It's Sinatra

And now the end is near.

Three words.

TWEN-TY-TWELVE.

Exactly four days from now, a year when the world will supposedly soon end, will soon begin. How will you spend the next 365 days of your risk-free, non-violent, loveless (if you can still call it) life? Will you head to the white beach of Boracay aboard a swift craft that will eventually hit the hump of a sleeping whale in the middle of the ocean and drown the pitiful passengers with whatever little dignity they have left? Or are you gonna fly to the most romantic place on earth dragging along your most submissive of a lover who grits his teeth every night at the thought of your escapade knowing full well through a silly dream days before that a blind bird will land dead in front of the pilot who panics and crashes the aircraft in the midst of Vatican? Holy crap!

However you want to waste whatever breathe you have left, whether you want to keep it in a jar or blow it into a balloon that you believe will take you to heaven after you have committed the seven deadly sins, it is undeniable that the inevitable is most probable that it has become impossible not to be viable to the horrible truth. In other words, WE WILL ALL DIE.

But before we do, before we depart, how about a prehistoric song number to culminate our short, meaningless existence? Repeat after me. "I did it, maaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhy whhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeey!"

Now take a bow.