peanut butter and Jam was discovered by a black man because it had to be jam, jelly just don’t shake like that.

Sweet baby Jesus, what of the dimension where Bob Dobbs is the divine and Jesus is a two bit con man for a self profiting religion? Or the dimension where Buddy Holly never got on that plane. The horn rimmed music star lived on to be one of the members of the Four Horsemen of Rock. Elvis, Buddy Holly, Johnny Cash, and Little Richard travel the country side fighting crime and rocking the local population in thirty moral packed minute episodes.

What of the world where the Beatles never made music but opened a vegan yellow bus food cart. “Give Peas a Chance” written in day glow hippy letters. They are bigger than Ben and Jerry. Yoko never met John and tagged teamed the frozen duo from Vermont in a naked twister game of sexcapades. Yanie cuts the sound track and a zombified population eats up the marketing campaign like a pigs to the trough.

What if Hitler had won the war and purified the human race. The Globe looks like one giant Mormon gated community. Life is hell and you ain’t seen nothing until the red tidal wave of emotional outpouring from 4 wives in mid period. Bob Ross would be hard pressed to draw the utter disparity and Dante can’t believe his eyes. 1984 has nothing on the hell of later day saints.

Back in my apartment, the lights have gone out. My neighbor clipped the electric line in a defense against the C.I.A.’s cancer ray aimed at his parakeet. My neighbor suffers from post traumatic stress after an acting stint as an extra for the show “Outer Limits”. He played the creature on the wing of the airplane and has never been the same. From my window, I watch him scream at the utility worker who placates my mad neighbor as he stands on the sidewalk in his night gown, complete with tin foil night cap, and looks like a bent Scrooge.

The utility worker assures my neighbor, he is hired by the electric company but that’s what he expects him to say. I openly admit my full membership in the C.I.A. and my assignment to catalog my neighbor’s actions and weight of his excrement. He invited me in for Jelly Beans. He might be crazy but he knows Jelly Beans. Now, imagine the dimension where my neighbor is president. It’s a topsy turvy version of Armageddon but the Oval office is well supplied with quality Jelly filled bellies.

Like the Regean years, when future president Bush proclaimed the trickle down theory, or supply side economy, as Voo doo Economics. Until he found out that Colombian drug money hedged the bet. 2012 better come in some form or heads are going to explode. White collar suicide will become a hip past time. A army of white collar criminals bow, worship, and welcome the alter at the end of the world. They want the party to start. Life is a betters game and they have banked on the end for years. They openly welcome the destruction of the whole planet.

In the bible, Jesus only became angry when the bankers took too big of a cut. Imagine, if he saw your credit bill. We have reached the point where the son of “I AM” gets angry and raises the dead in a George A. Romero vision of a better world. The Beatles come back to life and eat Ringo for his crimes against Shinning Time Station, but V.P. Cheney remains untouched as most zombies are fooled by his lack of soul and think he is already dead.

American news media rolls into town and shoots every grisly detail. Strict documentarians, half their numbers are eaten when cameramen die for their art of utter observation. The slow impending doom of the seventh day Adventists rise up and kill the sickness in man with their bloody curse. Humans are turned back from the tree of wisdom and given over to a slow, animalistic mind. Food, fuck, and fancy become the only driving force. Global regression into an apocalyptic symphony of human waste and yellow cake frosting packages. The smart survivors stick vitamins into their yellow cakes frosting treat like suppositories for the French. The French roll over and offer their neck to the Zombie with the red roses.

To Be Continued.