Narrator: With Colorado skies aglow above colossal flames and its atmosphere choked in smoke, I shall declare, in the year of our Lord, A.D. 2020…

Whose lord?

Narrator: It’s been 2, 020 years since the birth of Our Lord.

Right. Who are you? Why are you in my column?

Narrator: The apocalypse. I’m narrating the apocalypse. Please don’t interrupt. As the pandemic pumps through the cold and faithless veins of our secular world, thinning out herds of godless beings, the spirit of humanity straddles a mere thin line, balancing itself on the dark fringes of time…

Oh, one of those end-of-the-world fools.

Narrator: … In the distance, John appears. He is glowing. He speaks of seven-headed dragons, serpents and The Beast. In a dreary setting, his doom discourse proves to be quite comforting to the naked ear…

My ears have pants on so I can’t hear him. Is it John Stamos?

Narrator: … He speaks of the Second Coming of our Saviour. I spell it with a “u,” because I’d prefer you quote me in a British accent.

A second coming came for me last night after I napped on the couch then woke up to find half of a joint in my garage. I saw birds. I saw Mustangs. Laguna Beach was in the distance and Christina Applegate was smoking a cigarette. Wait. I was watching “Dead to Me.” Or was it “The Real Housewives of Orange County”? Regardless, I was baked.

Narrator: The events of the world have been slowly culminating into a climax…

Good for them. They should ride that hard and loud.

Narrator: … and the AntiChrist is lurking in the deep, dark shadows watching this ongoing struggle between good and evil …

Homie, you’ve only mentioned the pandemic and Colorado’s wildfires. Yes, 2020 smells like a cooked piece of pig shit served on a dirty flip-flop that’s caked in moth guts, but you need to take it down a notch.

Narrator: … and the stench. The stench will be putrid. Humans will drop like flies from the sheer foul funk of The Beast. When the AntiChrist reveals its face, the world will drop to its knees and pray for forgiveness.

“Its,” you say. Is the AntiChrist non-binary? That’s cool.

When you say “the world will drop to its knees,” I picture a Space Jam-esque Michael Jordan on one knee, twirling the world on one finger with Porky Pig perched on his leg.

Narrator: And when the prayers are loud enough to reach the high heavens, Our Lord will return from his grave for the Second Coming. He will take down the AntiChrist …

With a Nerf gun?

Narrator: … which will, in turn, destroy the world, leaving nothing but an empty palette for him to create his brand new masterpiece …

Do we all die?

Narrator: … and the result will be a New World, filled with no original sin.

So we do die. This plan blows. Let’s just chill out and get through this year. Better yet, here, hit this joint. It’s a Jack Herer strain, and it is straight up bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Let’s get high and we’ll do some cool shit. Like play pinochle and dip pretzels in salsa. Or hide easter eggs around the house and dance to jazz in our knickers. I’ll show you a good time.

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