It is now ten minutes until the end of the world. Or, to be more precise, it is nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds until the end of human civilization as it had come to be known over the course of some less than one hundred years. Should a Future loom ahead for the distant descendants of the 21st century, and should a curious set emerge to act as humanity’s new historians, the most vocal amongst them may debate whether the people of the year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty-one brought miseries willfully upon themselves.
Prior to the final nine minutes and fifty-three seconds before the end of ‘mankind and itx modern conveniences, the 21st century was a time on contradictions and extremes. At moments it seemed that anything was possible — anyone could be President, sharks could be tornadoes, feature films could be viewed on wrist watches, and the USB cord could be plugged in the correct way on the first try. The possibility for everything to be wonderful was always just out of reach and one-third of the people roaming the planet were straight-up garbage. The Futures that had been promised to generations were almost totally in the Past. Battles were waged daily between the 1% and the 99% in the bloody battlefields of American malls. Western civilization was divided into sub-cultures and micro-cultures defined by fashion and fandoms. Stories overwhelmed the newsfeeds of Millennials destroying the traditions and industries beloved by their Boomer parents, whose homes they could never quite afford to move from. Most everyone had pocket-sized computers with access to the total of human knowledge and the ability to find the answer to any question, from “who was that guy in that thing” to “how is babby formed” to “am i the asshole”, and repeatedly chose to remain ignorant in what hystoryanx will determine was pure spite. Had the technology survived to communicate with the ghosts of the greatest intellectual minds — if the technology had been indeed developed and subsequently frightened the inventors and participants with its accuracy so much that it needed to be destroyed — they would have been understandably outraged by the grotesque misuse of the whiz-bang gadgets afforded to the general public.
Chuck Dickens would agree that two thousand and twenty-one was really not all that different from one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, what with all the wisdom and foolishness and hope and despair and belief and incredulity and everything and nothing, and most of all the times.
The fate of the world as it was known up to a mere nine minutes and forty-seven seconds ago is in the clammy hands of a demented man-child, the leader of the once-free world who sought power and glory without responsibility, who has chosen to trigger global nuclear war rather than surrender his title and position. America, once poised for some definition of greatness, prospers only from death. The land of opportunity, now the land of the opportunistic. America leads the world in causing cancer and in the most cases of untreated and untreatable cancers. Pseudoscientists work tirelessly to invent new cancers, while armchair doctors peddle costly unproven cures. President Failson counts this among his greatest achievements. One need not consult a Magic 8-ball, much less the pocket computer’s encyclopedic knowledge to know that all signs point to yes, he is the asshole.
At t-minus three minutes and forty-five seconds, a captive global audience will be tuned in to hear the inspirational peace anthem from infamous pop musician and unlikely hero Bingeable Dramedy. That modern society should collapse to the sounds of a young white male making one last plea for world peace seems a bit too apropos and thereby absolutely fitting. It remains to be seem whether The Ballad of Bingeable Dramedy is worthy of a lengthy word count or if he can be forgiven for being a white male protagonist in a world full of characters promisingly to be infinitely more interesting and diverse. How did this classically-trained keytarist and one of the leaders of the Northeastern neo-folx music scene go from playing cat cafés and bark mitzvahs to having the privilege of potentially being the last voice everyone on the planet hears before possible total nuclear annihilation?
In these turbulent and unpresidented times, Bingeable Dramedy is not the hero we need at nine minutes and forty-one seconds ’til the end of the world, but he might just be the white male protagonist we deserve.