Life advice from the experts.
A lot has been made of this ol’ chestnut recently, a certain amount of concern and anxiety, for which principle fault lies with those cunts, the Mayans. There’s a least one salient point to be gleaned from that fiasco – which we will dwell on briefly before we give the Answer.
The point being: try not to encourage spurious gossip amongst the general population when it comes to the end of the world. Especially if the rumours are well-founded. It causes unnecessary angst.
Of course, the average Shlunk reader – all ye who hath worshipped at the alter of logic and reason (and bin-ends) – will never be subsumed to hysteria.
But all the other hopeless fuckers will.
Those appealing for calm will inevitably end up antagonising everyone else into a violent frenzy with sanctimonious shushing and looping of whale song over loud-speaker. Confounded by this, panic will spread amongst social commentators, who will articulate a scenario of social collapse via public forums (specifically the “Life & Style” section of smh.com.au) that we will be powerless to ignore.
Loss of control will follow, during which time a small fiefdom of celebrity chefs will, having gorged themselves on the bitter fruit of their humiliation, rise up in a bloodless coup and wrest control from the synchronised swimmers (who had gorged themselves on their bitter fruit prior to this, but not in such a potent fashion).
And then – worse – despair. Apathy. A collective shrug of the shoulders. With their elders in the grip of ennui, Gen Y – in a rebellious frame of mind – appropriate a jovial “can-do” attitude. The ephemeral ties that bind society collapse. We are all fucked. Anarchy. Schnitzel is scrubbed from the menu at the Summer Hill Hotel. Etcetera. A civil war erupts. No one can pick sides – war is a bloody, brutal mess, defined by loss: life, blood, love, dignity, extremities.
All of which is by the way of reminding you – only learned brethren of Shlunk – to be wary.
The Mayans may have been pretty savvy when it came to inventing their own language and developing astronomical and mathematical systems and generally being pretty damn civilised and pretty good dinner conversation when the Spanish Conquistadors popped round … but they had bugger all respect for the power of an ill-chosen word.
Make no mistake, however, we at Shlunk do not mince words. No, our words are steamy meaty chunks. The difference is we know that you can handle it.
We shall tell you the date for the end of the world – but only if you promise to keep it a secret. If you must tell anyone, make sure they are someone you can trust.
The end of the world will occur on the 17th April, 2015 – 11pm (EST). It will be more or less instantaneous, without a whimper. It will leave no mess: we – all of us – simply an inkstain on a black void.
How do we know this, you ask. It was, dare we say it, foretold to us.
There really is no trifling with the message of our seer. I know her well – and I’ve listened to many of her predictions and watched the truth of them unfold many times over.
This woman – for she is a woman – had a prophetic gift since she was a girl. Not only has she foretold my marriage, but – at the wedding (she was one of the bridesmaids) – she informed my new wife of a disastrous separation and divorce that would befall us, and the birth of a child from my seed by another woman. All these came to pass within a week (uncanny).
I remember the night I asked her the question of the Earth’s future. I sat there watching her, terrified. I remember the reflection of the fire in her gimlet eye, the steady gaze that seemed to possess the flame (I had no idea why she set fire to her kitchen table – it must’ve been something to do with the general chi of things).
She was deeply, thoroughly ancient and the lines on her face were the totems of her wisdom. ‘Twas withered and cracked, rumpled and slightly dented – not dissimilar to a cricket ball about 7o-75 overs old, primed for reverse swing.
She kept me waiting, this withered, cantankerous crone (actually known to my family as my Aunt Madge) – as she sat, quite still, and receptive to the forces.
Growing impatient, and wanting to go home and watch Jersey Shore, I remember saying to her: “Aunt Madge, hurry the freak up – I want to go home – they’re repeating the episode where Snookie gets pissed and flashes her fanny in a night-club.”
So Aunt Madge told me what would happen.
And this is what she said:
It will fall victim to the dubious experimentation of a group of scientists calling themselves the “European Organization for Nuclear Research” (CERN). They will be undertaking this experimentation using a gigantic particle accelerator called the Large Hadron Collider.
The Large Hadron Collider was born using the combined efforts of over 10,000 scientists and engineers from over 100 countries, as well as hundreds of universities and laboratories. It is 27 kilometres in circumference, lying deep beneath the Franco-Swiss border near Geneva, Switzerland.
Well, the answer is quite funny. We don’t mean funny ha-ha. We mean funny, naturally enough, in the most serous way possible (never has a funny – and we mean funny in the literal sense -sentiment willingly passed through the churning synapses of the collective brain they call Shlunk).
It was built in order to sling a sequence of very tiny objects – using speeds more or less equivalent to that of light – at each other and then observe the consequence of impact.
Objections have already been raised from other quarters of the scientific community – quite reasonably, it was thought, since there was great uncertainty as to what would happen to the fundamental nature of reality as a result of these collisions. The response from CERN was that was precisely why they intended to undertake the experiments. It was then pointed out this was a rather irresponsible way to behave and that it may lead to the creation of a black hole, something which, at the very least, would be of concern to the local council authorities.
CERN replied by telling these naysayers to sod off and the latter – being scientists, and therefore meek and introverted and bespectacled – complied rather obsequiously and without too much fuss.
The group promptly went ahead with their experiments – and the End of the World didn’t happen. In fact, the Collider was generally considered a bit of a flop, particularly amongst some of the more eager members amongst them who were hoping for a nice explosion or to meet God or something. All that happened was that they ended up with a few of the minor unsolved physics questions answered and some badly dented particles.
In 2013 the Large Hadron Collider will be shut down. It will be reopened in 2015 – accounting for upgrades to beam energy and the construction of a Gift Shop. In early April it will begin experimenting again (incidentally, the Gift Shop will actually open in January, and t-shirts with the words “My friend visited the Particle Accelerator and all I got was this lame cluster of molecules” will cost $24.95 (US)).
On the night of April 17th, a Friday, there will be a bit of a booze-up amongst the scientists. Coming at the end of the week in which the world hadn’t ended, they decide to really hit the cans. The night will go on – someone will get the schnapps out, and then things will go a bit nutso.
To be honest, a lot of things will happen, and some of the people who will be there might say the end of the world was the least of their problems. We don’t want to be sordid – it’s not our style (but just between us, no one gets rowdier than a physicist when they get a skinful).
But one thing will happen which will provide the proverbial last word.
At some some point, two or three parties will decide it might be a larf to fire up the ol’ accelerator. Bored with lead nuclei – they decide to take random objects for a spin. They will begin innocuously enough with tiny things small enough to fit inside the Accelerator: bits of dandruff, salsa-flavoured biscuit seasoning, sperm, and a bit of lint someone finds in their belly-button – all of which are soon smacking into each other at the speed of light. So far, so nothing.
But then somebody, having previously been handing out the canapés at the party, will think it might be fun to put a tiny particle of blue-vein cheese into the device.
Blue-vein cheese being one of the most volatile substances known to man, this is an immensely bad idea. The other scientists will try to talk this idiot out of it – knowing full well it will mean disaster – the idiot will reply by telling them they are all sissys and, frankly, they can get fucking fucked. Too pissed to reply with anything other than “well, you’re a cunt”, the scientists let him carry on.
Sure enough, under the mysterious forces which an object encounters when breaking the light barrier, the molecular structure of the blue-vein cheese reorders itself and – fusing with the belly-button lint – becomes a brand new element that is, quite remarkably, incompatible with this universe. A small fissure will therefore open in the fabric of time and space – just long enough for the entire planet to be sucked into Hell. This will be an immense bugger for everyone – not least for the members of CERN – who will also have hangovers.
Coincidentally, the Earth will be removed milliseconds before being hit by a meteorite that will have wiped out all life on the planet – which just goes to show that fate is a merciless bitch with a sense of humour.
Obviously 2015 is going to be a bit of a water-shed year for you. There’s not going to be much point in saving any money. Salvation won’t be of any help, so don’t bother with that. We suggest you spend your time wisely. Naturally enough, we advise you spend it reading Shlunk.