*insert sound of 300 people clicking the "back" button here.*
So, I found I was remarkably sanguine when I realized last night that the final trumpet has blown, the horsemen are loose upon the world, and we're all going to hell. For I looked, and I beheld a pale horse,and his name that sat on him was Billy Blanks, and Cardioke followed with him.
Singing karaoke workouts, people. Karaoke. Workouts. People doing crunches while singing Feel The Rain on Your Skin, by Natasha fucking Bedingfield. If this is not a sign of the end times, I don't know what is. Soon, the Rapture will whisk away all the faithful who did not get drunk in bars and torture their friends with off-key renditions of Bohemian Rhapsody, and everyone else will be left to live in a world where Billy Blanks is in charge, and you can't win the Boston Marathon unless you can prove you were singing Cosi Fan Tutte the whole time, because you just had to get up in that bar and sing Margaritaville, even though you know you can't get the tune right.
(That little detail there is only one of the reasons I'm going to hell - except in my case it was Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart. I suck at karaoke.)
Anyway. At least when the world comes under the sway of the AntiChrist, we won't have to worry about dating anymore, because everyone will be on a Fox Reality Dating show, where you will have to pick the love of your life from ten totally unsuitable men or women (or a mix of both), picked specifically to be as incompatible with your ideals as possible. Forget about E-Harmony or MatchdotCom - the new harsh world of dating ensures your total humiliation up front, rather than six months in when your SO has dinner with your parents for the first time, and microwaves the family dog after consuming all the booze in the liquor cabinet (including the dusty miniature of Sambucca left over from Christmas ten years ago). Isn't that a relief?
Alternatively, you can sign up to be one of the desperate people who will do anything, no matter how foul, to have the chance to get into the pants of an aging rock star. There's always room for one more woman willing to catfight for oral herpes, or one more man who will bare his chest and pee on another man for the love of a chipmunk with 10" false eyelashes.
There'll be no end to the fun as we're forcibly married off to people we hate so that the Prince of Darkness can fulfill his goal of a 100% divorce rate - Dr. Phil and John Gray will counsel you, and Oprah will recommend all the best books you can read to get through this difficult rest of your life. When you're not being filmed rollerskating around a rink while trying to guide a plastic baby in a stroller (I did not make that one up), or being patched up in the ER after a particularly brutal catfight over who drank the last of the Jaegermeister, Oprah's audience (now populated entirely by rabid prairie dogs) will offer you unconditional support - unless they disagree with you, in which case they will tear you apart limb from limb and feast on your remains.
Hey, at least you'll be dead. The rest of humanity will be stuck in an endless cycle of repeats and greatest hits shows, except they won't actually be repeats or compilations of previous shows. Instead, you'll be forced to act out the whole thing over again, and woe betide you if you get the script wrong - they'll make you do that scene where you were so hungover you didn't realize the milk in the fridge was green and fuzzy, and puked all over Gene Simmons* when you were trying to get him to take you into the hot tub.
Over and over and over again. And they're still using the same carton of milk from the first episode.
You'll be begging for the sweet release of oblivion. Me? I'll be spiking Flava Flav's drink with Valium and humming Total Eclipse of the Heart under my breath.
"Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time..."
*Oh, trust me. He'll be doing one of those "dating" shows by then.