Okay, now I’m really pissed. As a matter of fact, I’m pissed at you.

That’s right… You.

You promised me The End was coming. You said it would all be over by now. As a matter of fact, you made a point to say it twice.

Well, I’m still here – and I’m not at all pleased with that circumstance. You lied to me. I hate you.

Oh, don’t act so innocent. You know damn good and well what I’m talking about. You were the one who made the false promises. You were the one who swore that this time you had the date set in stone. Liar. I’ll get you for this.

And as for the rest of you rejects from that overfilled colostomy e-bag known as the Net, I’m not particularly thrilled with your lack of support during this trying time, either. The jury’s still out on what’s the best way to deal with you sorry turds.

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Yeah, I remember when the date was supposed to be January 1, 2000 – the big “Y2K” deal. I was hunkered down in my ranch style bunker waiting for The End, but The End never came. Hell, the lights didn’t even dim. What a letdown. I cried for hours.

I had made my peace with my Maker and had remained a good boy for the year prior to the big night (just to make sure the underwear of my soul was clean after the big crash), but all I had to show for it was an “I’m okay, so why tu que?” tee shirt.

Oh, I’d been hammering people on the math for months prior to the big “even number” scare, but none of them would listen. It seems there were too many public-school-educated news anchors who were convinced that they could make 1999 years into 2000 years if they completely ignored the fact there was no Year Zero. They had ingeniously padded their evil hoax with the doom and gloom scenario of computer-generated chaos, though, so I figured it was best to prepare for the worst – which I did. Sort of.

But, noooooooooooooo… there were no cosmic scrubbing bubbles to go postal on dear old Terra Firma’s perpetually crusty tub ring at the stroke of midnight.

Sooo…

I checked myself back into rehab and waited for the REAL Millennium: 01-01-01

But, since I wasn’t DEAD – like you’d all promised I would be – I had to just sit there, taking fistfuls of serotonin reuptake inhibitors and watch the shitty little TV in the West Ward until the actual BIG DAY arrived. And what did I get to watch while I was vegetating in a duct-taped La-Z-Boy waiting for my weekly adult diaper change?

Oh… You are all sooo dead.

If the other patients were watching ESPN, all I got to see was this nice young black kid playing golf. That was it. Twenty-four/Seven. A black kid driving the last nail into the coffin of the one sport middle-aged white guys could still identify with. Suicides in the Ted Knight Wing went up sixty-six percent in just two months. ESPN was subsequently blocked by V-Chip.

So they turned on the news. And what was on the news? Florida. Twenty-four/Seven – all fucking year long. Just fucking Florida.

Oh, I actually perked up one morning when I thought that there were some Cuban immigrants who would cut the Federal Marshals (you know, the back-shooters of fourteen year-olds at Ruby Ridge) to ribbons when they assaulted that ugly little Elian brat with MP-5’s at the ready, but the only solace I could take from that whole experience was the fact that Matt and Trey spooled up a new South Park in only four days so we could laugh at how stupid we looked as the “defenders” of the “free” world. But… no blood.

Nope. Not one drop of Federale blood spilled. What a huuuge disappointment. Shit. There hasn’t been a Cuban worth the innertube ride over since Desi Arnaz was babalooing Lucy’s backdoor… I mean, except for you, Carlos. (Please don’t shoot!)

The news from Florida broke just long enough to bring us… the news from Florida. Of course, the Cubans blew their chance once again after November 7, but we really don’t need to go there again, do we? Fuck! What did we ever do to those people that they hate us so much? No… No! I know it couldn’t have been June of ’87 when I was so shitfaced at Penrod’s on the Beach in Fort Lauderdale – could it? I mean, I didn’t know a girl could actually die from doing that!

Okay, okay… Maybe this last year wasn’t all your fault, but it still doesn’t excuse you from lying to all of your friends about the impending end of the world.

Sure, I know the actual Millennium had passed on September 11, 1998 (NOT ’97... Remember, Biblical scholars – there was NO Year Zero). Yeah, and maybe I didn’t have to watch so much television, but what’s a guy to do when he’s left alone to blow spit bubbles in the Reverend Jim Ramada?

Please. Don’t go getting our hopes up. All I’m asking is that you be a little more careful when you’re screaming to an extremely gullible world, “The End is surely nigh!”

Remember Shirley Nigh? Whew! What a rack that tubby little bitch had on her. Too bad about that whole Fort Lauderdale thing, though…
  

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