We learned this week that we are all doomed.
We learned this again, and as usual from the friendless nerds at the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, who,
as they have annually since 1947,
clambered free of the lockers into which they had last been stuffed by the football team,
rearranged their most recent wedgies, pushed their cello taped glasses back up their noses,
stashed the pens back in the breast pockets of their short sleeved shirts,
and wheeled out their silly doomsday clock to sonorously caution us of impending apocalypse.
The world has not made sufficient progress on existential risks threatening all of humanity.
We thus move the clock forward.
In setting the clock closer to midnight, we send a stark signal.
Is it that girls still won't talk to you?
We learned anyway, that the lonely poindexters believe that we are more doomed than ever.
It is now 89 seconds to midnight.
This is the closest the world has ever been to midnight.
Happy New Year to you too, lads.
You'll be right eventually.
On which thought we learned
that recently reinstalled US President Donald Trump actually wasn't kidding when he nominated
as his Secretary of State for Health,
Robert F.