Staten Island Douchebag who predicted End of the World on May 21st calmly awaits his Mother Ship.
Notice that with less than 24-hours left until Armageddon, Dickhead still found time to give a newspaper interview. You would think a guy about to move into the Pearly-Gated Community would have better things to do.
What's stranger? This dispshit went to the same High School that I did.
Tomorrow, when we're all still here, expect to hear the following explanation as to why God didn't pull the plug when The Signs were all pointing to it:
We must have misinterpreted the prophecy. You know, the ways of God are mysterious and we mortals simply cannot fathom his ways. Perhaps The Almighty meant for this to be a dry-run, a drill, if you will, a warning to us all that we should repent before it's too late. If I brought just one person to repent and closer to God with my little misunderstanding, then it was worth it -- the media attention, the panic, the unwarranted trepidation and feelings of impending doom, the fear-mongering and needless anxiety, the seventy or eighty suicides which will soon be linked to my prediction -- and justified in the Eyes of God.
I'm betting one of the following things happens after this 'prediction' turns out to be false:
1. Mr. Fitzpatrick goes back to being the same crazy dickhead who will take the word of a radio televangelist on all matters Armageddon. The fact that the prediction turned out to be false having absolutely no effect, being unable to penetrate both his thick skull and the thick layer of batshit-insane just below it. His 'Street Cred' gets raised amongst the Rapture-and-God-Hates-Fags Crowd, and he gets fantastically rich -- flogging his books -- because if there's anything a good Evangelical Nutjob wants to do more than suck God's cock, it's give gobs of money away to people who bullshit them and excuse it with an assertion that "I did it for Jesus..."
2. Mr. Fitzpatrick loses his faith and realizes that he's pissed $140k away. He seeks out the 'Reverend' Camping and beats his fucking brains out with a baseball bat. Publicly humiliated and ridiculed, he will find himself a nice quiet place to lay down and drop half a bottle of Percocets before wrapping a Hefty bag around his head, securing it firmly with a roll of duct tape. Just in case he manages to fuck that up, too, he intends to stock the quiet place with about 50 gallons of unleaded regular and light a stogie with a blowtorch before he finally nods off.
I'll see you all at 6 pm, tomorrow, assuming the earthquake, the rain of fire, the exploding gays and all the Angels trumpeting conspire to keep me from my 'puter