National Geographic Channel looooves to predict dire consequences 50 years from now if current trends in population, pollution, global warming, plate tectonics, solar flares, gang violence, rabbit overbreeding, and Dancing With the Stars continue unabated. I keep expecting to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse each time Len Goodman gives a couple a 10.

People keep insisting that the end of the Mayan Calendar in 2012 doesn’t signal the end of the world, but a new beginning. These are the same people who are stocking water, small arms, and clean underwear just in case. In the new world order, they will be sought out by the opposite sex as prime mates, regardless of their appearance, intelligence, or ability to unclog a toilet.

I’m a hopeless rule-follower, so I’m hoping that somebody will have the foresight to publish a book of Apocalyptic Etiquette. I’m not sure, for example, whether or not you have to ask permission before gnawing on someone’s thigh. I would be embarrassed to be caught in a new age social blunder.

If we get down to a survivalist situation, I’m going to be in trouble. I’m not sure if I could kill rather than be killed, and I’m pretty sure that most of my neighbors could. I went to a rodeo in our small town a few years ago, expecting to see people in cowboy hats and boots. Instead, about 85% of the attendees, including some babies, were dressed in camouflage. It was like a rural ninja convention.

I’m going to have to take issue with any 19 year-old genius who decides that the sick and the elderly need to be culled from the herd, because they’re using up too much oxygen. I’ve waited a long time, and no snot-nosed kid is going to rob me of my rights to eat dinner at 4:00, drive 5 miles under the speed limit in the fast lane, or breathe.

I’ll admit it: as a kid, if I heard about somebody dying at age 30, I would be sad, but console myself by saying that he lived a rich and full life. Next week I’ll be turning 54, and I’m pretty sure that my life could get fuller and richer. So if you’re thinking of asking permission to gnaw on my thigh, you can just put away the Tabasco Sauce. The answer is “no.”