It hardly seems worth making predictions this year. As everyone is surely aware, this year isn’t going to be as long as they have been in the past. You can blame the stupid Mayans and their dumb calendar for that bunk. So with those ten fewer days at the end of not only this year, but the end of the very existence of this planet and all of those things that we have come to believe immortal and timeless, we will never truly know for sure if some of our at yet unrealized predictions might have come true in that final week and a half of the year that we’re being cheated out of.
It’s not the end of the world that upsets me, it’s not getting the proper chance to be proven right that REALLY bugs me.
But we did it last year with what could only be called “startling” accuracy, so we’re legally bound to participate this year as well. And just remember, as the planet is swallowing you whole, if for a second as your very being is being erased from forever, you think that we called one of these wrong, just know: fuck you, it WOULD have been right if planetary implosion hadn’t prematurely cut 2012 short.
Now, what do we see in our magical balls, hmmm?
- President Barack Obama will narrowly win re-election in November, edging out the Republican ticket of Romney/Santorum and powerhouse Independent entry Trump/Seacrest.
- Tim Tebow will reveal to the world that his mother experienced immaculate conception on March 16th (3:16) and will die for our sins by being nailed to a goal post after he wins next year’s Super Bowl.
- The iPhone 6 will be majestically bestowed upon the multitudes as Steve Jobs descends from an actual iCloud straight from iHeaven.
- Irrefutable evidence of a secret Iranian nuclear program will finally be revealed by US intelligence agencies. Iranian leader Mahmoud Ahmadinejad will try to fight back tears as his big surprise present for America’s birthday will be ruined. We’ll try to apologize and act surprised anyway when Iran does eventually deliver their present, but we’ll still feel like jerks.
- Upon further inspection of the cruise ship that crashed in Italy, DNA findings show that the captain is the great grandson of the other incompetent ship captain that sank the Titanic and is coincidentally related to Isaac, the bartender on The Love Boat.
- A team who’s predominant uniform color is blue, will win the NCAA Mens Basketball Championship.
- Google and Facebook have a one night stand after an awards ceremony, get pregnant, and have a really ugly baby who is motivated by being an underachiever.
- The world will end on December 21st when a fleet of giant star cruisers descends upon the planet, crewed by a highly advanced race of dinosaurs who have to destroy us to ensure that the time stream doesn’t unravel like a cheap sweater. We won’t quite understand the whole space time continuum explanation, but our confusion will be mercifully short lived.
- Both the Green Bay Packers and New Orleans Saints will not make it to the Super Bowl.
- The North American Beaver will continue to carefully guard the secret of the meaning of life, waiting patiently until the day that someone finally thinks to ask it.
And so it is, every one of 2012’s filthy little secrets laid bare for all to see. Fat lot of good it’ll do us when the Dinonauts arrive, but enjoy it while you can, ’cause they’re not gonna make a lick of sense and they’re not gonna give a shit when we don’t get it.
Dinosaur astronauts are kinda dicks.
If we’ve learned one thing from this morning’s Royal Wedding gala extravaganza hullabaloo, it’s that British parades are kinda sucky. If we’ve learned two things from this morning’s et al, it’s that if your pre-printed near future stationary and business cards read “Mutha fuckin’ KING y’all” you can get away with being more or less homely and borderline fugly, and still get to stick your scepter in a pretty smokin’ commoner. No one’s really out of your league when your stock pick up line is “Wanna be a fer rillz princess? And before you ask, yes, I do in fact own a courtesy hood for your completely understandable gag reflex to my visage.”
This naturally got us to thinking. just how powerful would a person have to be to out weigh the horrifically cruel joke the God of their own personal beliefs played on their face, laughing all the while from their fluffy cloud work bench. So we at Van Full of Candy would like to present our highly scientific Repulsion Negation Calculation Sensation! Or the “Rich Enough to Make it Worth it-atron 94,000”!
Here we have our control subject. And I just came three times in writing those last 6 words. He is truly a dream muffin wrapped in a sex cookie, slathered in kissable icing. This example of peak human male somehow managed to escape from the laboratory where secret hansom scientists were hard at work developing the world’s most perfect orgasm machine. We use this example of heretofore unknowable human hunkitude to calibrate our REtMiWi 94000, to ensure it is set at the proper levels to most accurately grade all lesser “men” that come after. And to give the REtMiWi 94000 a little thrill, it’s genitals may be robotic, but they still work.
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Chief Sewage Taster
Assets: $80,000 in outstanding student loans to a central Wisconsin Clown College/Bartending School and seven bankrupcies.
Mmmmmmm, well hello there healthy man. Your dark baggy eyes, that lickable moostache, that … hair. I can just hear the ladies lining up around the building to get a taste of that turkey neck. I guess with a mug like that, you had better have the best summer sausage in town, or at least a large one to feed the multitudes.
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Generalissimo of an Oil Dripping Island Republic
Assets: A standing national army of black ops trained ring tailed lemurs. $9 Billion in hoarded humanitarian aid.
Ancient peoples used to raise the “fire headed child” as a special being, a gift from god, handed down directly from his box of “extra good” children. They would pamper it, giving to it all of their tribe’s finest things: the freshest of the kill, the ripest of the gathering. Each morning the fire headed child would be roused from it’s slumber by the gentle rubbings of a smoothed stone across its cheek, and would be lulled to sleep by the hummings of the entire gathered village. Then, upon the dawning of its thirteenth year, or the sprouting of the first orange pube, each of the members of the tribe would gather up the rock that they had collected the day of the special one’s birth and rain the stones down upon the sun set locks of the cursed one, sacrificing the demon to their sky monster for the promise of good harvest for the coming season… And this dude kinda looks like a scary stalker chick…
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Actual Wizard
Assets: The eye of a newt, wing of a bat, a private castle in a non-rainy yet constantly thunderous hillside and all of the gold he can spin from the foolish townfolks’ foolishly discarded lead.
Howdy cowboy. Lets rustle up some pretty women, store them in your beehive-fro-velcro-patch and head on out on the dusty trail of love. Don’t pretend you can’t hear me, you can hear a gnat shit at a rock concert two states away Dumbo. I guess with all the extra money you’re earning sniffing out fugitives in the backwoods for the FBI, it’s no wonder the ladies are riding that underbite into the sunset.
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: First Astronaut on Venus
Assets: A 300 pound, solid platinum Venus rock, secreted home from his self named continent summer home on the shore of the liquid nitrogen sea where he rules all he surveys.
You think you should have any self worth what so ever? Well shut the fuck up stupid, because you’re fuckin’ wrong as usual! This fuckin’ guy will tell you just exactly what the fuck is wrong with you, and your car, and that fucking bullshit matted pile of cum speckled brittle stringy knotted straw bale shit fuck you call a god damned hair do! It’s not his fucking fault that you can’t handle the god damned truth when it’s shouting right in your stupid, fucking, idiot, dumb fuck FACE! God you piss him off so much sometimes. And by sometimes he means all the fucking time.
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: The Inventer of Money
Assets: A teddy bear from his stolen, and constantly longed for child hood. It is around this bear that any shred of human decency is ever seen in the gentle, innocent interactions he has with it when he thinks no one is watching. And a pile of cash that pokes the moon in the fucking eye.
Nothing smells more like the back of a windowless white creepy van than this guy, holy shit. Hey! Wait a minute! Nevermind. Uncle creepy drives up with offers of puppies and candy and a safe return home to mommy and daddy but you’re only left with Rorschach tests where everything looks like duct-tape, and crying fits whenever anyone mentions a Jolly Rancher. But hey it was worth it because powerful jawlines, red circled eyes and breath of wet kitty food is muy muy SEXXXY!
-= REtMiTi 94000 Value =-
Primary Employment: Time Traveler Bearing the Cures to all known disease.
Assets: A cache of future technology which every year he releases one piece of onto the home electronics market. A seven speed bionic tongue.
We can name more Jersey Shore cast members than our state’s Senators. We have commercials telling our kids to go outside and play. We are steaming into the twenty first century, powered by wheezing, poisonous 19th century technology. And the little pocket sized super computer that we bought six months ago, that tiny little thing that would have been considered nothing short of wizard class magic ten short years ago, we can’t wait to throw that worthless piece of shit away the split second they let us buy the new version that’s 3% slimmer and has TWO cameras in six months.
In a time when the goal is no longer to achieve anything laudable, or to contribute anything to the betterment of mankind for future generations, when to excel and be exceptional is seen as being kind of a dick move, when dignity and self respect are quaint and adorable notions of the past and the most sought after personal goal is to have one’s own reality show, who better to represent this failed generation than Donald Trump?
We all know that he’s probably not going to win. It seems like that would be a given. But just because he’s probably not, and that he never should, and to even think about it makes the brain wet its little brain pants, doesn’t mean that he couldn’t. My Governor killed invisible aliens and was Danny DeVito’s hilariously implausible twin for 90 minutes… So, don’t talk to me about won’t and shouldn’t.
This is a man who builds giant, forty story, gold plated failure penises and wallpapers them with his name. This is a man who brags about supposedly fucking over a dictator in a land deal like he’s waiting for you to high five him. This is a man who feuds with Rosie O’Donnell and has gotten backing from such great political titans as Bret Michaels and Gary Busey.
There was a time, I assume, when we as a people wanted to be represented in the highest halls of power by those that we believed were the best of us. When we wanted people smarter than us to be in charge of important things like, making sure the French didn’t try to fondle our balls a second longer than we wanted them to, or to tell the Germans to cut it out already. The idea of choosing a leader because you think it might be cool to hang out with them and tell squirrel stompin’ storries over a couple Old’ Milwaukees, or because you think he might flip off the King of Arabistan, call Russia a fag and punch the United Nations in the taint, is all fucking insane.
If Donald Ulysses Trump were elected President of these God’s United States, sure, it would be hilarious. I’m not about to question the entertainment value of it. The country would finally complete its transformation into one giant reality show, issuing a flip camera and a web domain to every citizen within its borders. Camera crews would follow the Trump at all times, he would have a confessional room built into the oval office, and we would no doubt all be murdered by the outrageously inappropriate actions of Secretary of State Omarosa.
But… what was I saying? I’m not sure really. The more I talk about it, the more I wonder why I was even thinking of fighting this at all. I’m sure Vice President Gene Simmons couldn’t possibly be worse than Biden, and that’s a man that knows how to brand a marginal franchise into, pathetic, yet unquestionable profitability. And personal pride is over rated anymore anyway.
Let’s just face the facts that Abraham Lincoln isn’t going to show up again. And besides, we wouldn’t let him. Why would we want to? It’s not about what’s best for us anymore, it’s about what’s most ironically hilarious. This is what we get, this is what we deserve.