This is a little disappointing, I know.
Let she who has ears find knowledge:
666 shall be the number of the frat house--
Armageddon is in Greek,
Nothing so elegant as horsemen shall appear--
It shall be four frat boys,
holding up beer cans with the same reverence and awe
once lavished by primitives upon the sacred bronto turd,
so that all may see, and marvel.
Each frat boy shall set out the holy objects of the House--
the keg, the bong, and jello shots for the chicks.
No martyr in a dungeon ever held a cross more devotedly
than do these frat boys holding their little plastic cups.
"Lord, make me an instrument of thy frat party.
If it be thy will, transform me from some day-school blazer fuck
into a roaring lion,
And lo, the frat boys shall be cast into the lake of graduation,
and become wage slaves with wives,
drinking only around the barbecue or in the duck blind.
Here, in the post-apocalyptic world, shall be the frat boys,
bearing the mark of the beast:
male pattern baldness and football knees.
And it shall come to pass that they shall seek healers,
and the healers shall be
named Candy or Roxanne,
and in sooth they shall turn away from their poles
and heal the pilgrims that come to them,
charging only reasonable rates
which appear on statements as "freelance consulting services".
Who's got the power now, frat boys?
Who will grant you resurrection with a hand job,
and annoint you as a "regular"?
Who will call you "tiger" as she sends you home,
and then, like any good priestess,
keep your secrets
or more likely forget them
as she gives thanks once again
that she didn't waste her fucking time going to college.
for Izy's Out Of Standard at Real Toads