Nope, not Christmas part zwei. It’s Super Bowl season!

Last year, Super Bowl XLV infuriated your grandparents, trampling M*A*S*H and setting a new record.

This sporting event is no joke.

It’s a grand moment of epic rivalries and rematches. The New York/Boston feud returns for the second time in four years.

If you don’t know a damn thing about football, don’t fret. Newbie to newbie, I’ll provide the perfect playbook to your virgin Super Bowl party.

You don’t need to have any entitlement to turn on the Super Bowl. Just learn at least three words to shout at the TV. My choice ones are all compound words that are unprintable, but the generic theory is to combine either a curse or a racial slur with an animal or item from a toolbox.

Your focus should not be the ruckus on the field. Your anger should be aimed towards the company you keep while they cheat their way through Texas Hold’Em Poker.

The NFL is a catalyst for your “sudden airborne illness” and stay home from work, rarely will people be intently watching each and every play. It’s probably the only time more people care about the commercials.

I’m hoping for a 60 second extended cut of that JCPenney commercial with the middle-aged women howling like badgers at low, low prices.

Organizing your comrades is great, but famine will undoubtedly strike. Football enacts the male equivalent of pregnancy cravings, gouging on everything in sight. Sometimes it’s items that aren’t even edible.

I found myself teething on a remote controller the other day. Now my DVR keeps recording Monday Night RAW and I can’t figure out how to get it to cease.

The evils of the food industry are exponential on this sacred Sunday, casting booming profits. Wings, fries, pizzas, pretzels, nachos (both standard and supreme) and potato chips are aplenty and should be laid out in abundance at your gathering.

This is not a day for the health-conscious eater. Anyone bringing a Tofurkey burger should subsequently be punted in the pelvic bone and out the backdoor.

The group has always come together as a whole to tune into, or at least belittle, the halftime performer. Lady Gaga Sr.’s set this year should be no different, except in the fact it’s not the Black Eyed Peas.

For a successful Super Bowl XL-71-nine-thousand-four, all you need to be aware of is that your television is tuned on to the bright green field.

Root for the Patriots, root for the Giants, it doesn’t matter (it does matter, but that is for my own diluted reasons of seeing persons I personally know disheartened and broken. Go Patriots.)

Merry sportsmanship to you, viewers. Leave your groggy hangovers at the door come class on Monday.

Last week, the cruise liner Costa Concordia toppled over near the coast of Tuscany, Italy. Amid the panic of riders, Captain Francesco Schettino decided to resort to throwing himself overboard instead of doing the noble duty of assisting the passengers to safety.

This seems like the kind of weak willed alternative that I would resort to, a feat unworthy under any circumstances.

Piled on top of his daring act of self-centered survival, Schettino admitted the accident was avoidable and fault fell at his feet as he was navigating by sight out of the bay windows.

Remember the boaters’ safety test you took in junior high under the advisory of your creepy science teacher who wore sunglasses inside as a cover up to him peeping at the revealing clothing of your disgustingly undeveloped and underage female classmates? I’m positive the lot of those 12 and 13-year-olds would have been better off at the helm.

The Costa Concordia is a state-of-the-art ship, the freshest kind that generally runs on autopilot, a GPS guided course set. Thus, commanding a ship seems a job suited for the inept.

Probably still a horrible idea, but the command system often requires more monitoring than direct navigating.

Now Schettino is facing multiple charges due to his negligence, including manslaughter, causing a shipwreck and abandoning ship, a potential 15 years of prison idling in the dock.

Captain Jackass must be regretting his choice to swim to safety now possibly having to walk a different plank.

Lucky news to all the survivors of the crash — get 30 percent off your next Carnival cruise!

Who thought that marketing scheme would be a good idea? Reimbursing the fees from the fallen Concordia, yes, but assuming any of those traumatized passengers will want to travel by way of water again is a ridiculous thought.

Denying any former passenger seems like a more acceptable offer, or 30 percent off a Disney cruise instead.

There must be some consequences to the ill responsibility displayed on that voyage. When the captain consciously decides to pull a stunt for the shore-going public like the one he had planned, sailing within 150 meters of the coast (that is until his idea went topside,) repercussions have to be felt, endangering so many people.

If you can’t be trustworthy in a position where lives are at stake, than don’t do the job. If you want to thrash to death metal during driving, don’t drive a school bus full of children.

If you plan on playing Angry Birds during your shift, don’t pilot an airplane.

The exception to this rule is only Nicholas Cage in Con-Air. That is the only acceptable time you should sporadically fly an airplane.

Hullabaloo hangs in the murky waters for Schettino’s future, but it seems unified that the public wants vengeance for the negligence.

Jack Sparrow would be sorely disappointed. He could steer a ship drunk as a mother, and this guy has difficulty following the blipping green dots.

Contact multimedia reporter Brian Figurski via e-mail at bdfigurs@oakland.edu. Follow him on Twitter @WhatDidBeefSay

The North American International Auto Show has been a cornerstone of Detroit’s automotive influence for years. Showcasing the best in German and Japanese engineering, the annual show has been a staple of January life of Detroiters for years.

This year, fellow multimedia reporter Jordan Reed and I braved the mild Michigan snowfall and its incompetent drivers to the Cobo Center, where they all gather to pick their next car to drive insipidly slow at the first sign of wintry wrath.

I digress from reporting the weather, however, as the highlight was the powerful heat lamps that light the floor and melt the flesh off of swarms of the elderly.

2012’s NAIAS pinnacles were the innovative concept cars, basically the end-result of the auto industry’s “Take your Child to Work Day” and letting them go buck wild on a drafting board.

While the showdown of the showcases often range from the tiniest microcosms of vehicles to the abstract behemoth gas-guzzlers too hulking to be relevant, this is Michigan, not Texas, and bigger has lost it’s luster. Good news for me.

Small was in it to win it, with Mini-Coops and fuel-friendly vehicles being hot commodities this year. While the gas expenditure has its perks, the tiny trunk space barely has the capacity for containing a whole body (as is shown in our Auto Show video).

Another selling point for whose attractions attained the most prestige is whose eye candy was the most mouth-watering.

Like in aspect of our car mechanics, our European friends beat out the American companies by a landslide, sending out squadrons of beaus to become vessels for militias of men assaulting them at close-range about Catalytic Converters as a cover-up for staring at their skintight T-shirts.

In short, the auto industry is catering to the customer of the future — smaller and smaller everything with a surplus of techno.

Critics have raved it to be one of the most successful of Detroit’s car conventions in recent years.

Finally we can travel from point A to point B in comfortably cramped style! Perhaps when the student loans cease.

Contact multimedia reporter Brian Figurski via e-mail at bdfigurs@oakland.edu. Follow him on Twitter @WhatDidBeefSay

I’ve been doing a lot of pondering over what the ultimate purpose of acquiring education through school is. Aside from racking up lifetime fees, it seems most continue their education in hopes of achieving a successful challenging career.

What is a challenging career? Mechanical astronaut? Nope. A career as a neuro-surgeon? That is child’s play.

The most demanding career is by far the fast food industry.

I can’t stand the food industry, as they pump out chemical-saturated “food” into the gullets of Americans daily.

There’s a 25 percent chance you are using the Mouthing Off page as a napkin for the Big Mac sauce coating your lips.

Most important to my rage is the fact that I’m reluctantly still part of it.

It’s sorely embarrassing that I’m in a position of management.

I have a dreaded fear I will turn into some fast food dictator who actually gives a magic floating cramp about a dead-end job or, firing employees over sock color if I continue to deteriorate in this facility.

The reason fast food is the most demanding career is multi-faceted, response.

The first reason for its stranglehold is the customers.

Everyone has something to say about food. Everyone eats. Anyone who claims a liquid diet is a downright liar who got their jaw wired shut for lying in the first place, and is therefore telling the truth now.

Everyone is a consumer of food, and in America, the freaky faster, the better.

A quarter of our obese nation gobbles on grease-flamed fries and burgers daily.

Chances are, you won’t see the mechanically-inclined picking fights at the auto shop, but rest assured everyone from snot-nosed adolescents to an 88-year-old have an issue with your food handling skills.

If only we could abolish the slogan “have it your way” and in its place scribe “order what’s on the menu, pick off what you don’t like, shut your mouth and keep driving.” If consumers don’t comply, sic the creepy crown-donning king on them.

No one executes any kind of courtesy from lobby side of the cash register.

I have to piss insincere politeness, but if it were any reflection of how I really felt, I would have been tossed a long time ago.

Although the time I was written up for giving the middle finger to a family of four, I got promoted.

Most people in this world have experienced waged life in the food processes, and properly I must assume they were also treated like peasants.

This world is a downward spiral of “do unto others” to a malignant point.

Food of the quick and pointless is routinely stereotyped as a job for carefree teenagers, functioning drug addicts and overall failures.

Being a resident at such a place, I concur.

This is how the industry creates such a booming profit, by paying us downgrade humans in floor scrapings.

By this point I have probably been grouped into the latter of the categories, and have only kept this job to inject a healthy dose of inspirational hatred into my day.

Even with how much information I divulge about myself, you may be shocked with how many times I’ve been fired.

Out of all my jobs, this one has been the most draining.

So, if you’re looking for challenge in the job market, look no further than every quarter mile on any road, any city, America.

In fact, there are positions opening soon at my store — mine!

As a pure scumbag, I am getting out and shaking loose the title before I embody some of the nastiest, most despicable scoundrels I have had the displeasure of knowing and interacting alongside for way-too-long on the timeline of my life.

I hope this story brought you back to your boil-faced teenage years. If it brings you back to last night’s shift, I can only imagine how you could put my tales to shame.

I ran into some people I went to high school with that I haven’t seen in six years.

We swapped stories for a moment. Well, they spread stories about how they are mechanical engineers or in general, successful happy people.

I exercised my creative muscle and created fables about how “I work for an online newspaper and write really funny stories and I’m perpetually optimistic. Do not google my name.”

So sad it is that I have to hide my pathetic job from the general populous.

Contact multimedia reporter Brian Figurski via e-mail at bdfigurs@oakland.edu. Follow him on Twitter @WhatDidBeefSay

I haven’t been myself this year as most of my closest friends can attest. At this time of year, there’s one core reason for my mis-misbehavior.

Apologies to everyone who was adversely affected by my physical and mental absence last week. Or perhaps, you are welcome.

Since I can remember, I have had an odd fixation on dates and times, trying to give them some kind of sentimental value. Useless things, too.

I recall the date my pudgy child fingers opened a Nintendo 64 box. I remember the time that Men in Black II started when I saw it in theatres. That was a horrible sequel, the kind of thing I’d want to have erased from memory.

This reoccurring tendency on timelines always has a peculiar effect on me every Jan. 1.

It starts with a melancholy reflection of what I’ve accomplished in the prior 365 days, amplifying my shortcomings and drowning out my feeble victories. This becomes a waterfall of tears soaking my jeans.

This always leads me to demand drastic changes of myself for 20-whatever, not without first neglecting all my duties to formulate a multi-step program of resolutions.

I made a lengthy list of life changes to start being marked by flipping open my next New York Firefighters calendar.

Nothing too absurd – Pursue my career goals, quit smoking, be more open to new experiences, be more friendly, stop using whack 90s slang like ‘you da bomb’ in airports and public forums, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.

All the stress of this rigid list kicked my nicotine cravings into action by 12:16 AM – The first failure of 2012.

I spent the next four days of the fresh year fretting on how I would assimilate these alterations by retreating to my dark cavern of a room, re-watching the entire senseless series of Lost, an homage to what had become of me by deciding to whirlwind my life in 2012.

The Lost part, not the time-traveling monster made of smoke. I resolved that situation last year.

Soon I realized I was inhibiting my advancement, so I quit being a depressive glutton to roll out of bed and head to my first classes. It couldn’t be worse than how I was wasting away.

December’s break from civilization must have made me think there is a shimmer of humanitarian hope in somewhere in my spinal fluids.

The first joke sputtered from the designated class clown’s mouth had me driving my forehead into the desk and crossing off more wishful thinking on my resolution list.

I may come off as a joker, but in classroom, I don’t do a George Carlin as much as, say, a Unibomber. I wear my sunglasses at night class.

Resolutions are set to try and better life, but when so much is piled on during a (my) drunken banter and missing the contemplative steps towards change, rarely a fighting chance for these new trends sticks around for long, a vicarious fact that I’ve succumbed to firsthand.

Trying to revolutionize my life as I know it has impeded me more than I anticipated, to the point that I’ve actually reversed my goals.

I’m proud to say I’m up to a pack and a half a day, I don’t even consider doing anything outside of my norm and greet fellow humans with a hardy single-fingered salute.

Now my only resolve has shifted to not making resolutions.

If you are going to set importance to the firsts, make it count and make is reasonable.

If you botched it up like I have, we have a second chance during Chinese New Year.

If I celebrated Christmas, this would have been the most pointless gift I ever received. It’s like a yearbook. Your year is highlighted with photos and text, and you only care about it for a year before it gets relegated to the attic, storage room or wherever you store useless books.

The idea of the timeline is to highlight the most memorable posts, photos, etc. that happen in a year. For some reason though, Facebook determines – before you can – what was important in a year’s worth of posts, pictures, friend requests, etc.

I looked at what Facebook believes to be my highlights of 2008 and nowhere do I see a post about how the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup. What do they have? They have a post of mine that tells people that I am starting on a six-page paper. Yeah, because that anonymous six-page paper, that probably has no significance in my life, holds more importance than a team that I follow more than I do a religion.

I get it though – Facebook wants me to do this myself. They want me to go through countless updates to find which ones “highlight a year in my life.”

It makes sense, but I don’t plan on spending my time looking through many status updates and photos in order to determine which ones highlight a year — I’m too busy having a life to be subjected to a petty task like that.

Facebook will soon realize that they failed to recognize just why people use Facebook. It’s not to chronicle your life on a single website. It’s just to tell others what you’re doing. How am I supposed to chronicle a year in my life anyway? With pictures of me wasted off of my ass? Does that make it to the timeline? Or maybe it’s a friend’s wall post, telling me how much of an ass I was to them the other night?

And don’t you think it’s just a little bit strange  how Facebook can see what we post and say to others?

Before, it was an invasion of privacy. Now with this timeline, it’s getting creepy. They’re seeing what highlights our year. What’s the purpose of them needing to see our timelines? It’s like Facebook is playing the role of God. Because they can see everyone’s posts and pictures, maybe they feel that they can create a new bible — the book of Zuckerberg.

Watch out Isaac, because God, er… Facebook might tell Abraham — the guy you friended a week ago after you met at Jacob’s party — to kill you. That way Facebook can add in their bible that Facebook told Abraham to kill Isaac.

But Facebook does accomplish something with this timeline. It accomplishes the acknowledgement that we as people are lazy. They showed us that we’re too lazy to tell people the memorable events in our own words.

Facebook has added a “Life Event” button, which lets people add a generic message that tells of an important event (marriage, quitting a habit, getting a divorce, etc.). That’s the perfect tool for people who don’t like to add creativity and emotion to their message.

My mother always tells me and my brother how our generation has become lazy in terms of sending messages. “When I was your age,” she would begin, “I had to write letters to people. Now this whole Facebook messaging has made people too lazy to write a letter.” Now, while I love my mother dearly, that is far from the case.

It’s called being up-to-date with technology. But this is me now. Maybe when I’m her age, I’ll be telling my kids how we had to type words out to send a message and now a single button does that, and in turn, makes us lazy.

With that, I’m left scratching my head. I thought life was supposed to be something you can’t describe. Now it seems that we can just click a button and add a few words to tell of an important event; slap on a few posts, pictures, and videos that highlight 365 days.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I hate this timeline thing. I actually don’t hate it, but I don’t like it either.

What I do think of the timeline is that it’s just another meaningless user interface update that’s being used for marketing purposes.

Yes, our lives have become part of a marketing plan. And here I thought that you couldn’t put a price tag on life.

It is my opinion that there is no more artful or logical a rebuttal to an argument than a steel chair wrapped in barbed wire.

Naturally, as the great philosopher George Carlin suggested, Americans would be deprived of their manufactured right to be distracted, were this pioneering experiment in edu-tainment not televised.

While watching this athletic opera, viewers would be able to vote their favorite buzzwords and phrases for candidates to adopt, including such favorites as “Founding Fathers,” “terrorism,” “sanctity of marriage” and “deregulation!”

This sort of spectacle could reinvigorate the U.S. interest in politics in a single prime-time hour, I daresay.

Let us not confine such an opportunity to a single evening.  This must be a serialized, extended series of feuds with bi-partisan turf wars, circa the pre-80s period of televised professional wrestling:  the good ole days.

Imagine a Joseph Lieberman, Barney Frank and Al Franken triumvirate, an unstoppable force of wind-and-solar power against the rebel Tea Party Caucus with the likes of David “The Mountain” McKinley, Diane “Bruiser” Black and “Homicidal” Howard Coble.

The battles over budget and ideology would be determined by whichever warriors could sell the most ads — a true Democracy. It would also, incidentally, determine the shape of the turfs or “districts.”

I want to see Barack Obama in a singlet — this is the end of my sentence.

The president would surely be the organizer of such a federation. He would be the Vince McMahon of the outfit.

At one time, it may have seemed like he had promise, in earlier days. Reality has set in and now he is resigned to call shots and politic behind the scenes, because that is what the commissioner does and it would be pure naivete to ever be persuaded otherwise.

After all, once any viewer reaches a certain age, usually around the time cigarette and “adult beverage” companies start covertly advertising to them, they will realize it was all fake.

Contact Senior Reporter Ray Andre via e-mail  at reandre@oakland.edu.

At least someone cares a little about me.

So, after that meeting with my one and only fan, I worked up the courage to take another crack at it.

I’m sure most of you reading this enjoyed your restful and relaxing vacations by traveling, visiting friends and getting lots of sleep. I, on the other hand, had a different experience.

My vacation consisted of two children constantly waking me up when they needed something, my dad telling me that I had enough sleep for that day, mom telling my to clean up every inch of the house and a 16-year-old kid who expected to get an iPod touch, a professional DSLR camera and smart phone from The Omnipotent Santa and got mad when he didn’t.

In other words, I’m happy to be back at school and back to working at The Oakland Post.

My family discovered Netflix over this break.

It was a great addition to the family until we couldn’t decide what we wanted to watch.

My little brother complained about every show that we ever watched.

I couldn’t help yelling out, “There are people in Africa without computers let alone Netflix streaming to a Xbox through a Wi-Fi Internet router. Just sit down, shut up and be happy!”

On a related note, Happy (belated) Kwanzaa everybody.

So, after that run-on sentence outburst, I spent the rest of my vacation trying to be productive and try and pull myself to go and do something fun.

I thought about reading Twilight, because I had heard so much from about it in high school.  Then I decided that I’d rather watch the movie.

I really hope the book was better because I fell asleep within the first few minutes. I didn’t even watch enough to know if I am a member of Team Jacob or Team Edward — who ever the hell those two people are.

On the opposite and more manly side of my break, I involved my time in the newest addition to the list of reasons why girlfriends are second to video games. I, of course, am speaking about The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.

I constantly yell “Fus Ro Dah!!” at random strangers that pass me by on the sidewalks and in stores. People who get it laugh and walk by.  The people that don’t look at be like I’m possessed by the devil.

My friend Rachel invited me to come over to her house on New Years. I was originally planing on going, but I ended up watching Taio Cruz singing about how he’s wearing all of his favorite brands brands brands brands.

Fun fact: It took four people to write lyrics for the song Dynamite. I  want to find all of the lyricists and slap them in the face face face face.

Even though I didn’t do very much and threw things at the TV after the terrible calls made in the Lions vs Packers, I still had a fun time over break.

I really need to get out more.

Contact Multimedia Reporter Jordan Reed via e-mail  at rjmreed23@oakland.edu.

Are children these days really this oblivious to the falsities that bestow the modern day Santa Claus?

I suppose it’s rather obvious, since a child can still be lured into a tinted window Astrovan with a Tootsie pop. You know the slogan. I don’t even have to go there.

Kids should be frightened of this bearded creep. We teach them at a young age that magic isn’t real, monsters don’t exist, flight is impossible, etc. Keep your dreams grounded.

We go on to create this mystical pudgy human-form who looks like an inflated member of ZZ Top that shimmies down your chimneys while you’re sleeping and steals your baked goods and milk. Anything but the precious milk!

On that note, do not let me wake up without milk in the fridge. If Santa Claus stole all my milk, I swear I would shoot him in the forehead.

So when I enter dwellings through their roof cavity, I get the entire Rochester police department after me, but this man gets away without a whim. Does Kris Kringle not fit the profile of majority of the FBI’s ‘Most Wanted’ list?

Santa Claus also has the ability to fly, the only human being on record to do so without the aid of propellers, propulsive heat or a jet engine.

This fabled creature is the biggest monstrosity history has ever imposed on the fragile mind of the youth.

If Santa is at the mall everyday, how does he have time to build all his toys? He wouldn’t even have the time to peruse Amazon for the little snot-nosed ones.

Oh, his elves. Elves, which are dwarfed in size, are essentially the same stature as a child. I never knew the North Pole shared laws similar to communist China.

Fact: Santa promotes child labor.

And if Santa is at the mall, how is he simultaneously at McDonald’s, O’Connor’s, and upstairs in mommy’s bedroom during daddy’s nine-to-five?

What is this man? What sadistic demon have we created and are spoon-feeding to the children?

A wise principle to impose upon an eggshell mind would be honesty. Hopefully I’ll never curse this world with kids to implement this, but logic tells me this would be a good moral fiber to inflict on a child.

Instead we lie. The backlash of this fictional character will come back to bite the asses of parents one day, in the form of harsh sarcasm and early retirement home placement.

We shouldn’t need to lie to children to create the omnipotent Santa Claus. Let’s sit down and be honest with them.

“Bobby, Mandy … Mommy and I bought your presents, not Santa Claus. See, Christmas is a time where you spend a bunch of money on presents, which will in time cut down significantly on your college funds, but you’ll get instant gratification from this fully automatic nerf gun that will get shoved in your closet within two weeks to house dust and strains of influenza. Merry Christmas.”

That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now we just have to come up with a viable plot about for why we got a replacement puppy since our first one ‘ran away.’

Next year, something similar will be said about life itself.

End of days is coming, people. It’s been predicted centuries ago by civilizations more advanced that the Hot Pocket that Dec. 21, 2012 will spell doomsday.

Imagine Y2K, Hurricane Katrina and the Lions/Packers Thanksgiving game snowballed into one massive rapture.

Suh can’t stomp his way out of that one.

Long before our time, this has been known to be humanity’s demise. What are you going to do with your final calendar days on planet Earth?

Call this my ‘Mayan bucket list.’

While writing for a university newspaper prevents me from disavowing college courses, I can say that finishing my bachelor’s degree doesn’t top my list of things to accomplish.

My editor just informed me I cannot say that either. Looks like I won’t be writing for The Post next year.

Over the course of my last days on Earth, I plan to forego all the inhibitions that have prevented me from living to my fullest.

This year, a personal goal of mine is to get obliterated beyond thought on crazy cocktails. I will fear no more ordering spiral-colored fruit flavored drinks to appease my friends, and by the blender.

I’m talking potential death here by alcohol poisoning. I’ve never understood why people seem to love a perpetual drunk. On rare occasions, I enjoy a drink, otherwise I suffer through alcohol consumption for the good of socialization.

I’ve always preferred waking with a sound body and mind to migraines and roll-over blackout mistakes.

We’re going to take that philosophy and tie it in a burlap sack, pump some bullet holes in it and toss it out of a moving van somewhere on a desolate strip of I-75 (after sanitizing the fingerprints.)

Stinginess won’t play a part, either. Find me closing down a bar somewhere and I’ll blow my savings account on you, too. Money won’t matter when the meteor showers start so what’s the point of having it?

That coincides great with foregoing physical fitness.

I’ve spent my last few years depriving myself of flavorful delicacies to harness that frail feminine figure I’ve been trying to attain.

Cakes, cookies and pies galore! I’m going to stuff my gullet full of sugary-sweet saturated fats and carbohydrates until I double my body weight. I can’t outrun a tidal wave or swarm of locusts, so I might as well kick my feet up on the front porch with a ton of pound cake.

I feel before I completely bloat my proportion though, I should take the time to conquer one of my biggest fears – speaking to women.

All right, I have done that, but often my advances are laughed off or more frequently slapped across the face over whatever demeaning acts I have uttered from my clueless vessel of a skull.

Case and point – “Ever been kissed by God, on the butt?”

Major medical breakthroughs have removed the lacerations from my cheeks.

One of these times I will hit it out of the park when I find that right woman and if condoms still serve a purpose. I can pop open my dusty three-year old box of Trojan His Pleasures (for the guy who doesn’t really care.)

Before I start a kerfuffle, I do have some serious actions to commit before the world ends me. I still want to conquer my fear of heights by skydiving, vote for Herman Cain, and win a game of Scrabble by playing the word ‘uterus.’

Don’t let my plebian plans muddle yours, though. Some of you will set your sights up high and want to change the world, or edit the trajectory of the planet in a failed attempt to save society as we know it.

Will you spend your final moments living in vices, being virtuous, or adapting sentences based off Panic! At The Disco lyrics?

I plan on reliving the best memories of my life on all three of these points of life. On my last night on Earth, I want to be able to look up at the sky falling and not have any regrets of not living.

And if in the very unlikely off-chance the world doesn’t end, I’ll be quite a lonely chap sitting atop the tallest hill in Oakland County drinking alone in the dark.