I've been contemplating the end of the world recently.
I don't know if this stems from the constant barrage of megalomaniacal hand-wringing that I hear out of Washington these days, or the fact that Superhero Squad (my oldest kid's favorite show) is starting to seem more and more like great television to me (and believe me, compared to, say, the New Adventures of Tom & Jerry, it is just that). But either way, I feel like I should prepare for the end of the world as I know it.
That's a big part of why I've been on a diet recently: I figure that when the end of the world comes, we'll all be reduced to cannibalism, and nothing says, "Eat me, quick!" to a cannibal like a fat, slow-moving guy. Unless it's a fat, slow-moving gal. I guess that's mostly just a question of personal preference. But unfortunately for me, my wife is stunning and thin, which leaves me with no one nearby whom I can throw at the cannibals and say, "Here, eat her!" while I make my medium-speed (and somewhat bouncy) getaway.
Of course, there are other reasons to be on a diet, like bad cholesterol, heart problems, and the fact that fewer and fewer people can really believe that my wife married me without having heavy narcotics to help her out, but really it's mostly the cannibals.
Oh, and my kids. People say "I want to be alive to play with my grandkids." Well, forget that. I don't just want to be alive, I want to be alive and perky. I want to be a hundred years old and a source of endless irritation to my great grandkids because I always call first time on the slide, and I refuse to get off the swings until someone pries the chains from my strangely-soft, liver-spotted hands.
Seriously, that's got to be one of the best parts about being old, right? Not just "relaxing" and "enjoying the golden years" and "learning Pinochle" (all of which I believe in my heart to be urban legends), but stealing the toys designed for your progeny's enjoyment. For instance, as a father I take great delight in giving my son my castoff video games. PlayStation 3? Ha! He gets my Atari 2600. That's right, he gets to play River Raid and Yar's Revenge and Berserker in something like three glorious colors while I enjoy whacking people in Realistic Settings and with Realistic Blood and also listening to Realistic Language (which as near as I can tell involves repeated use of the "F" word, because nothing says realism like the prospect of a bunch of sweaty men hacking each other to bits while shouting loud profanities at each other while ostensibly trying to "Stealth Kill" an enemy). Seriously, it's like chocolate for the soul. It's like my own personal version of Oliver Twist.
My Son: Please, sir, may I have more colors in my gaming?
Me: More colors? Like the sixteen trillion colors that I enjoy while playing Call of Honor 6: The Color of Whacking People?
MS: Yes, sir.
For those of you who don't know, "bwahahaha" is code for "No way, Sonny."
Poor kid. Of course, that will probably come back to haunt me, when I'm older and the world has ended and my son has decided to stop playing video games (because there's no more power supply, not just because the world ended...I don't think he'd notice something as trivial as that as long as he was able to continue playing Miss PacMan or whatever lousy game I gave him as a "brand new" present last Christmas) and become a cannibal. Then the conversation will be quite different, with me begging for my life as he and his cannibal friends (or cannibis friends, if he stays in California and is therefore legally entitled to smoke dope and then eat people afterwards to assuage his Munchies) slowly stoke the fire under my big cartoon-like boiling pot.
See where I'm going with this? No matter what happens, we're all going to end up in a big cartoon-pot. I'm pretty sure that's the point I'm trying to make. Either that, or this is a long rant about how the Atari 2600 sucks. Either way, happy new year, and may we all look forward to being eaten while playing Yar's Revenge in 2011.