In my gut, I knew the Mayans were right.
I sensed something odd about the buzz surrounding Jersey Shore star Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi’s unexpected pregnancy. Snooki’s behavior seemed strange, too, the way she denied the pregnancy rumors for nearly a month, accusing the media of simply calling her fat. Then, Snooki abruptly flip-flopped, announcing early in March that she is indeed preggers.
She even told US Weekly her first thought after discovering her pregnancy: “S***, I’ve been drinking!” According to Snooki, “It was New Year’s Eve and we were in Vegas, so I did go crazy.” But that’s not the craziest aspect of this whole Jersey Shore tot saga.
In the wake of the Snooki pregnancy news, an Internet meme started making the rounds. When I saw it, it confirmed my worst fears. “So apparently Snooki’s due date is December 21, 2012,” the meme read. “Well played, Mayans. Well played.”
Yes, you read that correctly. The face of Jersey Shore, which is in turn the face of every decadence of American culture, is said to be giving birth to her vodka-fermented baby on the date of the predicted apocalypse. Ominous, yes. But what does it mean?
I decided to go straight to the source: The Maya. Consulting the ancient Mayan Book of the Dawn of Life, Popul Vuh, for clues, I came to a startling discovery. Popul Vuh tells the story of how one of the gods’ first stabs at human creation, the “manikins,” were destroyed in a great rain of resin, complete with various gouging of eyeballs, snapping of heads, tearing and eating of flesh, etc. These manikin people, mere “cutouts for humanity,” had “nothing in their hearts and nothing in their minds” and thus could not bring any semblance of glory to the gods. In other words, they were stupid and lacked souls. Thus, their bones were ripe for pulverizing when the Gouger of Eyes descended.
And now the ultimate representation of the modern day manikin is slated to give birth on the exact day that the Mayan calendar runs out. Smells like a conspiracy.
I shared this bombshell with my friend over a Salsa Rico burrito. He remained unconvinced. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You do realize that if Snooki’s fifteen weeks pregnant, and found out right after new year’s, then it’s pretty much impossible that she’ll deliver on December 21?”
My eyes widened. “Conspirator!” I shouted, flinging my half-eaten burrito and a side of pico de gallo at his nose while I ran to the safety of my underground bunker (it’s under the bar in the Rathskeller, if you really must know). Given some time alone to come to terms with my Illuminati sympathizing friend, I decided to do some more research. I took out my laptop and typed “Snooki,” “pregnant,” and “shocking” into Google. And the first link posed what seemed like the most shocking question of all: “Snooki Pregnant: Could She Be a Good Mom?” And then it hit me: She can. Why not? What’s the big deal?
By all accounts, Snooki is trying to a good mother. She’s not drinking anymore. She’s not taking her baby bump clubbing and she’s not planning to parade her baby on the ritual debauchery that is Jersey Shore. She’s even engaged to the baby’s father, boyfriend Jionni LaValle. All this outrage over the idea that Snooki would have the gall to get pregnant, seems the slightest bit unfair, doesn’t it? I thought my conspiracy theorist days were over.
That’s when the Rathskeller door flung open. My conspiratorial friend entered the Rathskeller, wearing the Eye of Horus and accompanied by three lanky henchmen wearing ancient Egyptian period get-ups. “I know he’s in here,” my friend said, his voice deeper and more sinister than I had ever heard. “Search under the tables.”
My first reflex was to jump up and say that if they’re embroiled in an ancient Mayan conspiracy, they should at least get accurate costumes. I regretted it as soon as I said it. I had been discovered. My friend laughed deviously and said, “Get him.”
“Did Snooki put you up to this?” I replied, pressed against the far wall.
As many diabolical maniacs do in action/adventure movies, my friend called off his henchmen and started spilling beans that he shouldn’t have spilled. “Of course the apocalypse has nothing to do with Snooki,” he said. “The new manikins are not the celebrities. They’re you, the people that create demand for shows like Jersey Shore. As long as people keep watching, the Gouger of Eyes will rise again!” And I got it—Snooki’s pregnancy is actually a potential disaster for the conspirators; it could spell the end of Jersey Shore.
With all this talk about gouging eyes, I got the idea that proved to be the key to my escape. I poked my friend in the eyes, Odysseus-style.
I then held my protruded fingers in the direction of his psuedo-mythological henchmen, who covered their eyes in fear. And then I grabbed my computer and took off. I heard my friend let out a bloodcurdling cry, and I stopped running only long enough to blow him a raspberry, which no doubt infuriated him further.
I’m writing now from an undisclosed location. I don’t know what will happen to me. The “manikin” conspiracy likely has far-reaching resources. But the end of the world can still be averted. Begin by, for the love of god, changing the channel. Find new idols before it’s too late.
Mikey Angelo Rumore can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.