A short time ago, while I was making bacon as it happens, I came to realize that I don't want the world to end.
Some of you may be surprised that I had to go so far as to make bacon to decide that the collapse of civilization would be a bad thing. But to those I say this: Can you say with complete honesty that you aren't a little bit curious to see what it would be like? The answer is no.
For thousands of years, Western civilization has been obsessed with the Apocalypse.
In the book of Revelation, God puts an end to humanity in all kinds of interesting ways, from plagues to war to -- oddly specifically -- 200 million fire-breathing lion-headed horses with snake tails. There's a reason this is such a popular part of scripture: Deep down, we secretly think it might be kind of neat.
Admittedly some of Revelation was probably meant in a metaphorical sense, like the whole Beast-of-the-Sea part ("Remember that seven-headed, 10-horned thing that came out of the ocean a while back with the leopard body, bear feet and lion mouths?" "Yeah. I remember that." "We should put it in charge of our country." "That's a good idea. Maybe it can fix Medicare") but it's hard to argue it's not a little bit fun to imagine.
In the movies, human civilization collapses all the time for the same reason. Who, aside from the millions of people who were smart enough not to buy a ticket, didn't enjoy watching mankind wiped out by dragons in Reign of Fire? In Terminator, most of us are killed by nuclear bombs and the rest are shot by robots. Hooray! In Resident Evil it's a virus that turns all people, with the exception of genetically engineered '90s-era supermodels, either into zombies or octopus-mouthed businessmen. They've made three sequels.
In 28 Days Later, a terrible disease that makes your eyes go red and makes you want to barf in other people's faces nearly wipes out England. It was such a popular idea that they made another one in which that happens to everybody else.
In the War of the Worlds, the problem is aliens. And while burying machines all over the earth before the rise of civilization and then waiting for humans to get really advanced and numerous before digging them up and evaporating people one by one may not be the most efficient way to extinguish a species, it certainly makes for good viewing. And who could forget this year's Planet of the Apes prequel, in which the problem isn't nuclear war or disease so much as it is monkeys?
Oh. And in last week's Contagion, millions of people were wiped out by Gwyneth Paltrow. The list goes on.
Movies keep ending the world because people want to see it happen. And people want to see it happen because it indulges a kind of universal fantasy.
Our lives are filled with thousands of written and unwritten rules that we're forced to follow on a daily basis. They're the ubiquitous fun-killing code of conduct that makes us stand at right on the escalator, wear pants in public and thank as opposed to noogie the bus driver.
It's why we go grocery shopping as opposed to grocery looting, why we go to funerals in non-Power-Rangers themed outfits; it's why we quietly remind the person in front of us in line that it's an eight-item express check-out as opposed to just beating them to death with their 18th bag of 'Tater Tots.
In a post-apocalyptic world, these rules go out the window. When the Four Horsemen show up, there'll be a lot of fire and boiling seas and other ostensible bummers, but you know what you won't be doing? Separating your trash from the recycling. Ever again.
What's more, the hardy survivors of civilization's end invariably face interesting challenges. Why is driving the kids to school boring? Because you don't have to fight giant moths to do it. Why don't people like staff meetings? Because no one there is trying to eat their brains.
This idea, whether people admit it or not, holds a universal appeal. I'm no exception.
From a young age, I always quietly looked forward to the day society came apart, when I could finally stop making my bed, put on an impractical but cool looking post-apocalyptic outfit (leather coat, extra belt, back-hostered shotgun, jaunty hat) and set off into the badlands shooting mutants and walking calmly away from explosions.
This vision, of course, was founded on two assumptions:
1) That I would survive whatever nuclear/environmental/monkey-based holocaust happened to be at issue, and
2) That I wouldn't go bananas.
These assumptions came into question recently when I was in my kitchen.
I was preparing myself a simple, healthy breakfast, when I inadvertently got my fingers and a good portion of my forearm covered in bacon fat. How I did this is beside the point.
"Not a problem," I thought. "I'll simply wash the grease off using the fresh, abundant water that I assume will always be readily available in my tap." It wasn't until I got to the sink that I remembered the plumbing in my building had been shut off for the day.
My reaction, in the face of the unexpected loss of a single aspect of civilization, was to freak right the hell out. I ran around the house looking for something to wipe my hands on and, realizing there was nothing, dialled my phone, presumably with my elbows, and then made my way the three blocks to a friend's house and washed my hands there.
The experience made me wonder how I would handle society's collapse. What would I do without dishwashers, light bulbs and pre-mixed soup? Maybe, I thought, the end of the world can wait.
At least until I stock up on moist towelettes.
