How can you tell the world is about to end? In the Christian tradition, a dazzling light in the sky and a figure born aloft on a cloud herald the extirpation of life. Well, that is unquestionably one way of thinking, but any lunatic, alcoholic or zealot worth his or her salt already claims that particular vision as their own personal revelation. Where does that leave a thinking person? That's correct, right where my Little League coach told me I would be playing. Left out. But, hold on a moment. There are a few current events that almost certainly presage Armageddon. Indulge yourself and me for a moment.
Thinking people! Notice the appearance of snack-food primers from which a new generation of toddlers are learning to read and count. That's right. The "Kellogg's Froot Loops! Counting Fun Book," and "The Cheerios Play Book," are out there wreaking havoc. Millions of these texts have been sold since Barbara Barbieri McGrath, a nursery school teacher in Wellesley, Mass. had THE brilliant idea of 1982, publishing her first tome, "The M & M Brand Counting Book" in 1994. We can be thankful it took 12 years to light this beacon pointing to the end of life and consumer independence, as we know it. McGrath is not the Anti-Christ -- Beelzebub perhaps -- but not numero uno. She must be getting inspiration from someone else. She is not alone.
Some folks -- especially some whom I've been talking too -- note the looming arrival of commercial evil right here in River City as a sign we are reaching the limit of human existence. Soon, dreadful campus recruiters will descend to pluck freshly polished souls from the Hanover Plain, wrenching them away from those remaining pure-hearted and pure-spirited seniors who resisted their blandishments.
Invidious investment bankers will ascend from Tartarus gloating over the latest burial of Main Street USA's little guy, while concupiscent consultants wing in proffering advice on the latest dot com subterfuge. These minions of the beast prophesize the end some say, but no one is paying attention. Many will say these procurers have been around so long that they couldn't possibly be implicated in the coming annihilation. Not so. Remember, it was not long ago that the Commies set out to topple America from within and nobody worried about that. Joe McCarthy was right. That is their plan, the recruiters that is, they will work inside until the corpus collapses. Which brings me, as does most everything, to politics.
Surely the termination of life -- intellectual, if not biological life -- is upon us. No it isn't, you say, and don't call me Shirley. I must insist that it is. To wit: The appearance of the reptilian Mr. Gore as the Democratic great, white hope for the Presidency is proof of my claim. If his anfractuous slither through the campaign season is not a precursor to our extinction then I've not been following the news closely enough. But, just as the queen of snack-food fundamentals, Barbara McGrath, is not the overseer of Hades, I don't think Al is Satan. He's not even Beelzebub -- he is simply a manifestation in human form of a banal evil.
Gore's mother-in-law and dog are not safe from his craven manipulation of public sentiment as means to his iniquitous end. His brand of canards and smoothly underhanded conniving are meant to disarm his victims and lull them into a smarm induced stupor from which incineration will inevitably result. Guard your souls against Clinton's --himself a presentable husk who may very well be Lucifer -- anointed successor.
Of course, the entrance of the speechless Mr. Bush onto the political stage multiplies the already blindingly visible signs directing the way to the parking lot and cheap seats for the Armageddon show. Though he appears harmless, his halting malapropisms and inane comparative lunges between ideas and contexts are actually the work of genius. George W. Bush a genius? Perhaps he is Satan? He is neither.
At the behest of some dark, lord prodigy of Republicanism lurking behind the stage curtain, Bush has grown in stature from the snorting frat boy of yesteryear to a hulking creature stumbling through our nightmares, dull-eyed and empty-headed. His pointy-toed boots are poised to trample America and the world into dusty oblivion. He must be evil incarnate. Or, at least evil adapted.
We are toast. Dubya and Al may be the toasters.
The world will come to an end. This much is true. Harbingers of that end could be any of the terrible voices shouting at us in this information age. Pick your portent. As for me, when I see "The Skittles Shakespeare" in the bookstore, I'm heading for the hills.
