The world will end tomorrow, or today, or a few days ago depending on when you read this (that’s a trick line, because you’ll already be dead).
It’s rapture time. Or as these particular weird fucked up group of bible masturbators say, “Blow the trumpet, warn the people!” Which sounds like you are warning people before you fellate them.
The nut in charge has predicted the coming of a second Jesus before, and got it wrong. So he’s due.
And what does this mean?
The Christian Fundamentalist God loves India.
Perhaps because of Sachin, or even Sehwagology. Perhaps God was holding off hoping Americans would stop fighting over birth certificates and creating laugh track TV shows long enough to become the best team in the world, and when he saw that wouldn’t happen, he merely picked the new America, India.
We’ll never know for sure, as we aint going upstairs to get a meeting with the Male Homophobic Christian Fundamentalist God. We’re all dirty sinners here; you’re probably masturbating right now, or applying peanut butter and calling your dog.
While you do that, God has chosen the first time in human history that India are the best side in cricket to end the world. Perhaps Sehwag’s batting really did cause the apocalypse?
After May 21 they may not be. Players retire, get injured, lose form or sleep with the coach’s wife, but right now India are the best, and they’re going out as number one.
Sure, we may be able to play cricket in hell, but you just know they’ll be nothing in the pitches for bowlers. And can cricket really survive with a fourth version of cricket, Dante cricket?
Ofcourse, cricket (and less so the world) ending now is not all good news.
We’ll never Simon Katich knife Michael Clarke after he runs him out.
The Hashim Amla sex tapes will remain unwatched.
Runako Morton will never scream can you dig it at a baying crowd of street thugs in matching outfits in his unofficial role as king of the gangs.
The leader of the UN will never be Kumar Sangakkara, and he’ll never be rich enough to own the rights to the back catalogue of Billy Ocean or Hank Williams.
The cyborg that Martin Crowe created (just because he had a spare Sunday afternoon) to hold his brain will never get a chance to take 5000 test wickets.
It’s a shame because the world would have loved Mushtafiqur Rahim’s novelty dub hit, “I should be so Lucky”.
Salman Butt doesn’t have the chance to find Jesus, become popular on a celebrity dancing show or rebuild his name by getting cancer.
England will never get a chance to see Graeme Swann hosting retro 1950s game shows.
It ends all hopes that Kevin O’Brien did of doing something that people remember him by without stupid hair.
And the UDRS will always remain shit.
What will happen is that India will remain the eternal champions of the world as we all burn in the Christian Fundamentalist Hell.
The real shame is not that we’ll miss the stuff above or that India are number 1 for ever (which isn’t a shame if you’re Indian, although you’ll be in hell, so hard to celebrate too much) it’s that we all know Tony Greig will be down there commenting on all our torture. Blow by blow. Getting the details wrong, calling Sri Lankans little, talking about the broad shoulders of some blonde 19 year old, and generally making hell, hell.
Sehwagology saves.
