WELL, I GUESS THAT'S IT THEN. The world is finally coming to an end, and there ain't nothing nobody can do about it. But me? I'm not worried, because although I've been too busy drinking, smoking, and kissing fellow employees at Christmas parties to adequately prepare for earth going to hell in a handbasket, I did have the forethought to masturbate into a cup, and launch my frozen spunk into space -- thereby insuring a future (albeit probably alien) race of lil' Humpys!

"Hold on, Wm™ Steven Hump-me," I can barely hear you scream from within the muffled confines of your bomb shelter. "What about my precious splooge and/or ovums? Don't they, too, deserve the opportunity to be inserted into the genitalia of an alien race, thereby repropagating the human species?" Hey, pal! Don't think for a second I'm insulting your baby gravy! I've had firsthand knowledge of many of my reader's reproductive organs, and may I say, they've all been top-notch! The only reason my shooters are swimming through the galaxy (and yours aren't) is because I filled out an ad in the back of my favorite new magazine, Y2Katastrophe! It's a terrific little rag, with lots of helpful post-apocalyptic advice, self-defense tips, and dreamy pix of the Backstreet Boys PRE-radiation burns.

Anyway! Here's how the "Sperm in Space" program works: You send in a cup o' wigglers (plus a check for $2,500), and a team of dedicated scientists freeze and vacuum-pack your dewy droplets, load them into a rocket, and at the first sign of apocalypse -- BOOM! -- they shoot 'em to the stars and into the waiting hands of alien races squealing with delight over your genetically perfect goo. "But wait!" you may wonder, "What if the aliens aren't biologically capable of using your giblets? Won't your precious mother lode go to waste?" Goodness, you have a lot of questions. Well, the answer is simple. If for some reason my chocolate doesn't taste good with their peanut butter, then my silver bullets will automatically be conjoined with the eggs of fellow passengers, and in nine months? SPROING! Itty-bitty-baby Humpys!

Naturally, one gets a choice of appropriate matches for fertilization, and naturally again, I have chosen my baby batter to be mixed in with those of famous TV celebs -- like Ed Asner! Oh, what a lucky child it would be to carry the traits of both Humpy and that irascible curmudgeon Lou Grant (from The Mary Tyler Moore Show)! My number two choice would either be Missy Gold from Benson, the entire cast of The Facts of Life (sans Charlotte Rae), or the mom from Family Ties. It's a tossup.

Regardless! Now that future generations have been taken care of, I can focus on what's important (i.e. croaking with some CLASS). And what better way to say "Goodbye, cruel world!" than with a drink in my hand, a song on my lips, and my tongue down someone's throat? You'll see all this and more on New Year's Eve as I host Y2Karaoke, a night of karaoke fun at the Breakroom (for details and an unflattering photo of my fat head, see page 28). The way I figure it, if it's time to pay the piper, then there's no better way to go than with friends like you. I hope to see you there, and if not, until the next life, keep your feet on the ground and your spunk in the stars. Yer pal, always -- Wm.™ Steven Humphrey