Like a lot of people, I’m disappointed that the rapture didn’t happen. The idea of ending the world at this point to be with Christ Jesus the Lord Thy God of Emmanuel and the Lamb, Esq. and never have any problems ever again is quite tempting (at the very least, heaven could have swallowed some of those fundie types so we could get on with science). On the other hand, I’m happy that I can do some more work here on Earth, and that my cousin’s child (about to be born any minute as I type this) can grow up to be president.
As a younger pup, I used to contemplate end-of-the-world scenarios. I was never much of a Bible-banger, so I grounded mine in the inevitability of time. I figured that the world would end on Dec. 31, 9999. Because who ever heard of a five-digit year?
I presumed that calendars from that year would have “New Year’s Eve/Judgment Day” printed in the square for Dec. 31. And on that day, everyone would pound the pavement, holding signs and chanting, “The world will end today! We’re all going to die!”
This being the future, of course, the signs would be different than the posterboard-on-wood-stick creations we know today. They’d have digital tickers so they could sync with what everyone was chanting. I pictured this happening on my street, which remained unchanged from its late-1980s look, save for more Lamborghini-like cars. As for the people themselves, well, let’s say I assumed that '80s super-perms and rat-tails would be back in style then. And that everybody would be wearing tacky, color-saturated clothes (in other words, that trend came back too).
As the day turned into evening, there would be festival-like parties in the cities, where I assumed bands would be playing and people would do your typical sinful things, but even more so. At the stroke of midnight, the world would then explode like planets sometimes did on Voltron.
Because a five-digit year would make anyone’s head explode.
That’s my belief and I’m sticking to it.