White Out

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Somewhere out there—in the distance, on a street, in an alley, in the back of a cab, at the grocer, in a pub, cuddled beneath warm blankets in their beds—the men and women of the world are murmuring something ugly to each other.

Right now, they are tickling each other’s minds, with quiet whispers of the change that is coming, that is happening right now… here, there, and everywhere. They speak of it in dozens of different terms, tones and euphemisms, but they drive at the same wretched thing: mankind is about to be delivered a whole shitload of comeuppance.

The gin-soaked armchair quarterback with the bad hair weave knows that his people are screwed. The greasy-eyed politician realizes the same. No different with the Holocaust-skinny housewife and the bratty teenager texting silly bullshit on a cell phone. The dogs even know that the world we know is about to get pear-shaped, busted, deformed, and twisted until it snaps. This supposedly noble thing we call society—this thing we call sanctity, this thing we call sanity—is spinning around the drain, ready to descend into the pipes of Hell.

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