Doug Blough

I’m not one to conjecture when the end is near; I’ve been rapture-victimized too many times. The projected date comes and goes, leaving me feeling foolish for my last-minute prep. In the early ’90s, I cowered in my bed as redemption dreweth nigh, even calling the operator for the actual time in Jerusalem. Understandably, I needed to know exactly how much time I had left to make last-minute amends.

Jack Van Impe, “The Walking Bible” as Dad called him, had predicted the end on Sept. 19, 1975. The Bible says no man will know the exact time and date, but Impe presented some compelling numbers and no one should blame me for my conflicted dismay.

You see, 9/19/75 was my 21st birthday and I had full intentions of shedding every inhibition. There would be sustained, hard drinking, a litany of inappropriate innuendos and who knows … possibly my first failed sexual encounter.

But when raised in a Pentecostal church — forced to attend thrice weekly for 20 years — you’re convinced you can lose your salvation just for staring at a cheerleader a little longer than necessary. Heck, I probably got “saved” about every other Sunday night.

So here I am fully prepared to get out-of-control and unbearably obnoxious like there’s no tomorrow, when there literally may not be one. How does a young, church-raised man commit to that kind of debauchery when at any given moment he might hear a trumpet blast and suddenly be shoveling sulfur in unreasonable heat?

Oh, I persevered, but not without enduring a few sobering moments throwing up in the bathroom.

So what would possess me of all people — terrible at math and batting about .120 at interpreting symbolism — to even conjecture a fast-approaching rapture? We’ll get to my reasoning, but first let me warn you to get your affairs in order and cease any extramarital ones before 2023. Again, no one knows the exact date, but I have it narrowed down.

Why 2023, you ask? Well, that will be the seventh year of Trump’s reign. I voted for the man for obvious Hillary reasons, and these first 3 1/2 years have been pretty darn good. Economy thriving, world peace by most standards.

But beware the second 3 1/2 years, now possibly being ushered in by a corona-led Dow nosedive. Does catastrophic, unparalleled mayhem loom? Does a bear spit in the woods?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m in no way suggesting Donald as the Biblically prophesied anti-Christ. We’re told AC wears a turban (not a MAGA ballcap) and with olive skin (nothing resembling orange). As far as hairstyle, it isn’t specific, but come on!

Then there’s the matter of unparalleled intellect and devastating charisma, fooling all of mankind. That spooky IQ certainly wouldn’t suggest ingesting Lysol to combat bacterial infection, and Donald’s charisma seems to have escaped a majority of Americans and most of the global population. Now, I could give you several local names who are still being fooled, but we’re talking a specific, economy-prioritized demographic.

That being said, I am slightly troubled upon learning the AC will have never owned a dog or had a drink. Few would trust that inhuman combo, but still, Trump couldn’t carry the anti-Christ’s jockstrap.

No, the seven-year thing is merely symbolically suggestive in my hypothetical analysis. But it does raise the questions: Why does he humiliate and replace cabinet loyalists at the slightest disagreement? Why so cozy with evil dictators while betraying the battle-tested, U.S.-friendly Kurds? What did he mean by, “I have the military, police and bikers on my side?”

And finally, why does Mitch McConnell’s facial expression look so constipated lately? Does he know something we don’t?  

All I’m saying is Trump’s term so far has been fruitful, but not without tribulation. Thusly, beware the Ides of a near-future March and that other Gucci shoe poised to drop.

And if your 21st birthday falls in late 2023, hey, don’t crucify the messenger. Chalk it up to poor planning.