It's the End of the World (As We Know It)

Blame it on that crazy loon Harold Camping and his doomsday predictions, but today, as I rode the tube to a friend's housewarming party, I thought to myself, "what would I do if the world were to suddenly be coming to an end?" As it was going on 9pm GMT and no earthquakes or rapturing had taken place as far as I could tell, the moment had clearly passed, but it's still a worthy question.

I didn't have to think twice about the answer. There really wasn't any hesitation. If the world were coming to an end in a matter of mere hours, there is only one thing I would want to be doing: having sex. I know I'm not alone in that sort of thinking.

As I was on the tube, there was really only one thing to do: decide who in the carriage I would shag if in fact doomsday were coming. The carriage wasn't particularly full, a welcome respite considering what seems like 90% of London lives on my tube line. It is packed all. the. time. Even at 10pm on a Tuesday evening. Rush hour is so bad my flatmate Nigel gets to work an entire hour early everyday just to avoid it, and the one time I actually had to take it during the morning rush (thank goodness for no morning classes), I was squished in like a sardine into the stuffy carriage, and it didn't take long before my bangs were sticking to my forehead and my dress sticking to my body, and yes, eventually the river of sweat did begin to flow south between my breasts. Lovely start to the day. But on this Friday evening heading into the city, the carriage was not quite half full, and there were a decent number of men on it.

I scanned the options. The two very young men sitting next to me looked to be more of the frat boy crowd and most likely homosexual, whether they knew it or not. Perhaps the end of the world would give them the liberation to finally be able to shag each other. I ruled out the man sitting across from me not because he was bad looking (which he wasn't), but because he had just consumed a box of greasy fried chicken and chips, straight out of the box, while it sat directly on the floor of the tube. Gross.

Then my eyes landed on the man two seats away from greasy chicken and chips man. Not bad. Not bad at all. We might have a winner- until I noticed that underneath his jacket was what appeared to be a denim shirt, a felony in the ranks of crimes against fashion. I surveyed my other options. To my left, I had a man wearing what appeared to be a 1950s style jock sweater, but further down the carriage there was a man who looked relatively normal, but he got off before I could see what type of shirt he was wearing.

I decided to go back to my original cute fashion criminal when a man who looked like he could be the kid from Billy Elliot 10 years later sat down directly across from me. (Wait, he really could have been the kid from Billy Elliot, as it is 10 years later!) He too was wearing a denim shirt. For crying out loud, I thought London was supposed to be one of the fashion capitals of the world?! And here I have two denim shirts and a jock sweater in one half full carriage?!

I looked more closely at the original Denim Shirt Guy and realized that his denim shirt appeared to be a faux denim shirt. Faux denim? Is that really necessary? Is there a Save The Denim foundation I didn't know about that pickets denim fashion shows, then dumps red paint on the offending denim-wearers while screaming Murderer! Then I reminded myself that in this hypothetical scenario, this is doomsday we're talking about. Fuck it, if the end of the world is barreling down the underground, I will shag the guy in the (possibly faux) denim shirt. He has nice lips.