End of Days is a popular theme among cultures—the media, literature, and Dennis Quaid have all danced around the potential of our demise. A long time ago before Al Gore invented the internet a group of really small people, called the Mayans, made a calendar out of stone and mortar that predicted celestial things like eclipses, random social networking updates like “just ate at Meli’s café with joe, so…”, and, most detrimental, the end of the world.

Eclipses have occurred on the exact minute, day, and year predicted by these small people. The Mayans even knew that Cathy-from-sophomore-Bio-whom-I-befriended-on-Facebook would eat at Meli’s “café” with “joe.” That leaves one prediction left: us all dying (at once).

Now dying seems like a bad thing—and it usually is if it occurs anywhere besides in your sleep or while on the toilet. And even though most things die, except for Bob Barker, death is no easier to accept than a Wal-Mart parking lot on Saturday afternoon.

Based on “stuff” that I have read from people who are smarter than me, the Mayans basically said the poles (North, South, and my great grandpa Harold Billingski) will shift. In other words, God will do to our planet what we do to our cable modem when it stops working: reboot it.

The reboot will take approximately 10 years—or approximately the time it takes my wife to cut her knees shaving. While our planet is being unplugged and plugged back in again, the atmosphere—which is important for protecting us from the darkness, and the scariness of space—will cease to exist. In other words, we will all be combustible like vampires when the sun hits them. Unless, of course, we are the vampires from the novels Twilight, Midnight, Dusk-like, Full Moon, Crescent Star, and the spin-off parallel novel I’m Edward Cullen and This is My Perspective. In that case we will all sparkle.

Scientists, and pretty much anyone with a white lab coat, are predicting that if the Mayans are correct, and our planet does in fact face extreme environmental and electronical disarray from the pole shifts, only 1% percent of humanity will survive—or the equivalent to the population of France (which really makes me wonder).

There are ways to outsmart the Mayans:

Way #1: Die
If you are already old (Bob Barker) this should be easy. There are all kinds of ways to die—the easiest way is to just wait. Crossing your fingers, walking on an ice-covered body of water, or watching random Nicholas Cage movies are some ways you can expedite the process. Dying will ensure that you will be spared from Armageddon—unless you are reincarnated as Donald Trump’s toupee in which case you will be really screwed.

Way #2: Pray
Religious people say that praying works, so it must. You don’t even need fold your hands, or kneel on a pew—rumor has it that God is omnipotent, which basically means you can text him or drop him a message in his MySpace™. While he has been known to NOT answer prayers like “Please Lord, why doesn’t let someone other than poor Dick Clark bring in our New Year,” he may be more inclined to answer ones like “Please Lord, spare humanity, spare our planet, give us the chance to show you that we DO know how to use the self-checkout lane at the grocery store.”

Way #3: Hide
The planet is pretty big. It’s probably like 100 quatrillion times bigger than the room you’re sitting in now—which gives you all kinds of places to hide. I suggest somewhere other than the room you’re in now. Somewhere like a deep, dark cave would be a good idea.

Way #4: Build a space station
Since Earth will be undergoing a major re-haul, it would make sense to not be on Her when she does. To accomplish this, I suggest making a space station big enough to hold you and your family, as well as some bottled water and some canned goods. You will need titanium, an oxygen supply tank (or tanks), and probably some other things like a way to actually get it into orbit. Look on the internet; I’m sure it’ll show you how.

Way #5: Go Commando
And I don’t mean this as “don’t wear any underwear.” What I’m talking about channeling your adrenaline. Adrenaline does to a person what a full moon does to a werewolf, minus the hair and the slaughter-filled night. A berserker (one who has been adrenalized – refer to Sammy Sosa circa 2003) can do all kinds of things, like pick vehicles off a fallen child, or hit 690 foot home runs. Adrenaline makes you strong. If you have enough adrenaline, you might be strong enough to survive a planet with no atmosphere.

Print this out and carry it with you. Use it as a survival guide for the End of Days. If you feel incapable of dying, praying, hiding, building a space station, or going Commando—then do what Johnny Depp did, and move to France. You’ll be safe there.