By Ernie Tremper
The final report had just come in over the wire service. Star anchorman Edward Mobley took a long drag on his cigarette. In a few moments, he’d be breaking the news to a whole city of people who tuned in to see him every night.
“Five seconds, Mr. Mobley,” said a young cameraman with curly hair that reached down to his bare nipples. Mobley looked at him with disdain. Then he extinguished his cigarette. It was time.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” As was his custom at the start of each broadcast, he lit a fresh cigarette.
“This is a somber occasion for us all. We’ve just got word that the giant ball of cum hurtling towards Earth will definitely wipe out all of humanity, probably within the hour.”
He took a long drag on the cigarette, then extinguished it, then lit another one.
“The scientists never were able to answer the questions on everyone’s mind. Where did the ball of cum originate? Whose cum is it? And so forth. Now it looks like those questions will never be answered. NASA has shuttered its doors, following the lead of the military, and the U.S. government.”
Mobley extinguished his second cigarette and lit a cigar.
“You might ask, why has everyone given up so quickly? But you know the answer. To try and evade the ball of cum would only be to prolong this long, cosmic mistake in which we’ve all taken part.”
Here he chomped on his cigar, and leaned forward in his chair paternalistically, as if he were about to warn his audience, as he often did, of the dangers of “musician drugs.”
“Dear friends, imagine a harried father, taking his family on a vacation. The quarrelling of the children, the nagging of his wife – it gets to be too much for him. He ends up driving his station wagon off a bridge. That car, about to plunge into the river, is humanity. We’ve just gotten worse and worse. We’ve been sliding closer and closer to the end for centuries now. The ball of cum has shortened our wait, and that is a tremendous gift.”
He extinguished his cigar and lit a corncob pipe.
“In just a moment, I’ll be signing off for the last time. After that, you’ll see on this station, as on every station in America until the end arrives, the Four Singing Brennans – one of those musical hippy families from San Francisco – performing their rendition of John Lennon’s ‘Imagine.’ Michael Brennan, who plays an acoustic guitar, his wife Sandy, and their two children, Yoni and Phallus, will sing ‘Imagine’ over and over again until everyone is dead. I can’t think of a better way to snuff out the human race.”
Then, the red light on the camera switched off. In the ensuing silence, Mobley extinguished his corncob pipe, and lit a huge Indian peace pipes. He dreamed of beating up hippies as he awaited death.