Fortune Teller Predicts 'Nothing Much'

You may have noticed recently that you aren't dead.  The birds are chirping, the sun is shining and your neighbor with the nice calves is mowing his grass as often as usual.  Our world did not end as foretold by ancient civilizations, preached by televangelists and shouted by street scum, complete with little chunks of hot dog flying out of their mouth.

 TAKE THIS PAMPHLET!

For some of you, being spared from an apocalyptic brutalization of all mankind might seem like a reason for celebration, but for others it just means another weekend of contemplating suicide and untrimmed toenails.  Being the public benefactors and filthy philanthropists that we are, this recent absence of annihilation prompted us to do a little in-field research to get the lowdown on when our time will truly be up.

First we bought a Ouija board, but have found little use for it besides pummeling thieves to death.  Frustrated at our inability to connect with the realms beyond, we decided to pay a visit to Madam Kabroni's Fortune Hut.  Here, we were able to take an exclusive glimpse into the unknown and distant future.

Luckily this freak was nowhere to be found.

Inside the psychic den, a smell of old wallets soaking in gravy overwhelmed the senses.  After the Madam finished caressing her neck goiter for a solid twenty minutes, we got down to business.  "It's going to be pretty uneventful for a few thousand years," said Kabroni while rubbing a crystal ball as one would stroke a troll's gonad.  "All the cool stuff happened already.  We're pretty much looking at a long stretch of lazy Sundays and short-lived sitcoms."

We were shocked, mortified, dismayed, incredulous and also could not believe what we were hearing.  How could society slip so far as to stop trying to spice things up entirely?  We know better than anyone how tough it is to drag our sludge-filled meat sacks out of bed each morning, but we do it.  If we don't, who will build the fences to keep goblins out of daycares?  Who will clog up public transit with the penetrating odor of unwashed wounds?  For the love of all that is holy, WHO WILL PROGRAM OUR DIGITAL RECORDING DEVICES?!

We'll die before we take a recommendation from a machine!  ...what's that?  Well actually, that sounds pretty good.

We stumbled into the street, weeping and belching, unable to control our emotions or bowels.  Suddenly everything seemed so very pointless.  If our future is as bleak as Kabroni foretold, how can any of us pretend the contrary?  If all we have to look forward to is the sweet embrace of death, then what's to prevent us from just ending our lives right now?  We might be a faceless news conglomerate, but goddammit we have purpose.  Right?

Public committees have been organized to "do cool stuff" to stave off the inevitable mediocrity of existence.  Portly and proud leader of Fellas For Fun Futures, Brando Piggle, spitballed a few ideas for how to boost entertainment in this dull age.  "Bean bags.  People love those things.  And maybe a few new board games," said Piggle, accumulating a yellowish secretion above the brow.

Pieces in the updated version of Sorry double as butt plugs.

Scared citizens have taken to the street in a frenzy of freshness.  Painting murals, hanging lights and diving headfirst into moving vehicles are only a few of the exciting changes being brought to the table.  "I decided to cut off my lips," hissed a concerned man with exposed, bleeding gums.  "I lived the first 35 years of my life with lips, so I decided it was time for a change.  Personally, I don't know how I lasted that long with those nuisances.  Always getting chapped in the winter.  Try putting some balm on there, but that just gets 'em greasy.  Good riddance I say."  We couldn't agree more.

That's what we call a quality smear job.

Unfortunately, the flurry of productivity ended as quickly as it began.  Protestors sat down in the street and government offices went vacant Monday morning.  "Really, why even try?" asked Planet President, Earl Chuchamunga.  "Aren't you people tired?  I'm tired.  I could use a few decades of peace, quiet and 3-day weekends.  Maybe throw a few barbeques in there.  Frankly, this nationwide outpouring of passion is makin' me sick."

There you have it.  Our collective future is essentially a bland blob of blurry boredom, wrapped in a flavorless flour tortilla.  And while there may be the occasional spark in the night along the way, this is pretty much it.  A whole lot of nothing surrounded by even less.  It appears as though we will never reach the seldom seen rapids of ranch dressing cascading over meat loaf mountain.  We will never tickle the oracle's taint atop the crag.

What are we even talking about anymore?

Our lives will grow stagnant and intolerable.  Collecting dust until one day...something will happen.  It must.  And while we may not be around to see what that is, it comforts us to know that our children and our children's children and our children's children's child armies will have a new Xbox or some bullshit to occupy their days.  That gives us hope of a day when time is recognized for what it is.  Infinite, renewable and just asking to be wasted.

Late for the birth of your child?  FAHGET ABOUT IT!