My mother is very disappointed in me I am sure. Here I sit at 8:30pm on Saturday night…still breathing. Actually, there are probably a lot of disappointed mothers out there who have come to realize their sons or daughters weren’t sucked into heaven tonight at 6:00pm as Rapture set in amongst us. Apparently most of us have failed at living the good life.
Every day about 70,000 people around the world die. That means, on average, 48.61 people die every minute. Which means there are 48 people standing in heaven right now giving high fives to each other for having “checked-out” right on time. Of course that also means that there is 0.61 of one person who is honked off because he actually got caught in the gate getting in and is now stuck in limbo for eternity. However, depending on how big a stickler God is about being on time it statistically possible that all of us missed the boat as there are 86,400 seconds in a day. Therefore if our average 70,000 people died today there is a nineteen percent chance that nobody died at the very second 6:00pm ticked off the Rolex. Alright, enough math. My head hurts.
The REAL reason for this post stands on the opposite side of Rapture. That being the inevitable Armageddon the rest of us are expected to endure (or I guess, technically succumb to) over the next five months. And I have the proof! Or at least what I will build up in my mind as proof even though it probably isn’t. And it is as you would believe an Armegeddon-esque sign would look like. Infestation. Yep. The Great Thin-legged Needlepoint Black spotted Indiana Mosquito. By the millions. As much as the newly expanded garden needed tilled (done so to combat the last glass half empty catastrophe covered here) there was no plausible way anything outdoors was getting done tonight without swallowing one of those buggers or going deaf from the persistent buzzzzzzing alternating between first the left ear then the right ear and back again. My penance for attempting this nonsense? A dozen or more bloody welts covering all conceivable places on my person.
You are free to throw all of your statistical data my way to poo-poo this philosophy but I’m not listening. Tell me we just finished the wettest April in recorded history in the state of Indiana. 9.69 inches of rain may be a lot (hell, it may have been God’s Prerequisite to this whole fiasco). A full 2.68 inches more than the previous 7.01 inches record set in 1947. I ain’t buying it. Tell me the incubation period for a mosquito is 10-21 days (please note the ironic numerology there). Tell me the temperatures have been ideal for larvae development during the course of that time. I’m particularly not buying that one after having spent every conceivable evening shivering at high school baseball games this spring. I could hardly survive those cold evenings.
The truth is that if any whack-job out there can pour the Kool-Aid and expect everyone to quaff it up I contend, “why can’t I?” To further my investigative work towards this Mosquito Maximus Infestation theory I intend to visit the mecca of all mosquito-laiden lands later this summer by going to Minnesota. My best guess is I will return weighing 25 pounds more than when I left. All puss of course having filled the cavities beneath each bite. For they grow them so large up there the government affixes numbers to their sides so air traffic controllers can keep them from colliding with commercial aircraft.