5 Real Ways the World Could Just Freaking End

Scientists and their sciencing never really seem to be restrained by logical paranoia. No, it's just a bunch of thoughtless enthusiasm, like "Cool! Can't wait to dick around with these Mars rocks covered in an unknown substance!" or "Oh, hey, let's drink this 2-billion-year-old water."

The fact of the matter is that some kind of horrible space virus wiping out mankind is far more plausible than our relative lack of hysteria about it implies. Hospitals are already struggling with antibiotic-resistant infections, and this is bacteria we've been around the block with for thousands of years. What hope do we have against hostile microbes that rode an asteroid from the Andromeda Galaxy during velociraptor time and have been napping in ice chunks for millennia? Particularly since brainiacs keep defrosting them in relative secret?

Our only hope is simple -- Corey Feldman's "Feldmansion." We've covered Corey and his scrappy party palace/temple to Corey Feldman before. It seems to be very similar to Redman's crib, except multi-leveled and full of questionable women, but devoid of a useful fridge-top dollar box. And his music video for "Ascension Millennium" seems like he's got his finger on the pulse of the end of man's pulse.

Why Corey's place exactly? By all accounts, Feldmansion is hygienically unsavory. It's not a location where one expects to find hand sanitizer or where you would ever want to turn on a black light. The likelihood you'll develop immunity to all manner of illness and infection by being exposed to every bacterium and virus known and yet unknown to man within its walls is great.

In fact, if children were required to spend a year boarding at Feldmansion, we might see fewer of these allergies that have cropped up since the prevalence of antibacterial soap.

When we consider what might be the most plausible end times tale in the vast drunk and non-drunk oeuvre of Stephen King, The Stand usually comes to mind. Well, the contamination by an escaped military pathogen and "M-O-O-N spells moon" parts, but not the sassy centenarian calling the good folks to Colorado via Nebraska for a fight against Satan's Vegas parts.

But if you think about it, the events of his short story "Trucks" may be the most likely to come to pass. For one, we know it's important because it was made into a feature film AND a TV movie (OK, true, the same goes for The Shining, but that was Torrance-family-specific). Two, we're just begging our vehicles and other mechanical devices to turn on us.

We've crammed so much technology into what used to be basic machinery (and then abused the shit out of these things) that the possibility they'll become evilly sentient seems more of an eventuality. It's already been documented that our cars can easily be hacked. And that we're endlessly screwing with the "mental stability" of artificial intelligence because ... well, science! You put those things together and next thing you know a Green Goblin rig will be circling your truck stop diner.

When that happens, you want to hightail it to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. There you have two solid groups with which to align yourself: the Amish and the woodland-dwelling drunk crazy guys with guns. None of them is going to die by getting beaned in the skull by a soda can projectile. They are far too Luddite-centric and/or weaving drunk for that.

If you're a woman of childbearing age, you'll pretty much be able to waltz in and take a spot in one of their machineless fortified cabins. Everyone else better have useful skills or appendages, like meaty butter-churning arms. Those guys will carry no water for the useless.

We're not here to debate religion. Hey, you believe in whatever works for you. If nothing works for you, then believe nothing at all. Cracked only wants you to be happy.

But we will note that a commonality within many faiths is the belief that someone(s) or something(s) will return to the planet and whisk up all the people who believed in the right thing. Or were really committed to a particular brand of sneakers.

But for the sake of space limitations, let's just go with fundamentalist Christianity's Rapture, which involves the good and pure being taken, body and all, into the heavens and everyone else getting ditched in a hell on Earth, like some terrible R-rated adaptation of Home Alone where 75 percent of the cast dies.

True, the Left Behind series of books and films are gushing founts of post-Rapture warning and guidance. Trouble is, those were created by people who are convinced they'll be sucked up into the sky, leaving piles of sensible clothing behind. That's like taking marriage advice from tapeworms. What do tapeworms know? They'll never get married. And, if they're right, the Left Behind people won't be the ones left behind, so why listen to them?

As far as we're concerned -- and the chance we'll be left behind is great to entirely without doubt -- your best post-Rapture bet is Branson, Missouri. This family-friendly entertainment destination is extremely popular with folks who self-identify as believers. So after the ascension, you can cloak your body from evil by draping it with wholesome puppets and the still piously scented sweatshirts crumpled in piles along 76 Country Boulevard. And it'll be possible to almost never hunker down in the same theater twice. Monday, it's a cozy corner of Yakov Smirnoff Theater, and the next day, how about Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede?

Scientists discovered 1,000 new underground species just by kicking around at the dirt in the Australian Outback, so we can only assume there are many more thousands of Descent-like horror shows lying in wait below.

The good news is that their weakness would likely be what they crave -- light. So when they climb from the damp caverns with their clay-crusted claws, we ought to go where it's daylight most of the time. One of those Scandinavian places is a good bet.

The tricky part is that it's not daylight anywhere all the time. We shouldn't forget the valuable lesson learned from the comic and film 30 Days of Night -- even though it does deal with a vampire attack, which is utterly ridiculous. Any location that has long stretches of nightlessness will alternately have long stretches of daylessness. You do not stick around during the dayless times. That's when they drag you under an outbuilding and eat you alive.

We can probably expect them to be underground-stupid at first, lacking the understanding that artificial light is connected to wires that they can cut to make the light go away. However, once they do figure that out, you will be out of luck, Eloi.

Look, we're not going to put this forth as the most plausible scenario, but it's something to consider.

Corey Feldman is like one of those guys who keep winning the lottery. By accident. There is no worldly reason this guy should still be standing, let alone having energy drink companies bankrolling his music videos. So if someone is going to get three genie wishes, it'll probably be him.

While it would take him a while to make those three decisions, the possibilities are endless, horrible, and likely to lead to total earthly destruction. A squad of 50-foot Corey's Angels crushing tiny men under their kitten heels. The misguided resurrection of Corey Haim, like some sort of awful "Monkey's Paw" situation. Things like that.

This is the time when you explicitly would not want to be at Feldmansion, but there may be no safe place to ride this one out. Well, maybe Sean Astin's house. He showed up for Corey's video shoot, so he might get a pass.