|How my cats look when my god-daughter comes to visit.|
Or maybe it will before the end of the day. I am not really sure when Harold Camping figured out the exact hour to be. Six o'clock, maybe. Is that Jerusalem time? Or California time?
Seriously, me and the cats have a sure-fire end of the world survival plan. It is the same plan we use when my god-daughter comes to visit. We hide. And if she finds us, then we read poetry out loud.
It has worked so far. Why? Simple, both my god-daughter and Jesus hate poetry.
Well, maybe not Jesus. But my god-daughter does---she calls it cruel and unusual punishment.
I call it payback. Rather Norse of me, isn't it?
Now, I have Elmer Fudd singing "Kill the Wabbit" stuck in my head.
Gee, I wish that the end of the world would hurry up; I don't want that song stuck in my head all night.
(Feel free to post your End of the World rituals in the comments section. I will approve them tomorrow...unless the world comes to an end before then; in which case, Jesus will have to moderate your comments---so keep the comments clean. Thank you.)
|How the Secret Chiefs will survive the End of the World.|