Those darn Mayans – now I’m in a pickle.
When my alarm clock went off the other morning, I knew I was in trouble. The world hadn’t come to an end overnight, as the Mayans predicted.
Well, that’s just great.
Thanks a lot, featherheads.
Relying on the Mayans’ doomsday prophecy, I figured there was no use to send in my credit card payment. Now, I’m stuck with a late fee wishing I knew where the Mayans lived because I would send them bill.
I called up my boss and – figuring I wouldn’t have to report to work the next morning – told him exactly what I thought about him.
He said I was risking my job, referring to him and his ancestors that way.
I borrowed a line from an old Johnny Paycheck song to explain what, exactly, he could do with his lousy job. The Mayans said I didn’t need to worry about unemployment.
The list of premature scratch-offs – my Oops List – goes on.
I told my wife to buy that expensive mink coat she’s always wanted.
I didn’t bother to worm the dog.
Why water the plants?
I didn’t change the goldfish’s water, assuming they’d be in a better place by now.
I did change my underwear, Mayans or no Mayans.
I told my nosey neighbor to mind his own business.
I also told him that someday foraging Eskimos are going to sneak up and harpoon his wife, Midge, while she sun bathes on the beach.
I haven’t played tennis in years, but I still got my old racket out of the closet and smashed it to bits. It felt good.
I broke every golf club I own over my knee.
I called Las Vegas and placed a sizable bet on the Chicago Cubs to win it all next season.
I ate an entire rack of barbecued ribs with a chocolate cake for desert, even though my doctor has me on a strict diet. What are a few extra pounds in the after-life?
I tipped the waitress $100.
I didn’t tape “Hawaii Five-0.”
I phoned in a huge pledge to a TV preacher.
I subscribed to “Lawrence Welk’s Greatest Hits” CD collection.
I canceled my newspaper subscription, car insurance and cable service; no particular reason to tie up loose ends, I’ve just always wanted to do it.
I didn’t brush after what I assumed was my last meal.
I deliberately raced through a speed trap, got caught, and dared the cop to write me a ticket.
When he did, I laughed and said, “See you in court, Barney.”
I told my car dealer to scrap my extended lifetime warranty, assuming my lifetime wouldn’t be extended.
I called my rich aunt Bessie, told her that her Christmas fruitcake would make a goat barf, and if she doesn’t like it she can cut me out of her will.
Those are just a few of the things on which I jumped the gun, taking the Mayans’ word for it that there would be no tomorrow. But tomorrow came, darn it.
I just wish I had kept my toothbrush.