MIKE INGLES
I’m not getting out of bed Friday. The end time is near, and I’ve always wanted it to end with me lying on a pillow-top mattress, grasping the Book of Revelations and sucking down a chocolate milkshake—I’m lactose intolerant. I will not be using air-freshener.
Zero hour is set for 1:00 p.m. CST., which means I’ll get to watch the C-Span marathon featuring “The Complete Speeches of John McCain,” which starts at midnight and has an end time of noon and is the best precursor for nothingness that I could ever dream of. They may move it back.
Unlike past end-of-days that have come and gone, this one was orchestrated by the Mayans; really really smart people who sacrificed virgins to the god, Chac, the lightning and rain god, by quickly retracting the victim’s heart, as four men held her arms out and a matron moved her left boob out of the way. They were a modest people. lightning can be a real problem in heavily wooded areas.
The Christian bible tells of Jephthah who sacrifices his only daughter to keep a pledge he made to God about winning some war or another. His daughter asks for a stay-of-execution so that she can go off into the woods and lament her virginity. But throughout all this drama, the bible does not offer an end-of-days time, “…not even the angels in heaven…” They should have checked with the Mayans, they had it figured out.
I don’t suppose any of the Mayans or the Christians had ever stopped to consider roasting a hooker instead? I mean, what’s a lightning God going to do with a virgin that he couldn’t do with a professional lady?
But still, we’d better take their warnings seriously; they did, after all, also invent racquetball.
Like 22% of the American people, and 67% of Fox News viewers, I take this stuff seriously. I’m all for offering-up burnt offerings to gods—any gods—I’m not all that selective. If that particular god can cause me harm, I say, appease him. Take two virgins—what do I care. My wife, says I should sacrifice my ponytail—it is now 16 inches long and silver; to me, it is reminiscent of the mane of a great and virile stud-stallion. I get a lot of stares. She says the stares come from incredulous people who can’t believe that some old liberal is still trying to relive the past—those glorious 60’s. And, she can practically guarantee me that the sun will rise come Saturday morning if I will only allow her to snip it off. The problem is that she is Catholic and to ‘practically guarantee’ something you must first get it ok’d by the priest, then Bishop, then the Cardinal, then the comptroller, then the Pope and finally God.
I see those same stares from people and interpret them as raw, pent-up, sexual desire, especially from young women in their 50’s, although, it’s a little disconcerting when the guy at the hardware store, with all those tattoos, smiles at me. Still, if it will allow our species a few more years to argue-fuss-fight-pillage-steal-plunder and fornicate—bring on the scissors.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Ingles is a freelance writer living in Ohio. He has a degree in American Literature from Franklin University, Columbus, Ohio. duckrun2@aol.com
