The Plastic Static



Damn. How did so much time get away from us?

It’s like one minute you are standing in the middle of a warehouse in the early nineties, high on cheap beer, brown weed, teenage freedom and rock and roll; next thing you know it’s a different century and a different world, and everyone is compartmentalized and plastic and isolated.

Yes, we are getting older. Some of us, not all of us survived.

And one has to wonder sometimes, who is the winner in this game? The ones who checked out early? The ones who missed so many years? Those of us left behind? To carry on, to trudge forth even as we see everyone and everything around us crumbling.

These days I’m not so sure.

I crawled out of a cave. I fell asleep sometime in the last century and woke up here. In a museum, in a cheap science fiction movie. Here, we are both the spectators and the spectacle.

This hallway is black. Not dark. Black. Light doesn’t dare traverse it’s expanse. There are glimpses of neon here and there, but it’s impossible to tell if they are real or hallucination. The absence of light makes the hallway feel immense, long, possibly unending. That’s another scary notion. Eternity. The thought that there may be no end to this.

And then we must ask ourselves again, which is worse? The eternal shuffling toward nothing, or the exit too early; the ones we have lost, who have fallen along the way. Are we sad they have gone? Or is it only us growing ever lonelier as they one by one depart?

I looked for you. I looked forward to reconnecting.

You wouldn’t recognize the place. Everything has changed since you left.

We’ve torn down nature and put up a plastic nature replica. It will last forever, and it doesn’t get messy like the real thing. We still aren’t sure if the birth defects are a direct result of the synthetic natural plastic alloy or merely a coincidence, but we aren’t letting it slow us down either way.

The streets are emptier too. You would get along a little better with less traffic, fewer distractions to fight for your attention. You see that’s where there was a bookshop. That used to be a record store. This was a Wags before it was a Perkins before it was a Bakers Square before it was the Sunshine Breakfast Club before it was finally abandoned and left to rot away.

This used to be the beach. Our beach. I wish I could say they left this one alone.

It almost feels the same, the yellow moon peeking down through slivers of cloud. That breeze that always hints of winter, even in August, always reminds you of how cold it could be.

As if it had any idea.

Nothing that lives or breaths or moves really knows anything of the true cold. The freezing. The motionless waiting, staring. Stuck in your tracks. So cold you can’t even feel it anymore.

It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t recognize this anyway. It is not ours. This is no longer the world we knew.

This. You see this? This passes for sand. I know. It is cleaner. It doesn’t get in your shoes and stuck in every crevice. This is static. This is electronic noise, pixels, bits of information formed to resemble the granules we knew growing up but without all the mess.

Maybe that’s how they’ve done it. Maybe that’s how the rug was pulled out from under us. Maybe they filled up all the hourglasses with this synthetic sand. It bought them all the time in the world.

There was a point I was trying to make. There was something I wanted to say to you, but I seem to be only rambling. I’m sorry to waste your time. You would have laughed at that one. The idea of wasting time. Maybe you had it right all along, you and the Mad Hatter.

Maybe yours was the right move. Maybe I’m worse off for witnessing this. Maybe it is you who escaped and I who am trapped. Imprisoned in black iron, indeed the empire never ended.

Still, I thought there would be more time. I thought we would meet again. Even if it was out here in the fringes of reality. This crumbling pier hanging precariously over the edge, over nothing, a bottomless pit of black frozen emptiness.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

NOTICE: Ragnarok, Viking Apocalypse

Today is Ragnarok, the Viking version of ‘end of the world’ mythology. Experts are expecting things to progress in a smooth, orderly fashion. I think we have all learned much from the recent Mayan apocalypse, The Rapture, The oft-forgotten zombie apocalypse and of course Y2K.

As events commence later this afternoon when the sun is being eaten by an enormous cosmic wolf, all Vikings and people with substantial Nordic heritage should form a single file line, and kindly await notice before exiting.

Screaming and panicking will only be permitted in predetermined screaming and panicking zones, please consult your local apocalyptic protocols for the nearest location.

Parents of young children should make sure their own spirit has been safely released from the mortal coil before assisting their young ones with metaphysical disembodiment.

We know Ragnarok is not your only choice for end of the world ideologies, so we doubly appreciate your choice to end the world with us, and we hope to make the experience as enjoyable for everyone as is possible. We hope you will fill out a short customer satisfaction survey which you will receive once you make it to the other side.

A breathing sigh of repugnance

Postcards from the End of the World
7th fit: Bad Circus Night/ section ii.
‘a breathing sigh of repugnance’

374112_10150475755354595_182892415_n“It is a dark summer evening looking much like a winter evening on acconda all the snow,” Never bending logic bespooled from Freon’s gaping maw as he conveys his distinct memoirs of the bad circus evening.

In the mind of Freon, the night is filled with dreams of lonely melons, but he is embarrassed of oedipediacal implications, and instead makes up a wild exaggerated stinky.

The inquisitors of the waffle headed pope on a rope dessed up like rats and began to cover him with Fat Elvis stamps. His faces were covered with their thick moorish saliva, frying his flesh like a big, wet cow being shoved into an electrical outlet.

“Meester Freon!” they shouted. “Tell us what we want to know!”

Freon spun the thin spools of his memory, but it had run out again. ‘Damn,’ he thinks, ‘I wish I could remember to refill that damn thing.’

“Meester Freon!” one of the inquisitor rats steps forward, whipping him with the six whips he holds in his six arms, obviously the buddhist of the group.

“Stop whipping me!” shouts Freon, “I’d tell you what you want to know, but I can’t remember. Do you have any skull filler paste?”

“Why Yes! Of course!” an especially cheery and handsome rat steps out from the crows, holding a large blue plastic bottle. “We always keep a large supply of Krompelfesterheeganman’s concentrated skull filler. For all those times you need to remember, and better than a brain enema.”

There is a whisperous tremor amongst the inquisitor rats.
“What the shit man! It’s a stinkin’ commercial!”

The rats all walk off mumbling things about lawyers and unions, leaving everybody disappointed because it was just about to get to the good part.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter


tractorAfter the world inevitably ended, things got pretty quiet. Once everyone realized it was over and there was no reason to rush about in worry, things generally settled in to a nice easy pace.

I took a few weeks off to catch up on all the sleep I had missed in the past few years.

I woke up one night during an incredible storm. It had been raining consistently since the End of the World, but this was thundering and violent. The rain fell in huge, nearly frozen drops, each one the size of a small dog. It sounded like a petting zoo crashing down on my roof. I imagined the damage would be severe, maybe beyond belief.

There came a horrible sound from behind the closet door, some indistinguishable banging and clatter.

I jumped out of bed and stumbled over a mountain of books and old clothes, I kicked a path in the broken devices and lost possessions littered along the ground. I fumbled close enough to reach and open the closet door.

Pieces of the wall started to give under pressure from the rain, crumbling apart and spilling in on the bedroom floor. Large soaked cords of wood folding out past the door, too much to all be from the inside of my closet.

Long, soggy beams, strange connecting pieces, crumbled chalky drywall. I could still hear the rain on the roof and some horrible smashing and grinding coming from a distance, far off, outside the closet and away from my house, out there inside the darkness.

I stepped in, avoiding a chaotic wood pile butting against the door jamb, making it all look like an old decrepit silver mine, or some sort of wood lined cave.

It was utterly dark. I walked slowly into the darkness. The hall descended but seemed to have no end, a pain twisted through my heart when I realized I had easily gone further than would account for the length of the closet, and I was either under some secret section of the house which I did not know about, or I had passed the length of the house entirely and if I were to go straight up from where I was, I would probably be near the edge of my yard, I might even come up in the alley.

I saw a faint light ahead. I recommitted myself and started toward it. I could soon recognize my surroundings. The mud walls had been cut at a nearly perfect and consistent angle. Under me planks of wood served as a walkway, but underneath the cave continued its beautiful symmetric curvature.

I continued toward the light, and soon bumped against glass. The glowing light shone through and faintly described my surroundings.

I stuck my face close to the window. Outside I saw a clear moonlit night and the sky lit up with stars.

I wondered when it had finally stopped raining. Through the window I saw a large yard and an old farmhouse lazily settled into the front. The high unkempt grass over growing yard resembled wheat, brown and brittle near the top where it was too far from the soil to get any water and so had withered and crisped.

In the middle of the yard, mostly hidden by the high grass, a woman sat atop a big, red riding lawnmower.

Her face was lit by pale moonlight, her eyed canceled out by shadow. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or just alarmingly still. A stature sculpted to forever ride the old rusted mower, decrepit and useless.

I was a strange sight, a still life landscape beyond this tiny window somewhere deep within the womb of my house.

Three shadows moved quick through the high grass, across the yard. They got close enough so I could see it was three children, traipsing and playing without any acknowledgement of the woman on the mower, and she neither gave any sign she saw the kids. Echoes of laughter broke through the silent night air and rattled the glass in my window.

The children became quiet in a few minutes, their noise and activity winding down. Finally they became motionless, but all three stood rigidly in place and appeared to be staring directly at the mower and it’s driver.

One child approached her, no one else moved in the slightest. Once the child was close enough, the woman on the mower began to tell him something or sing, I couldn’t tell, I couldn’t tell from where I was, but her mouth seemed to move in a very structured and meaningful way. As she continued, the child gradually came closer, and I recognized his face as my own. I was frightened and nauseous, I wasn’t sure what I was watching or when. Was this a dream or a memory from my own past? Or was it happening now? Was the child a younger me, or was it a coincidence of appearances?

I tried but couldn’t recall anything in my memory about the queen of the riding mower, but many corners and crevices of my mind were shrouded in darkness lately. I wished I could hear what she was saying or signing, I felt urgent to know now that this boy might be a younger me.

I watched more intently now, and agonized to find some reference to this scene in my own past. Which thoughts was it buried under?

The woman was still again, and so too were the children. I watched but lost track of time. The children eventually slunk away through the high golden grass, leaving the woman atop the mower silent, and completely unmoving. I continued to gaze on as long as my eyes would let me, but nothing else happened. The children were gone, and the mower and it’s driver showed no sing of life.

The rain made a gradual return, soon enough pelting the window with heavy greasy water pellets, and the thunder struck a fist against the sky every once in a while to scare us a little and keep us alert.

I made my way back to the closet door and returned to my bedroom.

I slipped through the wound of crumbling drywall and fell onto a precarious tower of books, accented by various papers tucked into their pages, built on a foundation of trinkets and cassettes and old car keys and crushed flat aluminum cans and every species of long-lost possessions, known and unknown. I stick a foot down to test the surface below; had I found the bed or was this another mirage?

I seemed to be in the place, so I dug my shoulders into a pile, descending through in search of the blanket pile, already yawning and slipping toward slumber. I thought of the treasures still buried beneath, and the archeologists that might one day come to reclaim them.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter


BakerI’ve always hated bugs. I also used to think the words ‘Erotic’ and ‘Exotic’ meant the same thing. Imagine my unimaginable repulsion as I was walking past a pet shop advertising ‘Exotic Fish’.

Try to conjure the look on the store clerks face just before calling the police. Luckily I was abducted by aliens just moments before I would have been dragged from the large aquarium by a dozen frothing cops.

The aliens were very pleasant. They told me they were from a planet where there were no words for ‘erotic’ or ‘exotic’ and they were envious of my ignorance, saying, “You don’t know how good you have it” with that peculiar alien sigh we all love so much.

It’s a shame that we had to annihilate the lot of them, but they were godless heathen barbarians after all.

I returned home to live with my family in their luxurious mobile home– to set the record straight, it was not a mobile home in the sense of a house on wheels designed to rust around the rotting white trash in a trailer park, but rather a number of rooms hung from wires at different lengths, spinning and bobbing over a giant baby crib.

We were soon evicted and bused into a bathroom that was shared by an entire floor in the scummiest motel this side of the river Euphrates, it was the best day of my life.

Besides winning the lottery in thirty three of the continental United States and being inexplicably cured of my spleen cancer, I was also elected to the seat of ‘Token Incurable Maniac Faculty Member’ at Harvard. And, all sixty-seven counts against me in the pending federal subversive aggravated jaywalking case were mysteriously dropped.

I was unfazed by our squalid living conditions. A family of six, all in one room with absolutely no privacy, often being mistaken for a toilet by the stone-blind transient patrons of this motel. We were happy and in love and addicted to fifty-eight different chemicals at last count.

Ah yes, the good old days. I can still hear the early morning screams that seemed to come from nowhere, the indescribable and unidentifiable smell that would fill the air several times a day.

I am better able to describe the whole situation now, when I was interviewed on Letterman I was overdosing on pesto-bismal and could barely contain my composure to answer any of his questions.

DAVE: So, I hear you hate bugs.

Me: Yes… Well, no… What the hell is this some sort of interrogation?

DAVE: Hey! Hey! Settle down there, kid! Hey, don’t touch. Biff! Get
this freak off me!

Me: You pigeon-toed manipulator of human morals! You defiled my cat and destroyed all my household appliances! I am going to slice your body and sell it by the pound to cannibals.

DAVE: We’re going to take a commercial break, and when we come back O.J. Simpsons will be here!

When Letterman’s army took over Europe in 2023 I was, of course, banned form the continent. Spoiling my chance at the gold medal in the liver destruction competition in the next Spring Break Olympics which were held in Marrakesh that year.

I was distraught.

But, I had acquired enough camel cash finally to get a real, live camel.


‘Been to the Desert on a Camel with Dead Batteries’

At least I thought it was real. Not until I was submerged in the nothing depths of the Mojave Desert and the stupid animal just seized up and fell over, did I learn that it ran on eight ‘D’ sized batteries. And no store for a hundred miles at least, in any direction. As they say ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitten.’

Nothing, no water, no life. Just the sand, a plastic battery operated dead camel, and I. Doomed to the greasy baking gristle that would become of my crisping skin, a hell of desert heat. Probably destined to die of heat stroke, again.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter

The End of the World Song

(April 1993)

Up on the Fourth Floor

Mosquitohead- Biddy Mulligans- 12.03.93
I drank a cup of coffee,
And tried to avoid
Writing this Song.

A fan in the Window,
An Empty Pack of Smokes,
An Empty Daydream
Carries me away.

And I can go on and on
And on and on and on,
But no one is listening
To this song.

Sat on your sofa,
Saw that look in your eyes,
Like something has to be
Happening somewhere

Through several doorways,
A million stair cases,
A million staring eyes
Carry me Away.

It’s only a song,
It’s not like it’s the End of the World.
It’s only the End of the World,
It’s no excuse to write a song.

Up in the evening,
I went to sleep at dawn,
And tried to avoid
Losing this buzz (zzz).

Awoke with a feeling,
That far away look,
A million staring eyes
To carry me away.

And I can go on and on
and on and on and on,
But noone is listening to this song.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter
Published by Hermetic Medical Records (ASCAP)

Chicago Baseball in October

Twenty Three Shopping Days Left Until the End of the World
(circa 2004)

yellowbugHave you seen this years new bugs?

There are the new little bee’s that seem to be just absolutely everywhere. There’s the recent upgrade of that beetle that looks like a ladybug, all new features for this season. There was a translucent tiny green spider on my car window this evening.

All the regular old bugs have disappeared by this time of year, even the spiders have given up their battle for my room, regrouping to invade again next spring. But all the new bugs, they stick around a little later into fall…

But my question is, where do they come from? For years and years I was accustomed to the same old bugs every summer; flies, ants, bees, wasps, those rolly-polly things, earwigs, caterpillars, worms, and every couple of years some locust or cicadas.

It was maybe five years ago i first noticed a new bug. I remember it vividly because for a brief moment I thought I was first witness to some previously undiscovered species.

Until some one saw me staring and said, “Oh, that. That’s the new bug…

But now, they are everywhere, and every year seems to bring more. Are they all, like that Asian Beetle that came over to eat all our trees, accidentally shipped over in shoddy fruit boxes?

In my more paranoid moments I believe them to be tiny government robots, but that’s another story for another time…

The game is on again, I have to go. The Cubs are winning, and once again, Sammy is tracing the outline of some ancient seal in the outfield with his feet…

© Robert Emmett McWhorter

Live-Tweeting The End of the World

blowupHave we decided yet which Hashtag we’ll use when we Live-Tweet the End of the World?

The question was posed in one of my Writing Groups, ‘If somebody told you the world would end in seven days, how would you react?’

In my lifetime I have witnessed and survived half a dozen Raptures, the Mayan Apocalypse, Zombie Devastation, The Planetary Alignment, The Hale-Bopp and Halley’s Calamities, Dark Matter and Anti-Particle Cancellation, The Post-Nuclear End-Times Dystopia, The Magnetic Polar Reversal, The Hour of Judgement, The Global Financial Technological and Social Collapse, Quantum Wormhole Unraveling, a handful of Jeffs’ Latter-Day Tragedies and Camping’s Deseret Morning Cataclysms, The Outbreak of SARS, The Apophis, Elenin and other Cometary Collisions, The Aum Shinrikyo Armageddon, the Appearance of Maitreya, The Zeta Reticuli and Dog Star Alien Invasions and Annihilation, The Second Trumpet of Revelation and myriad Tribulations, The Hadron Collider Catastrophe, The Eleventh Insight of Secret Shambala, the Planet X Impact, The Harmonic Convergence, The Holocausts of Kaballah, Bahai and scores of other sects and religions, Nostradamus’ King of Terror, The Thawing Arctic Flood, Earthquakes, Tsunamis and similar Global Warming Doomsdays, The Cygnus Supernova and Black Hole Singularity, The foretold Second Coming and Subsequent Encores, the Mad-Cow and Bird-Flu Epidemics, Jim Jones and the Crisis at Jamestown, the Heavens Gate and Golden Dawn Predictions, the Celestine Prophesy, Millennial Terrors and of course Y2K…

I say, “Bring It On!”

And it better not be anticlimactic. We’ve invested too much and have been waiting so long , if we are disappointed there surely will be hell to pay. And no doubt we’ll expect a full refund.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

Advertising Animals

374112_10150475755354595_182892415_nPostcards from the End of the World (excerpt)
Fit 2 Whereabouts, Section VII

You are standing in the sundial garden. It is dark. Presently, you look about you and find that you are enclosed by walls and a high ceiling, you are underground.

You see now a dim, distant light, probably originating in the middle of the giant, horizontal clock. Intently listening, you hear whispering. Half inaudible, silence and rustling of leather, and… something gelatinous.

You are blinded by a sudden light. When you are able to refocus your eyes, you inexplicably find yourself standing in the parking lot of a supermarket, surrounded by shopping carts and cars. You compose yourself, deciding to legitimize your visit by going in and buying something.

“I’ll beat them at their own game.” you mutter under your breath, grinning at old frozen ladies drolly rolling past you with full carts, “I needed to go shopping anyway.”

Entering through the auto-let-in Transec X-ray carbonizing smell-o-vac system, you find yourself surrounded by large, colorful species of advertisements, jumping around their metal jungle, feeding on the weak shoppers; welfare prunes and food-stampers.

These strange animals (known commonly as Andees) are the result of scanning living organisms, such as rabbits and chimpanzees, onto a computer. The mad scientists and IBM jerks mess around with the animals digitized genetics to form new and peculiar animals whose main purpose is to catch your attention at any cost and sell you their clients product, whose name is usually spelled out, along with their logo, in the animals hide.

“Oh, look at the cute monkey! What does it say on his back? Oreo’s? Oh, let’s get some!” Also, some Andees talk.

Wondering around to the pay lanes, you quickly scan the headlines of the newspapers and magazines, only one catches your eye: a news article reporting the mad escapades of several gangs of dogs who, ex-domesticated and forced to earn their own keep, have taken to breaking into humans homes and stealing food and such.

You pause, not stopping but just barely walking with your head turned to read about how some of the dogs had adapted nicely, and were working government jobs, child care occupations, and tobacco farming.

Suddenly, a small green blobby melon-shaped cat catches your eye and immediately starts toward you. You veer to the left, picking up your pace as you head for the produce section. Almost directly behind you is the feline Andee, digitally intent upon making a sale. Vegetables are much safer.

“Hey, darlin'”, the cat purrs from behind you, “C’mon baby, gimme a chance!” On the cats back you see that against its green fur is a patch of purple that reads: “Instant Death brand cigarettes” with their world famous logo; a man intently and calmly contemplating a rather phallic looking cigarette while simultaneously being stabbed, hung, drawn and quartered, guillotined, axe-murdered, drive-by’ed and biochemically annihilated. The cat light up a smoke and offers you one. You decline with silent contempt.

“Have you ever even tried Instant Death brand cigarettes?” the cat looks away and purrs lithely, blowing out sensual blue smoke rings.

“Shut your hole and get outta my face! I’m not interested,” you quicken your pace.

“Aw, come on, you fachin’ hypocrite! At least give it a try before you piss on it and condemn it to hell! That’s all I’m Asking!”

You try to get ahead of it, heading for the onions and apples. More people are being harassed by a large group of dog-like Andees, which is gathering around them, barking and dancing, trying to desperately entertain. But causing the people to freeze in fear, screaming, shitting and pissing themselves.

“Isidro!” you shout, seeing the little man wearing the stores uniform, sweeping up the produce aisle, “Get me out of here!” You see the cat still approaching, but it is becoming nervous because of the ill entertaining dogs. Isidro smiles and nods at you in utter incomprehension.

“Um, uh…¡Necesito me voy!” you say.

“Oh… ¡oh, si!” he drops his broom, still smiling, and rushes over to the lettuce display. You walk up to him and see that Isidro has uncovered a secret passageway behind the bin that hold the lettuce. You stare at him, dumbfounded, as he gestures for you to climb up into the bin.

Quickly, you climb up onto the rack, over the desolate lettuce, crushed, and set yourself down the hole, sliding.

© 1993 Robert Emmett McWhorter

Kill Your Characters

flipiconI belong to a few online writers groups, one of the newest ones I joined is a bulletin board style site, with categories for posting stories, asking for help, giving critiques, and writing advice. There is a lot of good advice there, such as keeping dialogue real, write every day, don’t waste words, never start a story with the phrase ‘it was a dark and stormy night’, etc…

Here is my contribution to the Writing Advice section:

The importance of killing off characters

I wrote my first novel between 1992 and 1995, It’s a psycho-trippy jaunt through the last days of the earth just prior to Apocalypse, and focuses on one character, Hector, and his attempts to save the world. I put him through heck in this story, I say heck because this board has a built-in censor.

During the course of some Fifty thousand words, he is shot, stabbed, electrocuted, has involuntary sex changes, an accidental lobotomy due to a misuse of power tools, a very intentional lobotomy to steal information from his brain and swap it into a body that will find good use for it, he is urinated upon by dogs, etc…

Anyway, at the end of this story, I left him alive. A mistake I am finding out now, because he is mad. Mad is not the word, but again, I refer you to the built-in censor (I like to call him Mr. Frumpy; good job on catching the profanities and replacing them with less offensive homonyms, Mr. Frumpy!).

The phone rings late at night, with no name registering on the caller id, I pick up the phone and it is Hector, the character from my novel who I tortured but failed to kill off. He swears he will exact revenge.

I walk home at night and feel as if I am being followed. Even now, as I look out my window into the pitch black of night, I can make out the shape of a dark van parked in front of my house, and can almost feel a set of fictional eyes watching as I type, and I am afraid.

©Robert Emmett McWhorter

Apocalypse Rescheduled for Super Bowl Half Time Show

fbjMomentum has been building for a few years around the notion that the world will end on December  21, 2012. This is a conversation that draws much intrigue and controversy as the impending date draws ever closer.

The belief was first attributed to the thousands-year-old Mayan Long Calendar, which experts say predicts the precise date of the end-times. This fore-telling is also said to be supported in a multitude of varied cultures and religions around the world– from the writings of Nostradamus to the book of Revelations in the New Testament; as well as to some more frivolously stated opinions, such as “John Cusack said so”.

Over this past weekend an unprecedented summit was held in a remote village in Honduras. It was a meeting hosted by an indigenous tribe long-held to have its ancestral roots in the Mayan culture, and claiming spiritual authority of Mayan beliefs and rites. Also in attendance were religious leaders and spokes-people from a cross-section of the worlds many

faiths, as well as some  state leaders, and also representatives from the NFL, Fox broadcasting and lobbyists representing the companies who spend billions of dollars every year on television advertising.

At the end of the three day affair, it was announced that all parties involved had come to a very wide-reaching decision– The Apocalypse would be rescheduled to coincide with the half-time show of the Feb 3rd 2013 Super Bowl, to be held in New Orleans; a city well suited as the setting for the end of the world, most sources agree.

Scriptural adjustments will be made over the next few weeks to reflect this change, and Expert Chronologists are determining as we speak what will be the best way to add approximately forty-five days to the ancient Mayan calendar.

The Super Bowl is generally the most widely watched television event in any given year, and all the institutions represented  at the Honduran Counsel felt compelled to capitalize on this fact, and most felt that combining these events would do well for everyone.

The Half Time show of the Super Bowl has, for years, been a showcase for long-since-relevant rock and roll dynasties and modern-day pop personalities hired mostly for their ‘train-wreck capacity quotient’– the likeliness that they will do or say something embarrassing in their set, giving us all something to laugh about for months to come.

The 2013 Super Bowl Half Time show now promises to be much, much different than any show in the past. Although, if any specifics have yet be planned, they are being kept under very tight wraps. Some may expect to see the Universe simply blinking out of existence; others expect plagues of locusts and frogs; some say there will be fire and brimstone and judgement for all of mankind; still others talk of four horsemen their returning messiah.

There is no word at this time whether returning prophets will be expected to make a speech, or simply lip-sync something. But, whatever you believe in your soul or expect from professional sports, The 2013 Super Bowl New Orleans End-Times Half-Time Spectacular will be a sight that no one should, and might not be able to, miss.

©2011 Robert Emmett McWhorter