It’s December 21, 2011. The Winter Solstice. A year from today, according to interpretations of an ancient Mayan tablet, the world will end.
It will end in very similar fashion to when it also ended at Y2K and twice already in 2011, according to Harold Camping.
You'd think that the Mayans, with all their alleged prophetic knowledge, would have been able to accurately foretell the catastrophic, mysterious downfall of their own civilization.
Funny thing is, the Mayans aren’t the stupid ones. We are.
The Mayan ‘long-count’ calendar (actually, there are several) doesn’t predict the end of the world. Yes, the 13th Baktun ends on 12/21/12. However, a time of great celebration is supposed to ensue, not Armageddon. (Armayageddon?) Does your world end every time you celebrate a birthday? It may feel like it has when you wake up the next morning, but in most cases you’re still very much alive.
Furthermore, the Mayans make many references to dates that occur past 2012. Many Mayans are still alive today, and they’re not freaking out about next year. The whole idea was coined by New Age author José Argüelles in 1987. Yup, I’ve been alive longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing. Yup, Snoop Dogg has been high for longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing.
Once upon a time, I had a good-natured friend named Greta. She bought a tome about the Zodiac, and asked me what my sign was. “Sagittarius,” I said. She proceeded to read me two pages about myself and how my sign interacted with hers, about how I was a natural-born leader, about how I had some inner pain that hadn’t yet been dealt with. She punctuated many a sentence with exclamations of how spot-on the book’s interpretation was.
I let her finish before I casually informed her that I’m actually a Libra.
“Oh,” she muttered, crestfallen, and left the room.
Reminds me of an episode of Criss Angel Mindfreak in which Criss poses as a tarot card reader in Vegas. Once his subjects have been blindfolded, he swaps out the tarot card and instead reads the same paragraph from the cheesiest small-town newspaper horoscope to each person, telling them how they are strong yet have a need to be loved, among other generic, widely applicable truisms. Many of his subjects start crying and tell him that he’s able to see into their soul more than even their loved ones can.
At the end of the episode (and forgive me if my facts are wrong; it’s been awhile since I’ve seen it), he lets people in on his little secret: they’ve been duped.
We all share in this human experience. We all need love; we all have love to give. We all want attention. We all take dumps which often stink.
Mine stink less than yours. I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t have ten pounds of rotting carcass in my colon.
No Chichen Itza for this guy. Although a Mayan city, it sounds quite edible.
Everybody merely wants someone to reinforce what they already believe to be true. Why do the best psychiatrists merely listen? Why do people pay thousands to talk to them? It’s crazy: psychiatrists make more than Bernie Madoff. Well, more than he makes now, anyways.
Everybody wants to be heard. I once read about a guy who made a comfortable living on the streets of Tokyo by charging people money in exchange for letting them yell at him.
Everybody wants a framework to explain why life is the way it is, and someone to blame when things go wrong.
Americans spend $200 million a year on astrology. I am clearly in the wrong profession.
“Pluto is no longer a planet! How else am I supposed to explain the powerful pull on my psyche?”
It cracks me up when people try and quantify human interaction through the use of Zodiac signs. “Ah, he dumped me because I’m a Taurus and he’s a Cancer. It had to be because the Sun was in transit to my natal Saturn, and.. .” Really? You sure? None of this happened because you are a crazy biznatch? Of course not; let’s blame some stars.
I am going to become an astrologer. That way, nothing is ever my fault.
The reason this blog sucks so hard is because I wrote it while there was a stellium, or buildup of planets in Libra.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a mediocre writer with a penchant for tangents, sesquipedalianisms and run-on sentences.
Screw it; maybe I’ll look into gender-specific psychiatry. Men don’t talk, as a general rule, unless it’s about sports. Or women. But, of course, never women’s sports. Über-lame.
I’ll just charge women $200 an hour to complain about their problems. The best part about listening to women is that they don’t even want you to find a solution! Solve their issues, and they have to go to all the trouble of finding new things to complain about.
Or, maybe I’ll just become a doomsday prophet. Mr. Camping may look like a fool now, but at least he looks like a very wealthy fool. Everyone in the Bible Belt will be getting thank-you cards this Christmas.
The best part about Camping’s prediction, and other Christian doomsday predictions, is this: Matthew 24:36 states that no one knows the day or the hour when the world will end. No one except God. Well, God and Harold Camping, that is.
The truth is that the end will come for all of us someday. It won’t come a year from now for most of us, but it may come sooner than that for you. For me. For someone we care about.
As much as I hate to quote yet another American Idol star, there’s truth in Kris Allen’s one and only hit single. “We only got 86,400 seconds in a day to turn it all around or throw it all away….gotta live like we’re dying.”
Let’s also not forget to live like we’re Mayan. In other words, relax. The world is not ending next year.