Armageddon, with Extra Snark

We've all known that it's been on it's way for some time. NBC cancelling scripted television shows during prime time; Whitney divorcing Bobby; Paris Hilton's fragrance, Heiress, for crying out loud. (What exactly do you think that thing smells like? My guess is not "money.")
That's three modern horsemen of the apocalypse right there. But the final nail in the coffin, to mix my metaphors, has to be this:

It's 10 a.m., and I just got back from the gym.

For those of you who don't know me well enough to know why this might be considered the equivalent of the moon turning blood-red, I'll attempt to explain. I am not a morning person. I am SO not a morning person. In fact, if I could manage to ignore any kind of bodily demands such as hunger, elimination, or bedsores, I could spend a good deal of my life in bed--and this is particularly true in the morning.

Add to this that it often takes Senor Fluff an alchemically-perfect amalgamation of whining, threatening, and positive reinforcement to get me to the gym, and you've essentially got the perfect storm; the chances of me dragging my dead ass out of bed and to the gym are statistically about the same as the aforementioned Paris getting re-virginized and becoming a Mormon.

And yet, there I was, hooked up to my iPod, pumping away at the elliptical. Being forced to watch the Today Show, on which was featured yet another jackass story about the ways in which men and women are just biologically different, and how this all boils down to the way that men want to have sex every minute of every day, and how women only have sex to "connect" with their men. I dare you, Al Roker, to say that to Susie Bright! I double-dog dare you!!

So, just when you thought the end-times were upon us (and we're all looking like Kirk Cameron in the Left Behind series), the specter of biological essentialism rears its ugly head. I'd say we're all safe for another year or so.