Unless you are woefully behind on your flimsily-researched Biblical exegesis, you will know that Saturday is it. The end. Finito, adiós al mundo, ka-blammo. The end of the line.

Yes, yes, I realize that the so-called “Jimmy Akin” already covered the story about the scholar who has predicted that the end of the world will be May 21, 2011. What can I say? The man calls himself an apologist, and yet somehow fails to grasp such a simple concept as figurative language. For instance, when Christ says, “Listen, this here is actually, literally, super-de-really my body, and when I say that, I mean that it actually is actually my actual body”—well, that’s what we call a “symbol.”

But when Peter says, “A day is with the Lord as a thousand years”—um, hello. That’s literal.

I’ve been working the apocalypse into my daily scheduling for years now, so this news is pretty much a dream come true for me. I mean, how many times have I been slaving over a school curriculum and thought to myself, “Well, as long as we get through multiplication and the Revolutionary War, the kids will be right where they’re supposed to be academically—as long as the world comes to an end before next September.” Or, when planning the household budget: “Yes, we can absolutely go out to eat for our anniversary! Provided Armageddon comes before the water bill is due.”

But I always get let down: The world keeps going, and here I am, stuck with dumb kids and no water. But not this time! As I said before: ka-blammo.

I think most people think about the time-before-end times in the wrong way: Everyone’s trying to cram last-minute activities in before God lowers the boom. But if you think about it, this is not so much our last chance, as a second chance. I mean, last time Christ was here, what kind of impression did human kind make on Him? I gotta think it could’ve been better. 

Could’ve been a lot better. 

So, let’s not think so much about what we want to do, as what we want to be caught doing. Let’s have the communion of saints not get caught with its pants down for once, eh?

And so my pre-apocalyptic motto will be: WWJGKOO? or What Would Jesus Get a Kick Out Of?

Here’s my list:


If you pray in triplicate starting today, you just have time to get a novena done for once, you lazy bum.



Prank call the Anglican church (I believe the number is 1-800-HIS NIBS) and tell them the Pope was just kidding, you gotta go back. Ha ha!



March right up to Newt Gingrich and, in your best Yosemite Sam holler, say, “I jist L-O-O-O-O-O-VE mah country!” and then, I don’t know, bite him on the nose. Apparently as long as you’re a patriot, anything you do next is excusable.



Have you bought your priest a beer yet? Tick tick tick ...



You know what? I don’t care if it’s the end of the world and women in jeans make Padre Pio himself kick a puppy. I’m still not wearing a skirlot.



Go on a road trip with Danielle Bean, because no one should die before witnessing this teeny, sunny morsel of femininity reach into the back of her pickup truck, fish out an empty can of Red Bull, and cram it under the trigger of the nozzle at the gas pump to make it stay on, while muttering something about intrusive regulation by the nanny state.



Are you seriously still not going to tithe?



Find the most fervent environmentalist you know, look ‘em in the eye, and say, “I’m naming the twins after you.”



“Honey, your Clearblue Easy Monitor is just flashing the words ‘LAST CHANCE, LAST CHANCE.’ What does that mean?”



Oh, go ahead and put Alan Keyes’ lawn sign back up. You know that if Christ were an American citizen, he’d be all over that guy.