Mostly these days I think about the Rapture. I think about the righteous seated on the right hand of the father, making a clean getaway as shit storms down in furious flames of destruction on every thing else.

At least, I’m figuring Armageddon is lying just around the corner. Why else would a demon (’cause really he ain’t good enough to be a full fledged anti-Christ) be living in the Whitehouse making the world worse with mayhem and neglect?

Shit, speaking of signs of the coming Apocalypse, I just got a phone call from Bukowski’s in Inman Square, Cambridge. Anyone in Cambridge comedy knows what that means. I’m all tingly hearing from some of my favorite men (who I don’t live with except in my heart).

So, there’s the big picture of gloom and doom and we are all got to die. And, there’s the little picture. The end of the world in which I’ve had a headache for two days and mentioned to convince myself it’s probably terminal, but that I will Kevorkian my way to peace while whatever foul and pestilent force lives off of my weakened flesh. In other words, I might be getting a cold or some other virus.

The plus side of the potential cold is that it’s source is probably the office Typhoid Mary who swept through work in a whorl of damp tissues, because meetings can’t be missed or whatever. The beauty of this germ transaction is I’m starting to hold a grudge against her any way. In fact, she is rather ripe for caricature and some sick hybrid of office reality spawned in my imagination would have in the past been written about in these very virtual pages.

But, I am reformed and no longer make grand sport and grander hyperbole about office politics. Instead, charming motherfucker that I am, and all smiling ball of firey sunshine, I joked about the Ivy League with some on on the phone who, in fact, was schooled at such a place. Rather than writing about Ivy League motherfuckers, I figured I could befriend one.

Next, I will rescue kittens and bunnies from the swirling sewage around New Orleans and hug them into robust health.

Anyway, I should mainline some more Advil and calculate exactly how my suicide will be hatched.

(Oh, one last thing. Just in case any one out there didn’t already know that I am intellectually challenged, oafish and an uncultured clod. Last night M. was talking about naming hurricanes, and I said “Well, when you were growing up, didn’t they name typhoons?” Falled by a pause and my continuing, “Oh, yeah, they must have, because there was the famous one, Typhoon Mary.”

Then, after a couple of minutes I realized exactly how stupid I am. Typhoon Mary? Jesus.)