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There are two days left in 2011. I’ve tried my best to sum
up the other 363 days. I have sat in front of my computer for eons, watching
episode after episode of the Barefoot Contessa on Food Network. I’ve been so
committed to writing a successful summary that I haven’t showered or changed
from my oversized pajama pants, my only sustenance in the form of multiple
boxes of Sees candy. And after all my research, and googling, and periodic
facedown naps, I have come up with one conclusion.
The
world is going to end in 2012.
That’s
it. There’s no way to avoid the truth. The evidence has been neatly presented
to us in the form of multiple celebrity deaths. They made like sheep and got
the flock out of here because the afterlife will be wayyyyy too crowded once
the world actually ends.
Think
about it! Steve Jobs? He was so rich he’d never wait in line to get into an
exclusive club. He would be the first one there! Osama Bin Laden? A
hide-and-go-seek champion like him would definitely be VIP. Amy Winehouse? The requisite shit show
at any private club. Who else
would people talk about in order to feel better about themselves? Kim Jong Il
has the perfect hair to hang with the social elite, so he was invited too. All
these celebs and dictators are at the most epic afterparty ever, while we are
here at the teacher-chaperoned school dance.
But
don’t think that we won’t get to that afterpartayyyyy ““ because we will. After
2012 ends, we will get our lil’ angel wings, float on up to wherever this party
is at, and wait. We normal people will wait in line, and wait in line, and wait
some more. We won’t have iphones or smartphones to play with, because it’ll be
the afterlife. We can try and flirt, but the afterlife is gonna need all new
pick up lines. “Did it hurt, when you fell from”¦.aghhh” will be the first words
out of the mouths of pimps-turned-ghosts.
So
my advice, at the end of this turbulent 2011, is to work hard on them lines. If
you want to be the Casanova of the next life, get them pickups and saucy winks
worked out now.
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