"It's The End Of The World As We Know It" 
or prepping for the Zombie Apocalypse

Okay, so according to some crazy interpretation of some passage in the Bible somewhere, tomorrow, May 21, 2011 marks the day of the Rapture, or Zombie Apocalypse as it is known in some circles. Reportedly this is the day where all the good and just "saved" people will be lifted up while the rest of us fun-loving heretics are left behind to fend for ourselves amongst the living dead as they clamor for our brains while we sit on our fat asses eating the rest of the ice cream and watching a Jerry Springer marathon.

Or something like that. I don't know.

What I do know is if tomorrow is the last day of world, I'm using the Rapture as my "get out of jail free" card to cover any suspect behavior I exhibit today. BooYah!!

Although I'm pretty sure I'll be counted among the unworthies left behind, just in case there's been some divine fuzzy math calculation and I am lifted up, I'd like my last blog to go out with a laugh.

I'm convinced non-Western cultures hate us because of our collective 10 year-old boy sense of humor. Case in point, The New York Post front page from Saturday. Even though I was completely appalled at my countrymen's reaction to the news of Osama Bin Laden's death, this is outrageously funny mainly because they printed what everybody else was thinking.

You stay classy, NY Post

To quote my friend, it's weird to think of Bin Laden being a horny guy. Just a little bit of Ewwwwwwwww.

In keeping with the spirit of apocalyptic death, destruction, murder and mayhem, the CDC has put out a Zombie preparedness guide. Yep. Better keep that photo ID handy. You don't want to be empty handed, so to speak, when that undead dude cards you at the door. Hey, even morbidly decaying throngs are particular as to who's brains they're chomping. You can't be too careful, you know. The Birther Zombies would never let one of their own live it down if their dinner didn't have a valid American birth certificate.

Pricky in life. Pricky in (un)death.

Oh, and in case you're wondering if you'll make the cut, here's a handy flowchart found by my bud, Steph.

I am soooo being left behind

Anywho, one of the funniest things known to modern man is the folly of autocorrect. As a hip, 21st century society, we think we're all uber clever and shit with our fancy schmancy electronic gadgets that give us the answers to the Universe right in the palm of our sweaty, butter-fused hands. Enter Autocorrect...

Out of man's hubris, comes his humbling.

This marvel of a tiny function bests the, well...best of us. It quietly puts us in our place by filling in our badly spelled blanks issuing from our pork sausage fingers. I've been victim to this evil genius any number of times. Here's the latest.

Damn you, AUTOCORRECT!!!

Speaking of that, there's this great site called damnyouautocorrect.com that keeps a running stream of submitted fails. I'm certain this gizmo is really a 13 year-old boy run amok. It always goes right for the gutter. It is my electronic soul mate. Here're some classic examples.

A hard-on can be a temporary fix of sorts

Mom needs some glasses

foreigners do love to douche

and pay for dinner

well, Paula does love her meat

Santa's special present

little bit, yeah

Grandma just needs a little tuck

is it on a stick?
(i love the last line. ha!)

Autocorrect... Love it. Loathe it.

I kinda love it.

So, anywho, me and my card club gal pals are heading to Mrytle Beach tomorrow. I figure if most pilots' behavior is anything like Quagmire from Family Guy, they'll be no chance he'll make the cut and we'll land safely. Screw this Zombie Apocalyse. If I'm going to be left behind, I'm going to spend it at the beach with a zillion bikers.

No offense to my hairdresser/groomer/yeti tamer, but I hope she's left behind too, because, oh MAN, I'd hate to hanging around waiting for the world to explode sporting a full beard.

Now THAT would be Hell.