Yesterday, I came across a news item that reported that, according to Norse mythology, the world was supposed to have ended on Saturday. Yes, Ragnarok, or the Twilight of the Gods, had been predicted but apparently not loudly or widely enough, and the waiting for the end came and went without my even being aware of it—without my even having the opportunity to wring my hands, furrow my brow, and crap my pants.
I don’t mean to imply that I think that the end of the world would be anything less than an absolutely terrible thing. But this obsession with predictions of apocalypse is just so wrong on so many levels that I can’t help but be a little snarky about it.
We obsessed over the Mayan apocalypse even more than we obsessed over Y2K. We engaged in endless discussions of what the Mayans might have meant, even though I…
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