Weblog
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
-
The Time Machine
There are many things one must consider when travelling through time. Basic concerns are those encountered on any trip: do I have a toothbrush, how many changes of clothes will I need, and how good of a hostage do people of my nationality make in international disputes? But due to its nature, time travel presents other, more pressing matters: namely, what will you do with your powers to affect time? Will you get yourself photographed chasing Hitler with a grain thresher, or simply invest your money in the great companies of the future and be very boring and a bit of a cheater? Ultimately, however, all time travelers throughout history (if “history” is truly the right word to use in this case) have had to face the fact that at some point or another, they will be left stranded when their ingenious device is inevitably stolen. So, as an exercise in how to deal with this matter, I shall educate you, dear reader, on how I would survive in a harsh, unforgiving future, similar to the one depicted in H.G. Wells short story about a time machine, coincidentally entitled “The Time Machine.”
First of all, I must point out two things. One, as a time traveler, it can be assumed I am wearing a bow tie. Bow ties are cool. Second, if I am fortunate enough to return to my own time, I will build some sort of protective shield around my machine. Nothing particularly fancy, perhaps just some blue wood paneling around the sides, but enough to stop it getting stolen every time I have dinner with future-midgets.
Now, many time travelers often reach their destination, discover that people seem happy there, and incorrectly assume everything is absolutely wonderful. This is never, ever the case. Time travelers have an uncanny ability to arrive when something terrible is happening, because in the grand scheme of things, something terrible is always happening. With this in mind, as soon as I landed, but after I’d stupidly allowed my time machine to be stolen, I would find the highest ground possible, and start building a fort there. Having played Minecraft obsessively, I know that a) it is very easy to dig up dirt in pre-shaped cubes and use it to build a rudimentary fort, and b) you never want to be outside after dark. This capacity for building would also probably fascinate the local midgets, or Eloi as they call themselves, and I could use this fascination to quickly establish myself as their god. Then, rather than learn their language, I will endeavor to teach them English, since I’m terrible with languages and desperately need to say to them, “there is clearly something strange going on here, and please warn me of any dangers.” As an additional note, I wish I could obtain some sort of device to act as a universal translator for the time machine. Sadly, however, such devices lie in the realms of science fiction.
When it becomes clear that my experience of video games/common sense taught me well and things are dangerous after dark, I would make an effort to discover what the creatures that threatened me were afraid of. Now, the Time Traveler of Wells’ novel makes many mistakes in this, simply using fire to scare away the Morlocks and defend himself. That, I suppose, is useful, but ultimately a bit amateurish. Instead, use your power of fire to make yourself out to be some sort of terrible demon of legend, or perhaps just a very wrathful god. Yes, we’re back to the “get the locals to worship me” angle, but really, I’m bending the laws of space and time, why not have a little fun? And moreover, no one in my own time accepts my obvious awesomeness as a decent reason to deify me, so it’s probably best if I live this fantasy while I can. Furthermore, it will ultimately be easier to get my time machine back if they believe some sort of divine retribution will befall them if they don’t return it.
As an added bonus, uniting the two peoples in worship of me will allow me to set humanity on a path towards a new future where they behave in a somewhat human manner. It’s all well and good to just be an observer, but when you realize that your descendants have become a bunch of uneducated hippie midgets, you have a certain duty to stamp that out. The Morlocks aren’t much better. They’re brooding, can’t stand the light, seem to tinker around with machines, and steal things. Basically, they’re teenagers. For the good of the future of humanity, it is my duty as their new god to get them out in the world, to show them how to live a more socially acceptable life, or at least make them get a job.
Eventually, however, I’ll get bored of this. I have a relatively short attention span, and once I’ve established myself as a god, what else is there to do? I could declare war on the rest of the world, but really I think I’ll just leave. May tell them that one day I’ll return, all that standard god-stuff, but really, who cares? As soon as I squish a mosquito in my own time, this entire future will be erased anyway, so there’s no big loss there. When I get back, however, I’m not going to be some sort of chump and only tell people about it at dinner parties. That is the venue for stories about things you overheard at work, not impressing everyone with how you made the laws of physics your plaything. No, I’ll go on the talk show circuit, maybe write a book about it, and eventually someone will offer to make a movie out of my story, which I’ll grudgingly accept. That is, unless they want me to be played by Guy Pearce. I mean, I’m a god in the future. I have standards.
Wednesday, 06 July 2011
-
Sam's Shotgun
Alright mortals, hang on, because I’m about to revolutionize theatre with one idea. I’m sure many of you have heard of Chekov’s Gun, and if not, here's where you can read about it. Now, as the Wikipedia entry states, this is all about not including anything that isn’t vital to the plot of the story. But I’m here today to offer a counterpoint to this. I call it…
Sam’s Shotgun.
Simply put, Sam’s Shotgun is a law that states that the main character (or another character of suitable levels of awesomeness/importance to plot) must enter with or reveal in their first scene, a shotgun. They may walk onto the stage carrying it, pull it from a desk drawer, or draw it out of another hiding place of some description. This shotgun may then be handed off to another character for removal, left for stage hands to deal with post-scene, or be stored either on the mantelpiece or some form of umbrella stand. The purpose is to grab the audience’s attention, and to demonstrate to them that this character is really, really cool. While Chekov’s Gun is based on the notion that items introduced into the story and then not used are wasted, Sam’s Shotgun is based on the fact that shotguns are awesome.
Please note, there is a crucial distinction between Sam’s Shotgun and a Red Herring. A Red Herring is an element introduced to throw the reader/viewer/gamer off the scent of the actual plot, in order to build suspense. Sam’s Shotgun is not about distracting the viewer, although that can happen. Instead, it is about reinforcing a character’s importance and awesomeness, because a character must be important and awesome if he is to carry a shotgun. As a further clarification, having an character enter with a shotgun, only for them to not amount to anything, would be an example of using Sam’s Shotgun as a Red Herring, and this is both wily and awesome.
There is even historical precedent for this, although no actual law existed to explain it before. In the pilot episode of Supernatural, the character of Sam Winchester is seen packing a bag to go hunting for monsters with his brother, Dean. During this scene, we see him place a curved dagger (featured in this promo image) in his bag. In the six seasons this show has aired, we have never seen this weapon again. And while the writers of the show have certainly demonstrated an admirable ability to bring up plot elements from the past (including one spectacular mindfuck regarding prom dates that opens a whole slew of nightmarish implications if you watch the series again), it has now been six years, so any hope of this knife being used again seems slim. So what’s the point of it?
Well, look at that knife again. Really look at it. Sure, they could have given him a dagger or a hunting knife or a bowie knife and he’d look somewhat cool, but that? That thing makes him radiate badassery. Granted, it even looks somewhat ridiculous, like what a hopeless comic book loving shut-in would buy as a weapon, then whip out like “oh my god this is so cool ow I cut myself.” But here? No one seeing Sam casually drop that in his bag like it’s the most normal thing in the world would think anything less than “this guy is not to be fucked with.” And he’s the reluctant brother. Those maybe two seconds of screen time set the brothers up as dangerous guys who know what they’re doing, and for that the knife has served as Sam’s Shotgun. Because while I encourage shotguns to be used, whenever possible, something with an equal or greater awesomeness factor is also acceptable.
Sam’s Shotgun also helps with staging issues found in certain plays, like Shakespeare’s King Lear. One of the major problems with performing this play (that doesn’t involve cutting out the Fool’s character) is establishing Lear as a good and powerful leader, a man who is a mighty figure who other kings should aspire to emulate. This has to be done, because otherwise the ensuing shitstorm he unleashes and his fall from grace and descent into madness are not tragic. Nobody sympathizes with an asshole, and he needs to be so high up as to be nigh untouchable by mortals for his fall to resonate with the viewer. So in staging this play, the actor playing Lear has maybe two or three lines with which to demonstrate these admirable traits before he has to show Lear completely destroying everything he’s worked for. This requires an enormous amount of gravitas, poise, and talent on the actor’s part, roughly equal to what is officially known as a “downright silly amount.”
Alternatively, give him a shotgun. Problem? Solution. He walks in with that casually resting under his arm or against his shoulder and suddenly he radiates Winchester levels of “not to be fucked with.” There, I just used my new law to help improve Shakespeare. What have you done today?
Sam’s Shotgun, it's gonna be a thing.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
-
An Announcement From On High
Today at 6:03 PM Pacific Time, Heaven released the following statement:
"To our loyal followers,
An internal server error occurred, as too much traffic was present. If any of you are experiencing problems with your apocalypse, please contact your network administrator, and He will reply in an ineffable manner at His earliest convenience.
Thank you,
Apocalypse Development Team"
Wednesday, 04 May 2011
-
Apocalulz Now
I submitted this paper in my essay-writing course after my computer became infected with a virus that locked out all functionality, the night before my paper was due. The anger was channeled into this:
Throughout human history, there has been a fascination with the end of the world. Norse mythology held that at the end of time the battle of Ragnarok would occur, and the world would be reborn under the rule of the surviving deities. Christian belief claims that the world will be destroyed during the Final Judgment, when all manner of terrible things will be unleashed to punish mankind. The latter half of the twentieth century was characterized by the fear of nuclear war erupting and wiping mankind off the face of the Earth. And with these real-world fears come those works of fiction that use them as their basis. The Norse legends gave birth to Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelung, the threat of nuclear holocaust spawned the critically acclaimed Fallout video games, and Christianity’s apocalypse is tied only with WWII for the limitless amount of fiction based around it. But in recent years, one eschatological theory has captured the public mind like no other – the Mayan prophecies of the end of the world, neatly scheduled for December 21, 2012. Already, a veritable smorgasbord of related fiction has sprung up like a cultural fungus, but where do these predictions come from? And why are we, as a society, so excited by the prospect of the entire world dying?
As with any apocalypse theory, one might be justified in asking why the question of the world ending on next year’s winter solstice even arose. Now before anyone breaks into the nearest museum to drunkenly ask the Mesoamerican artifacts why they feel the need to threaten us, it might behoove one to look to those who claimed to have discovered the impending disaster. In 1971, Terrance and Dennis McKenna published a book entitled The Invisible Landscape: Mind, Hallucinogen, and the I Ching. Now, a skeptic might see the word “hallucinogen” and immediately write the whole thing off as the ravings of two drug-addled hippies. But according to Anthony Aveni in his book The End of Time: The Maya Mystery of 2012, the brothers made their findings after they “tripped on sacred plants related to natural secretions of the pineal gland” (Aveni, 16). So, in other words, the ravings of two drug-addled hippies. While they claimed to have discovered a pattern of the I Ching that predicted all changes in the universe, and that there was a peak in the time sub-waves in the year 2012, their “research” did not have any connection to the Mayans other than the date. Fifteen years later, Jose Argüelles released The Mayan Factor which discussed the forthcoming “Harmonic Convergence,” “heliotropic octaves,” and “reimpregnation of the planetary field with the archetypal…” (Aveni, 17). Aveni admits that he doesn’t fully understand what either Argüelles or the McKennas mean, blaming their use of “scientific” jargon, which admittedly would not be out of place in an episode of Doctor Who if the BBC had started hiring paranoid schizophrenics for writers.
But if the only evidence for the world ending in less than two years comes from a handful of New Age types that even most card-carrying Otherkin would disown, why have the fears remained? In part, because of the revelation that there is actual archeological evidence that the Mayan calendar stops on December 21st, 2012. While some have argued that assuming the world is going to explode because of the Mayan calendar ending makes as much sense as being afraid that your own desktop calendar is running out of days (Quercia), sixteenth-century records have allowed architects to deduce when the Mayan calendar began on August 11th (or 13th), 3114 BC. When one adds up the number of years the calendar covers (13 baktuns or 5,125.3661 years), the final day on the calendar is revealed to be December 21st (or 23rd), 2012 AD (Aveni, 81). Furthermore, a stone monument at Tortuguero, in Mexico, explicitly refers to the descent of deities in 2012, but the details as to what this will entail are lost (Aveni, 51). However, many archeologists, Aveni included, have stated that the starting date for the Mayan calendar seems somewhat arbitrary; lacking any real explanation of what would cause the calendar to start there. While it ends on the winter solstice, there is no important event associated with either the 11th or 13th of August (apart from my birthday, but there is scant archeological proof that the Mayans knew of that most auspicious of days). This has led to some skepticism about the validity of the date (Aveni, 82).
But setting aside the issue of when the world is actually meant to end, the most exciting part of any good apocalypse is what will happen. Will mushroom clouds decorate the sky? Will Odin Allfather fight the great wolf Fenrir, only to be slain by the beast? Will the Four Horsemen ride forth, followed by demonic locusts, a poisonous meteor, talking trees, and a seven-headed monster? (Say what you will about Christianity, they knew how to end a world in style) That is when one realizes that the lack of archeological information leads to just about every theory imaginable being offered as the way the world ends, meaning anyone and everyone can feel like a prophet of doom by making their suggestions. In effect, this turns the apocalypse of 2012 into the biggest community art project ever attempted, which might explain its popularity. The most common themes are those of natural disasters, brought on by the Earth aligning with several other planets on the eve of the solstice, which will also mark the point when solar flares are at their peak and our solar system is in line with the centre of the Milky Way Galaxy. How all those astrological events will lead to natural disasters is never really explained, although Roland Emmerich’s film 2012 suggests that harmless neutrinos from the sun will suddenly (and presumably magically) mutate into a new kind of nuclear particle, which will cause natural disasters to tear the world apart while John Cusack protects his incontinent daughter from falling aircraft carriers. Others, such as Psychic Nikki, the modern-day oracle of Delphi, claim that UFOs will also take part, although for good or ill is left unstated. As a side note, Nikki did predict that Toronto would be fine after 2012, losing only about 50% of its population in unspecified disasters. Some Christian groups argue that the End of Days is upon us, but that the world is actually going to end on May 21st of this year, presumably because God was upset that those uppity Mayans thought they could get away with destroying the world before he got his turn. Other groups argue that the oncoming event is not something to be scared of, but rather celebrated: a psychic awakening, a shift in humanity’s consciousness, the fallen angels known as the Grigori revealing their knowledge to humanity once more, the return of loving, nurturing aliens, or the upcoming Avengers movie being really good.
With all the talk of natural disasters and upheaval, one could be forgiven for looking at the news and seeing confirmation of humanity’s impending demise. With the nightmarish destruction unleashed upon Japan, and the unrest sweeping the Middle East, many have been quick to make the links to 2012, fearing that these are all signs of what is to come. But in The End of Time, Aveni warns against ignoring historical information and simply “cherry-picking” events, especially since the number of natural disasters has not increased in recent years (Aveni, 116). This outlook echoes the remarks made concerning birds falling from the sky in January of this year. While many found the notion that various flocks of birds across the United States and around the world had decided to re-enact the Parrot Sketch from Monty Python en masse disconcerting and indicative of global disaster, many scientists stated that birds fall out of the sky all the time, and that it was the public’s fault for collectively losing their cool. Some even blamed the internet for allowing people to become more aware of events around the world and thereby see patterns that didn’t really exist. While this argument does sound vaguely like one of those pathetic “marsh gas reflected off a weather balloon” UFO explanations, Aveni’s point about people only paying attention to events that confirm their apocalyptic preconceptions gives it backing.
One might wonder why exactly the human race seems so determined to predict its doom. Are we all pessimists, assuming the world can only get worse from here, or are we penitent sinners, hoping to be taken to a better life? Or are we simply hoping that the world will end before we have to worry about turning in our next paper? In his book, Aveni suggests that every society that feels itself waning looks to doomsday scenarios, “especially when the world’s end is followed by universal renewal” (Aveni, 160). He goes on to cite the many and varied apocalyptic cults and millennial beliefs to be found in the United States, and that these beliefs are born from a combination of a loss of meaning, America’s history of fiery devotion to God, and “America’s increasing narcissism” (Aveni, 160), but fails to elaborate on what he means by this. A more complete explanation is offered by video game reviewer Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw in his article Extra Punctuation: Why We Love Zombies:
“It's egotism on a generational scale. Just as people can't cope with the idea of their death simply being the cessation of their entire existence, they also don't want to know that the human race will be continuing unconcerned after they've gone. If the apocalypse happens during our generation, then that means we're the most important humans who've ever lived, either because we're the last ones or because we're the only ones who could somehow stop whatever Ragnarok awaits.” (Croshaw)
When examined in relation to America’s fascination with the End, Croshaw’s last comment becomes all the more revealing. The United States has, in the last century, repeatedly painted itself as the crusading heroes out to save the world with patriotism and faith, fighting against Nazis, Communists, and terrorists. The reputation this has earned them has been less than positive in recent years, with many accusing Americans of acting as “world police.” In the context of Croshaw’s statement, one sees why Aveni had cause to call America narcissistic: Americans now looking to protect the world, not from fascists or terrorists, but from Judgment itself. Tired of terrestrial enemies, the United States has set its goals on standing up to the biggest threat of all – God.
Ultimately, whatever will transpire on December 21st, 2012, remains a mystery to all of humanity, especially since we aren’t even sure what was predicted in the first place. For every scientist that assures us the world is safe, a dozen proponents of the oncoming storm spring up to insist that “the end is nigh.” Why exactly we do this is equally mysterious, but the concepts of narcissistic fear of our own lonely demise seem much more likely than genetic memories passed on from when the aliens last visited. With all this talk of the end, it boils down to one simple question: What do you want to happen? On the eve of the solstice, will you be holding your breath with anticipation, waiting for the destruction and renewal of the world? Or will you be waiting for nothing to happen, as you knew would be the case, so you can treat yourself to one of the most justifiable “I told you so” speeches you’ll ever have the chance to make?
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
-
Le Grande Mindfuck
I want you to picture this scene: its three o’clock on August ninth, 2010. The setting: An MTV studio, where Paris Hilton is about to do an interview in front of a live audience. You know it’s an MTV studio, because only they would interview her, Springer having become too up-market.
The crowd is excited. Somehow, MTV has managed to round up an equally rabid mix of both Hilton fans and haters (who would be called “Hilters,” but this was decided against because it a) sounded like something dirty, and b) would alienate their perplexingly large Jewish dyslexics demographic), and the two groups are almost ready to tear each other apart in an orgy of violence.
Suddenly, she enters, and the room erupts. She takes a seat opposite the trendy young presenter who seems like the type of person who is genuinely excited by the prospect of breathing on a daily basis.
“Paris, thank you so much for joining us today, its really wonderful to have you here,” he beams, the reflection from his teeth blinding a small orphan in the front row.
“Oh, well, I always like, love talking to MTV,” Paris says, in a voice that instantly lowers the IQ of everyone in the room. “You do so much for like, music? That’s what the M is for, right?”
“Well, not anymore really. To be honest we’re not sure what the M stands for. I heard back in the nineties they played Nirvana on this station, but I doubt that’s true,” the presenter admits. “We’re more into reality TV shows these days.”
“Oh, I love reality!”
“Me too! Now, we’re gonna talk about your new album in a minute, but first we’d like to ask: Is it true that you’re going to be in a sequel to Repo! The Genetic Opera?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I loved working on it, and everyone was, like, so great. Especially Anthony Stewart Head. Did you know he’s British? But he got better for the movie! But so far, I’ve not like ‘officially’ been asked.”
“Well, we understand that, and we know that there aren’t any pacific details available yet, but can you tell us anything?” the presenter presses.
“Well, like I said… wait, sorry, what did you just say about the details?”
“Oh, that we didn’t have anything pacific yet,” the presenter says, clearly taken aback by Paris turning the questions on him.
“I… God damn it. I give up, I can’t do this anymore,” says Paris, her voice cracking a little and becoming more human.
“Do what?”
“Its specific, you colossal ignoramus! God, I swear, only an MTV presenter could be so stupid it would infuriate me. ME. I’m America’s go-to skank. If vapidity were to achieve apotheosis, and then were to take a human disciple, it would shun me for being too vapid. I give the impression of being the most airheaded bitch on the planet, and your speech angers me with how stupid it is.”
The presenter is physically squirming now, his entire shallow worldview shattered by Paris Hilton speaking with intelligence.
“And yeah, you might have guessed by now that it was all an act. All of it. I mean, I started out smart. Technically I’m a genius, but let’s not get into that. I realized when I was sixteen that the world doesn’t fucking care how smart you are, or how edifying a conversation you can have. So I thought “Fuck it,” and decided I would show you all just what you were going to become. But it backfired, you ate it up. You people are so devoid of things to talk about, I became famous simply because I was famous. How does that even happen? I’m like a fucking ouroboros of fame!” By now, her voice has reverted to a normal human’s voice.
“What’s an ouroboros?” calls someone from the audience.
“It’s a snake that eats its own tail, creating a perfect eternal circle, representing constant cosmic re-creation!” Paris yells, “Now shut up! Where was I… oh yes, the fame. I kept trying to be worse, to be more and more useless and slutty and irritating. I mean, why else would I have one of those little dogs? Who even likes them?! And I started hiding clues in what I said, I thought people would realize that no one could be that stupid, that it was physically impossible for the brain to be that vacant. But no one did, you all took me at face value. And I gained a following for it! I became more popular than actual issues, because of how stupid I supposedly was. Young girls wanted to emulate me. You know something? The very fact that you didn’t just try and kill me is indicative of the dire straits we, as a civilization, are in. You realize that people like me, and the way we’re worshipped? That’s the reason the terrorists hate us. Hell, I kept thinking “no, they’ve got to see.” But Jesus fuck, you never did. I mean, I hold two PhDs, one in English literature, the other in fucking medicine. Do you know how difficult that is to achieve? It’s impossible, but I fucking did it. I was learning about brain surgery at the same time as I was studying Chaucer. Fuck, when was the last time any of you read anything that wasn’t from Oprah’s book of the month club? Hell, I only did medicine because I was planning to become a veterinarian because I love children. And if you don’t get that spectacularly appropriate reference, you suck harder than I did in that video. Oh, and you in the back, with the night vision goggles? Really fucking clever. Truly. You’re like the Carrot Top of goddamn studio audiences. What are you, in middle school? Christ, you all make me sick,” at this, Paris stands up and walks out.
Twenty-three members of the studio audience are hospitalized due to mindfuck-related brain hemorrhages.
The next day, the public is in an absolute fervor. Paris’s rant has become the most popular internet video since the last one she was in. Various groups declare her a hero for highlighting the problems of the culture of celebrity worship. Already, a movie is being planned.
The day after that, the sky is torn asunder and mortal eyes gaze upon Tartarus for the first time in countless thousands of years. The demonic locusts of the Abyss, led by the angel Abaddon, pour forth to torture humanity. An angel bearing a trumpet and scroll descends from Heaven to announce that God has decided to step up the schedule for the Apocalypse, which totally has nothing to do with how slighted he feels for having bought Hilton’s act all these years.
Paris, feeling responsible, decides that she must use her unmatched skill with the katana to stand against God to protect humanity, no matter how stupid they can be. In this fight she will be helped by her two closest friends and confidants: One, a student of theology and the occult, and a thirteenth-level witch, Megan Fox; the other her spunky geek friend, a girl who, at the age of fourteen, had already had a doctorate in astrophysics, and a master’s degree in advanced theoretical physics. A girl who had only started her music career to finance her development of faster-than-light travel: Miley Cyrus. Together, they are the real Charlie’s Angels. Charlie’s identity is revealed to be Batman, who is actually Kanye West (who of course inherited the position from his father Adam), when he interrupts the angelic herald with “I’m really happy for you, and Imma let you finish, but the Gods of Asgard had the best Apocalypse of all time!”
A day after the sky opened, the Angels are standing together, debating what course of action they should take.
“We need some sort of weapon to kill Jehovah, otherwise all of humanity will be wiped out,” Paris says, hefting her katana.“I’ve got it, what if I use my powers to enchant your sword with the greatest power we could find?” Megan suggests suddenly.
“But what power would be greater than God?”
“Well, what about the Big Bang? Could we travel back in time and harness that?”
“It would create the greatest sword ever, yes, for the picosecond it would exist before it blinked out of existence due to the Big Bang being consumed and no longer having created the universe. And I don’t have time to put together the paradox inhibitors needed to hold reality together long enough to consume the Big Bang, kill God and return the sword to the right time in order to create the Big Bang in the first place! Time travel’s a real mess, Megan,” Miley interjects.
“Okay, what about harnessing a dying star? Y’know, one that was going supernova. Could you get us to one fast enough to consume its power?”
“I suppose so, yeah. And I could get us to one relatively quickly.”
“Then its settled. We harness the greatest explosion in the known universe, bind it into a sword, and have a girl in a slutty outfit use it to kill God!”
Miles away, in Los Angeles, Michael Bay begins ejaculating uncontrollably, and doesn’t stop until he dies of intense dehydration an hour later.
The Angels board Miley’s ship, a TARDIS she cobbled together when she had a weekend free, and head to the nearest exploding star, where Megan uses all her magical power to draw the energy of the massive dying sun into Paris’s blade, and bind it there for all eternity.
“Seems like I never get to actually experience a big bang,” Paris mutters.
“Mmm-hmm,” Megan agrees, crossing her arms.
“You go, girlfriend!” Miley adds.
They all seem perplexed for a moment, as it occurs to them that a) none of them are black, and b) it isn’t the nineties. Then Miley remembers she forgot to activate the anachronism filter, and the girls all laugh, which shows you they totally care about each other because of how much fun they have saving the world together.
Returning to Earth, the Angels lead humanity in a battle against Heaven, where Miley demonstrates that “even an archangel can be made Isaac Newton’s bitch!”
Finally, in a battle that is as violent as it is fucking awesome, Paris strikes God with her blade, and the full, bitter hatred of a dying star is unleashed, slaying the deity instantly.
“You’ll pay for that!” screams the Pope, who is in Heaven for some reason.
“What are you gonna do, arrest me?”
“Maybe I will, I charge you with deicide!”
“Well to prove that, Your Holiness, you’d need witnesses,” Paris says, putting on a pair of sunglasses, “Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
But their victory is short-lived. When the full story is told to the public, and the true identities and capabilities of those involved are exposed, every single human collapsed, their minds burning from the revelations that no mortal mind could cope with. Even those not instantly killed, due to not having heard the news yet, or being completely unaware of events due to not having a TV or internet or senses or being in a coma are slain by the massive psychic backlash of a hundred million minds screaming “What the fuck?!” simultaneously. Even the heroes of the hour are not safe, and as they collapse to the ground, Paris utters the words that will become the closest humanity will ever have to an epitaph.
“So this is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a what-the?”
I guess what I’m saying is, yes, these people are annoying, hate on them by all means, its fun! But just remember, if they were actually better, it would be awesome, but it would mean the doom of mankind. So, I think having them be vapid, worthless wastes of flesh is probably better in the long run.
- browse entries:
- older »
SaMsAm1389
-
- Name: Sam
- Birthday: 8/13/1989
- Gender: Male
- Member Since: 5/8/2008
Connect
Archives
About Me
-
I'm 20, Canadian, a wiccan, and crazy. Enjoy!
Subscriptions
Pulse
-
Prototype, or "The Game of Using Pedestrians as Blood-Filled Slip'n'Slides"
-
Video games on their way to me have "left America." Why does that fill me with more trepidation than relief...
-
GRARGHFUCKYOUSONICTEAMAAAAAAH!!!!!
Chatboard (1)