File Under: Game, End of the World
When it comes to the End of the World Game, there are only two kinds of people. You are either:
Willing to do whatever it takes to survive - cheat, kill, lie, steal, anything- to hang on to life. This is your basic survivalist. Although there are levels of preparedness in each substrata of survivialist, at the core of this person is the deep and abiding conviction that nothing will get in the way of making it through alive (barring one's presence at ground zero during a nuclear blast, which thankfully obliterates one in a matter of a second).
Or:
Definitely planning to laissez les bon temps roulet until someone shuts off the lights forever. This is a person that will make a giant pot of pasta, call all their friends and family, and whoop it up until the very end. There are levels of preparedness involved in this person as well, but at their core they are people that will let bygones be bygones and invite one and all to the party, as long as they bring their own booze. The more the merrier!
I've completely discounted all those who believe in the Rapture. They just can't play this game, as their eventual end has already been determined by their blind adherence to otherworldly forces.
The rules of the game involve a certain amount of advance warning - a window of 48 hours should be sufficient for each type of person to make their ultimate plan.
You should ask yourself what kind of person you are and why - it's illuminating to discover how vehemently you hold on to a potentially bleak existence in the face of adversity, or how much you value the comfort of seeing out your end surrounded by the faces you love.
The best part of the game is there are no right or wrong answers; each individual decides.
The worst part of the game is that we play it at all.
3 Comments:
Actually, the pet name 'Rapture' is a definite misnomer. It should be called 'Rupture,' which is what most of them get from lifting and bearing all that heavy self-righteousness on their wimpy shoulders. Someone needs to tell these folks that the aliens have already landed, looked around, heard all the fanatically religious claptrap, and blasted off immediately, their cargo bays totally empty. Sheesh.
What kinda sauce are you serving on that pasta, dear heart? I've got a real appetite.
Beep! You both lose.
I am definitely a person of the first sort (surprised you don't remember this, kaz, as I think we had a few conversations on this topic).
I will be the one hoarding guns, coffee & cigarettes (barter) wearing my black (camoflauge) with dirt smeared on my face & self-cut short hair (gender disguise) holding court during the Apocolypse.
Mr. Fresh Hell, on the other hand, will welcome you both with food provided you cross his palm with Heineken, Chivas Regal, Jamesons, or Glenfiddich!
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