Signs of the Apocalypse

No one else seems to be noticing the following, so as usual it's left up to me to point out the latest (of course, for at least the next week) signs that we're all doomed—DOOMED!

I know I'm a tad older than those I'm about to criticize, but did you ever think I might be RIGHT? Huh?

When 20-somethings fetishize coffee, pens, Converse, food, cats, etc., are not these signs of the coming APOCALYPSE? I ask you. Forget all that zombie shit, that's nothing more than so-called creative types emulating what's popular. (But Bill, didn't some guy in England PAY you to write two zombie novellas? I mean, c'mon! What are you, a friggin' hypocrite?)

Answer: No. I am not a hypocrite—friggin' or otherwise. I am a person who must eat, whether I like that or not. And I once stood beside Tom Savini (special-effects wizard for DAWN OF THE DEAD, DAY OF THE DEAD, and many others) for like 5 hours at Randall Park Mall in Ohio while he waited for fans to show up (in 1983) to buy his book. I've earned my Z stripes—as has Tom. My friend John just stood there muttering like Butthead: "Huh huh huh, huh huh huh, this is cool..." Savini and his poor wife kept shooting glances at their expensive watches. John said: "Have you ever, like—huh huh huh—seen actual, like, DEAD people?"

Bless him (or damn him), John was ignorant (or just too high) of the fact that Savini was a combat photographer in Vietnam, so had definitely—huh huh huh—seen real dead people. Hence the shocking realism of his effects work.

Frankly, the only zombies that matter are "busy" ruining—I mean running—our country. All else is mere entertainment. Think about that.

Here's what really scares me. Visit any Instagram page maintained by a young person, and witness the eerily similar cats, shoes, food, My Amazing Bedroom, etc., and tell me the APOCALYPSE is not at hand. I double-dog dare you. Triple-dog, even.

And hipsters. DON'T GET ME STARTED. Too late. A true "hipster" (in the Jack Kerouac, Ginsberg sense) would never refer to themselves as "hipsters," nor give a rat's ass about whether they were wearing the correct Converse, etc., taking pictures of their every coffee sip. Kerouac and crew would've wanted to kill you had you the poor reasoning to send them Polaroids of such mundane things. Trust me.

Have you discovered a fossil? Caught a genuine UFO on your cell phone? Perhaps documented some loser hopping over the White House fence? If so, those images belong on Instagram. Not your cat Mr. Stinky Head upside-down on the couch, nor your Taco Bell lunch, or even your BFF pointing at his paint-spattered Converse while sipping Starbucks' latest Instagramaccino double-espresso mint twirler.

Just don't. I'm too tired.

Those zombie stories aren't gonna write themselves.

Whoa. What's that I'm hearing out there?

HEY! You damned kids—GET OUTTA MY YARD!