At approximately 11:59 AM on December 21st, a great silence will sweep across the land. Clouds will gather in a pall, and darkness will encompass the world. Miles below the earth’s surface, tectonic plates will shift causing the ground to rumble in a massively morbid murmur. Slowly the citizenry will stop what they’re doing out of realization that IT has arrived—The End of the World. Finally, after all the hype, Armageddon 2012 is upon us. Whoever’s hoarded the most wins.
A tremendous explosion will occur from a Mayan epicenter in the Yucatan Peninsula. A colossal eruption. Fires will follow. Then lightning, lava, maybe a meteor or two. And Paula Broadwell. It will be mass destruction and chaos. Mile-wide clumps of phlegm and lard will be catapulted through the air with M&M’s, ticks, Vicodin, and plague. People will lock themselves in their homes, quarantined with gallons of stored water, batteries, bread, and basements full of Campbell’s Chunky Soup. The 1986 mega hit “The Final Countdown” by Swedish hair-metal pretty boys Europe will be everywhere, bellowing out of gigantic floating speakers. People will be afraid. Fear will reign. But we know all this.
What we don’t know, is that moments after the explosion, thousands and thousands of genetically engineered Santa Clauses will begin to rain out the sky and fall to earth.
Half of the Santas will be Karl Rove Santas—foul and malevolent. Rove was the Deputy Chief of Staff during the George W. Bush administration, and he just poured $400 million dollars of outside money into losing Republican causes during the latest election. The other half of the Santas falling from the sky will be Morgan Freeman Santas. Noble and decent Morgan Freeman, who was in Shawshank Redemption. This multitude of erupted Santas will be zombie-like and mutant, with few brain cells. They’ll hate each other to the core. Those that survive the landing without being impaled on a fence will begin to battle one another to death.
The only thing the Santas want to do besides destroy enemy Santas, is mate with Paula Broadwell. Broadwell is in heat, journaling away in an undisclosed bunker, writing about powerful military men who she’s seduced and been on jogs with in war torn countries. Her scent wafts on a high pressure system making its way across South Dakota. The Santas smell her from two states away and it boils their mindless Christmas loins.
December 21st, 2012 marks the end-date of a 5,125-year-long cycle in the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar called a b'ak'tun. Somewhere in there, say 3,000 years ago-ish, a klutzy Mayan scientist tripped on top of the Chichen Itza Pyramid near Cancun. There was a clay petri dish in his hand and he accidentally spilled DNA from Karl Rove and Morgan Freeman into test tubes holding the DNA of Santa Claus, who is Mayan. The Mayans were some of the first humans to experiment with human cloning. They were also some of the earliest people to enjoy cable shows about hoarding. Hoarding became so popular in Mayan culture, they created an ancient game called Pok-A-Fuk where they hid a rubber ball in each other’s piles of magazines and trash. (Later, this game became the Olympic sport known as curling.)
The Mayan scientist who spilled the DNA was an avid hoarder, who loved Christmas. Thus, the thousands and thousands of test tubes full of Santa DNA. There the Santas gestated, until being erupted onto Earth with the End of the World Explosion.
The fighting Rove and Freeman Santas are ruthless and primal. Mutant clones, sealed in a red suited death-feast of flesh, all to the nonstop emotive hair-sounds of “The Final Countdown.” Cloned Santa skin is ripped off, skulls crushed, eyes knifed out, brains fed on. Lard with ticks and M&M’s catapults through the sky with microbial disease and Vicodin. When Broadwell’s scent is detected, packs of the Santas run over themselves blindly toward it, howling uncontrollably with high-pitch cries.
Grim scenes abound. A man in Alabama who thinks it’s New Year’s Eve stands in the middle of a street chugging Miller Lite. He is consumed quickly by a Morgan Freeman Santa. Teeth, pelvis, everything—devoured. Even the beer can. A woman in Wisconsin gardens quietly, tending begonias, thinking her fenced in backyard is safe. A Karl Rove Santa waits in her shed. Sadly for her, she vaguely resembles Paula Broadwell.
A satellite photo of the United States shows that the country’s Armageddon upheaval looks similar to Hieronymus Bosch’s 1505 triptych masterpiece The Garden of Earthly Delights, except with battling Santas and flying lard. For weeks the Santas rage. Drone bombers are launched by the government in defense, but Broadwell’s overpowering tamponic, vaginal heat-musk causes the guidance systems to go haywire, knocking out all cell towers and power plants. People’s soup and water begin to run low.
Then the Santas discover Bacon Shakes.
It drives them crazy. Milkshakes mixed with bacon? Are you fucking kidding me? The Santas can’t get enough. They begin searching for Bacon Shakes. The Jack in the Box chain is plundered. All Bacon Shake machines are sucked dry. It makes the Santas more rabid and frenzied: Bacon Shake, suck. Broadwell scent, where? Enemy Santa, kill. Bacon. Broadwell. Mount. Sperm. Bacon. Kill. The Santas begin moving from state to state in search of Jack in the Boxes. Inevitably, they discover Burger King’s Bacon Sundae, which they like just as much as the Bacon Shake.
Tides in the Battle at the End of the World change when Morgan Freeman Santas start dying in droves from brain freezes. Neither the Freemans nor the Roves can stop ingesting the icy bacon substance. But the Freemans suck from the soft serve teet until their brain implodes. Karl Rove Santas aren’t affected by the brain freeze syndrome because they’re cold blooded. Rove, as it turns out, is not actually a human mammal, he’s reptilian. The outlook for humanity at this point seems bleak. Soon, people will be forced to leave their homes in search of food, and when they do they’ll be obliterated by cold blooded Rove Santas full to the brim with bacon sundae.
Hope is fleeting, but swirls in rumors and reports that rapper 2 Chainz has constructed and retreated to a safe underground city with all the Twinkies that are left on the planet. Supposedly it’s called Calakmul, and 2 Chainz will open the gates if you know the password. Most people don’t believe it exists though.
The Freeman Santas dwindle from brain freeze death until they’re all gone. There was hope in those Santas. With one viewing of Shawshank Redemption, they could have been turned back into normal, non-killing Morgan Freeman Santas.
Then in Brooklyn, New York, on Fulton Street, a hapless 12-year-old boy makes a discovery. The boy wanted a Bacon sundae of his own. He was sick of tomato soup and having to stay inside, so he slipped out when his mom wasn’t looking. The Burger King he headed toward had become a nest to 30 Rove Santas. When they saw him, they didn’t want to eat him though. Instead, they felt the deep dark singe of man-boy attraction. Their lust for the boy superseded their lust for Paula Broadwell, and they were confused. They wanted the boy alone in a room, and they maybe even wanted to throttle him. As soon as the boy saw the desirous, sex-craved look in the rodent Rove eyes, he ran. The Rove Santas became despondent. They were mutant Santas in power, being closeted didn’t compute.
The boy ran home and told his mom what happened. She in turn relayed the information to 2 Chainz via messenger bird. Soon, a plan was hatched to lure all the Karl Rove Santas into Cowboy Stadium in Arlington, Texas using Justin Bieber modeled Real Dolls stuffed with explosives as bait. Operation Real Boy Freedom Storm was a go. The Roves would not be able to resist. Real Dolls are “The World’s Finest Love Doll” at $6,000 a pop. Meanwhile, inside Cowboy Stadium, waited a mountain of these nude, mute, unmoving, real-ass Bieber looking Real Doll boys, prone and stuffed with enough explosives to blast the entire stadium into space.
Canals full of Bacon Shake and Sundae were built flowing into the stadium from all major highways to lure the Roves in. Paula Broadwell even volunteered to drop used tampons out of a transport helicopter over the stadium for the length of the operation. Sure enough the Rove Santas began to arrive. After a week, Cowboy stadium was an absolute cesspit. One of the canals gave way on the second day causing the stadium to fill and turn into a giant pool. Cloned, closeted, flabby, greed-diseased, political wraiths rolled around in milkshake/sundae batter, sticking their pig pricks in lifeless boy dolls made for sex. And there in lies the takeaway Armageddon image. It’s not a pretty picture. But you didn’t think the end of the world would be pretty did you?
When the Rove Santas are all accounted for inside the stadium, the state of Texas is evacuated, and 2 Chainz gives the OK to hit the detonate button. The explosion that takes place wipes the stadium away, and everything within a 20-mile radius. Operation Real Boy is a success. The gallons and gallons of Bacon Shake Sundae bile are instantly incinerated. Any hints of engineered Rove Santas, or pig pricks, are gone in the blast’s shockwave forever.
The image you had of the cesspool earlier, you may now clear from your head. A new b’ak’tun has arrived. Let’s go curling.