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Fuck you and your fucking rapture, fuckers.

May 21st.

That’s when it all ends.  According to Harold Camping:

I’m not going to let a hundred-year old man who looks like a sleazy accountant who rents an office in a strip mall between a Panda Express and a coin-op laundromat tell me a single god-damned thing.

I’m not going to slow down when my geriatric neighbor is out walking his dog with his pants pulled up to his droopy gray mantits and yells at me to drive slower than 60 in a residential neighborhood while feebly thrusting his geriatric claw in my direction.

I’m not going to let an old woman with a beard (because, let’s face it, once you have at least 14 hairs on your chin that are over a half-inch in length, it’s a fucking beard), wearing a muumuu that may have actually been a shower curtain from Big Lots, cut in front of me in line at the store when I have two items and she has fourteen items just because she’s so old that her vagina is lined with asbestos.

If there was an occasion where I happened to be alone with someone so old that they still call African Americans “darkies”, and I needed to know what time it was, I would build a sundial, learn how to read said sundial, and tell the time that way, before I would ask him to pull out his menthol smelling, polished-daily pocket watch that he got at his retirement party from the Packard assembly line factory and tell me some ridiculous story as he bought himself some time and tried to read the numbers that were too tiny for his plaquey cloudy eyes.

So why the holy fuck would I listen to this gizzard-necked, paper-bag faced man who looks like he can kick his testicles around like soccer balls when he tells me that the world is going to end on May 21st?

Maybe I’m being too harsh.

If I really think about it, I know that there is one situation where I might lend credence to the old fuck’s words.  If, on May 20th, Harold Camping cashes out every penny in every account he owns, sells every piece of property and every right to every intellectual property that is even partially associated to his name, and gives it all to me, I’ll support him to the end of the world . . .err, the next day.

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26 Replies to “Fuck you and your fucking rapture, fuckers.”

  1. kt

    What I am wondering is what your week is like leading up to the Saturday if you are this guy? What kind of preparations are you making? Or do you just spend your Friday night eating meatloaf and watching reruns of Matlock (they still show reruns of that right?) and then sit around on your front porch drinking lemonade all day long on Saturday just waiting? And then what do you do when nothing happens?

  2. muskrat

    I think it’s wrong, but I don’t hate him for it. Then again, the only reason I know about this prediction is because of Twitter. I didn’t even know who this dude was til I clicked on the link above.

  3. martymankins

    I want to know when the next date is since I am really not ready to watch zombified people floating up into the sky this Saturday. Maybe this old guy can redeem himself with a “this was the first round” press release.

  4. Freaky Weasel

    Every single old person on the planet is a scourge. They walk too slowly. They pay with exact change while we wait and wait and wait for them to find 3 pennies. They drive slowly. They get confused by computers. They complain about the costs of things they don’t buy. Why won’t they just hurry up an die?

    Seriously they…wait…what am I commenting on again? Stupid old people derailed my train of thought.

  5. Freaky Weasel

    Every single old person on the planet is a scourge. They walk too slowly. They pay with exact change while we wait and wait and wait for them to find 3 pennies. They drive slowly. They get confused by computers. They complain about the costs of things they don’t buy. Why won’t they just hurry up an die?

    Seriously they…wait…what am I commenting on again? Stupid old people derailed my train of thought.

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