The End of the World

by Regis Boff

Mind you, had I been one of the grub eating, cannibal type guys three thousand years ago, I would have been as jittery about the end of the world as anyone else. There is something about this that gets me hard.
I  trust in Global Warming. I want the Republicans and Fox news to be wrong about what’s coming. It’s about the political  team with me.
Problem is, I found it easier back when I was hunting and gathering to fathom solutions to the onset of any particular cataclysmic doom, like eclipses, earthquake or droughts. I had gods and powerful Shamans who could be relied upon to fix shit. If the gods didn’t come through, well, we would find another. If the Holy Man proved unworthy, we could just eat him.
Global warming, if true, and, of course, every sane person believes it is, comes with no solution except to bend over and to kiss your ass goodbye. The only remedy seems to be to convince nine-hundred billion Chinese to bring their recyclables to the curb and for them to stop heating the homes of babies for about two-hundred years.

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