Life > October 20, 2005

By Kyle Erickson

Old Gold & Black Columnist

Writing something humorous is difficult in times like these, when a spate of natural disasters around the world have prompted some to discuss the imminence of the Apocalypse.

The most striking feature of these doomsayers is their inability to remember anything that happened over a year ago. It’s as if before 2005 there had never been an earthquake, a hurricane, a potential flu pandemic or a president who signs all legislation in crayon.

These things, terrifying and singular as they may seem, have happened before and will happen again in spectacular fashion.

Particularly memorable will be the presidential election of 2032, when a baby running under the slogan “Look Who’s Talking About Being President Now!” will be universally dubbed “too cute not to vote for.”

We have a pitifully short collective memory, it’s true.

In light of how common earthquakes and hurricanes really are, I’ve taken to estimating the arrival of the Apocalypse based on how many truly unique and irreproducible experiences I personally have.

If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll come to the conclusion that precious few of the tragedies and calamities that befall you daily have never happened to anyone before. But every once in awhile a real gem just sneaks up on you and barfs all over your head. Let me explain.

The part of me that entertains the possibility of a rapidly approaching Apocalypse uses this story as evidence.

I went to the Dixie Classic Fair last week in order to eat a foot-long corn dog while watching the pig race, because rarely are we afforded an opportunity to eat pork products in the presence of potential pork product. 

I was also prepared to ride some carnival rides, though I declared to all those accompanying me that I would rather not ride the Zipper, since it consisted of tiny cages spinning in a pattern-less fashion and it appeared to be held together by duct tape.

But as fate would have it, as we walked past the Zipper most of my companions expressed a desire to ride it.

And so, against the advice of every tiny voice that speaks inside my head, I got in line to ride the inimitable Zipper.

The Zipper is operated by two carney-types, neither of which seemed capable of speech and both of which had soul-less little eyes.

The ride itself is a series of two-person cages attached to a track.

I was directed into one of these cages by one of the operators who, as soon as I was seated, slammed the door and locked it.

The click of the lock on the door of that cage is a sound I will never forget. For it was in that moment, precisely when I was sealed inside this spinning coffin that began its jerky ascent towards heaven, that I realized the inside of the cage was covered in pizza.

“Pizza? How curious!” you might say, not understanding my meaning. Allow me to clarify.

‘Twas pizza