If you’re reading this, it means the Mayans were wrong.
But don’t get too excited—we’re not out of the woods just yet.
The Armageddon is still going to happen one day, and the following list of hypothetical examples from the world of sports are just the kind of stuff we’d expect to see right before the arrival of the end.
Put it this way: if we ever see stuff like this happening in sports, it’s time to grab your loved ones and head for the fallout shelter before the zombies show up.
“CUBS WIN! CUBS WIN!! Now everyone drink a last beer if you got one because I think the Big Guy’s about to turn out the lights!”—Harry Caray commentating the Cubs' World Series-winning game from Heaven.
The skies will burst open and Odin’s tears will drown the world of men on the day when JaVale McGee’s body syncs up naturally with his team on the basketball court.
Until that day, however, we’re going to sit back and enjoy living on a planet where professional basketball players like McGee are free to flail.
“Well said, Stephen. I must say, I completely agree with and have nothing to add to your hypothesis concerning LeBron James and his current standing in the annals of NBA greatness.”
“Why thank you, Skip. I love how we always end up coming to a consensus on these kinds of things.”
If you ever hear dialogue that sounds like the above conversation on ESPN’s First Take, make sure to take one last look out your window and drink in the beautiful sight of mushroom clouds forming on the horizon.
Bill Belichick coaching in attire that screams anything besides “Dumpster shirt!” and "Guess if there's cat hair on me" is not a good sign for mankind.
So if New England’s head coach walks out onto the field with a Hugo Boss suit on and a time piece hanging from his vest pocket, well, we can only assume something catastrophic is about to happen and he wants to go out in his Sunday Best.
The sky is blue. Grass is green. And Cristiano Ronaldo is a sissy.
Those are the rules we have here on earth—the absolutes. And if Ronaldo ever screws on a pair and does something like slam his head into another man’s sternum, I don’t know if Earth’s homeostasis would ever recover.
Nuclear holocaust. EMP warheads. Zombie apocalypse.
Take your pick because those are pretty much the only catastrophic events that could cause ESPN to go 24 hours without uttering the word “Tebow.”
Even if the Rapture were to occur, as long as they could snake a news truck around the meteor craters, Hannah Storm would be out their shoving a microphone in Tim Tebow’s face as he ascends into the heavens.
Sure he’s absolutely terrible at it, but Tiger Woods has spent most of his life trying to keep his personal business out of the media.
So sufficed to say, if Woods ever willingly decides to invite camera crews to follow him into the Spearmint Rhino for a bit of “pitching from the rough” in the VIP room, it’s probably because he knows the end will arrive before his slap-and-tickle footage makes the air.
Don’t ever do it, Mike. Don’t put that ugly voodoo on us.
I know it’s not working great for you as an owner, but rules are rules, and three comebacks means I can’t like you anymore and the next Ice Age is coming.
Airplanes will fall from the sky, the rivers will turn to ash and streams of hot Pepsi Blue will pour from the eyes of Mike Krzyzewski the day that the Duke Blue Devils lose to a team like Bowling Green in the first round of the NIT.
Considering he’s pretty much the Gold Standard for professionalism and poise in the world of sports broadcasting, if Bob Costas starts dropping "booyahs" and “cray crays” on live television, there is something in the water, and it’s probably crazy, lethal and far too late for you already.
Break out cardboard mats and the boombox—the Los Angeles Clippers have won 11 games in a row!
But in all seriousness, the Clippers are still a long way from winning their first ring. I’m not saying it’s not going to ever happen, but when it does, I’ll be stocking up on drinking water and batteries.
After a 5-15 stint as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, I think we can all agree that Lane Kiffin coming back to the program and winning a Coach of the Year award would make for a great story.
As a matter-of-fact, I would keep the newspaper clipping of Lane Kiffin’s COY award with me everywhere I go—stuffed in the lining of my jacket, for warmth against the raking chill of the nuclear winter in which we would be living.
After dominating the Tour seven times and lying about using performance-enhancing drugs, Lance Armstrong winning France’s “Man of the Year” award would be a bad joke and an even worse harbinger for the future of sentient life here on Earth.
“First of all, I’d like to thank God, you know, for not taking my baby teeth at the age of 28. Through Him, all teeth are possible. I’d also like to thank my psychiatrist and the dream spiders in my head for eating all the boohoo thoughts every night. I couldn’t have done it without them.”
While we’d love to hear his acceptance speech, if we're ever watching Metta World Peace win the Nobel Peace Prize it means SkyNet is broadcasting the feed to us in our underground bunker.
I’m no nuclear physicist, but I do firmly believe that an unenthusiastic game-call by Andrés Cantor could have the same doomsday potential for mankind as the Large Hadron Collider.
Large Hadron Collider reference, anyone? Nobody? Sorry.
It’s never Tim Duncan’s fault. Never ever.
But if it ever was Duncan’s fault on a foul, grab a machete and head for the hills—just make sure they're not the ones that have eyes.
When A-Rod stops flirting with chicks in the stands and starts cranking off some homers in the postseason—or at least a healthy RBI rate—I will wholeheartedly apologize for this slide, grab a few palettes of canned peaches and head quickly down into my subterranean lair.
He went there.
Heel, boys—I’m not saying "hockey sucks," or that I don’t enjoy watching the Stanley Cup Finals when they’re on.
However, the clincher of that last sentence is the “when they’re on” part. I want to like hockey more, I want to get into it.
But just when I'm starting to feel it, the next damn season doesn't start. And I think it's going to take the world being wiped clean and a fresh batch of human beings who aren’t going to turn into d-bag hockey commissioners in order to turn this ship around.
Wait, he doesn’t want to rage? You mean like...not right now? Or never?
That’s it. Beam me up Scotty, this planet is beat.
“That’s right! You heard me Americaaaa! I’m serioouuusss!! They bite the Big One, babyyyy!!"
Jaws would drop, glasses would shatter and college basketball fans around the nation wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Students at Chapel Hill might like hearing one of Duke’s most vocal supporters trashing on their rival, but the only thing it would prove to most of us is that demonic possession is real, and the future is grim.
The only thing more terrifying than a loud Bob Knight tirade would be a completely quiet one.
What is going to happen? Why are you doing this, coach?
He would probably tell you, “Because these are the end times, kid.” Only it would be in morse code—morse code he would tap out by throwing an ottoman at your head.
Scrambled adult entertainment is one thing, but I’ll be damned if the sun doesn’t explode the moment NASCAR tries to feed us softcore car crashes.
We love the White Mamba, and we know he has a very particular set of skills.
But the day that America’s favorite “glue guy” is in the dunk contest getting straight 10s is the day the ice caps melt and the zombies start crawling up your front porch.
“He did what? Again?? NO!! Alright everyone, Brett Favre’s back in the league, and I can only assume this is a sick joke or an alien invasion...Grab your ammo and get to your positions. Remember—if it moves, it dies.”
What if Finkel...was Andrews?
Hey, I don’t want to think about it either, but now it’s on the floor, and we’re gonna tango with it.
FOX Sports personality Erin Andrews is every man’s dream girl—poised, sports savvy and hot enough to cause some mighty illusions in the pleats of your pants.
But how those pleats would wilt and die forever if it turned out Andrews was playing the game of life with an extra set of dice in her suit pants.
Well, I don’t think I’d be the only guy who would openly embrace the Armageddon at that point.