Happy Antichrist Day, everyone! As you know from watching the creepy commercials for the remake of The Omen (those ads make me nervous every time I close my medicine cabinet that something scary and red will be reflected in the mirror, like I'm not jumpy enough about living alone) today is June 6, 2006; or... 6-6-06.
Accoring to Revelations 13:18, "This calls for wisdom: let him who has understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six." This has been interpreted in a number of ways, most of them linking the number 666 to all sorts of creepy, apocalyptic, Satanic ideas. Of course, new translations have since indicated that the real number of Satan might in fact be 616, but loud, opinionated religious-types don't do ambiguity on anything, from gay marriage to the Devil's pager number.
I'm what a history professor I had in college might refer to as a socio-cultural Christian-- namely, I put up a Christmas tree and love it when my mom has an extra glass of Chardonnay on Boxing Day and performs Elvis' "Blue Christmas" for all the neighbors-- and so I don't really buy into the idea of a predetermined apocalypse or that the Devil's minions walk among us every day, tempting us to evil.
However, last night something so chilling happened that I have but one explanation for it: the End of Days is nigh!
I walked down the block to the laundromat laden down with four loads, detergent, a bag of quarters and African Voices of the Atlantic Slave Trade. When I emerged two hours later and walked home, holding my entire summer wardrobe and linen closet in my arms, I noticed a wad of fabric halfway down the street. I bent over it, and, sure enough-- it was several of my socks, sprawled out in a patch of sunlight as if they were trying to tan themselves.
"Awesome," I muttered to myself. "I spend twelve dollars and two hours in a laundromat, and I still have dirty clothes. That's just greaaaaat."
But matters were to get worse, for when I got home and started putting away my laundry, all of my pillowcases had disappeared. Not with the whites, not with the darks, not with the towels, not with my duvet cover. I went back outside. Not on the sidewalk. Down the street. Not in the laundromat. The rest of my laundry was intact, right down to the partners for the sidewalk socks, but all of my pillowcases had flat vanished.
Humanity oft ponders the mystery of disappearing laundry. We joke about sock black holes, or dryers with vortexes to another world or underpants gnomes. But clearly something supernatural and sinister is at work. Four pillowcases do not disappear of their own accord. Yea, be ye not so glib! As the Day of the One Whom We Call Beelzebub descends upon us, the dark forces that suck our laundry have escalated their war on humanity! On the Eve of 6-6-06, they struck a mighty blow to fresh bedding and mildly-obsessive-compulsive housekeepers the world over! Yesterday the forces of Satan came for my pillowcases. Today they will come for our souls.
I mean, there really is no other sensible conclusion, is there?