Some believe that accurately predicting the future is scientifically impossible, or would at least require more than a lone troll with a snowglobe. These people will die alone.

If you live on the East Coast of North or South America, game over. You're done. Finished. Gone.

The release of "Explosions 3: The Detonation" will end in my suicide, followed swiftly by my unnatural resurrection and progressive new program for the creation of a new Blood Empire in the ruins of a scorched Earth. Or a scathing review, depending on my mood.

All major political parties will be replaced by the R.L.G.D: Random Legislature Generation Device. Conditions will distinctly improve.

Your favorite band will disband.

Obvious puns will become an offense PUNishable by death.

You will outlive all of your enemies, save the most violent one.

The creation of a method that converts self-loathing into electricity will solve the energy crisis.

Your children will disappoint you.

A rising star will compose an innovative, masterfully crafted, soul-filled piece that opens minds and defines genre. It will be swiftly discarded in favor of a song about rear ends.

Genghis Khan is making a comeback.

The idyllic utopia of 2035 will be torn apart by internal conflict after the first annual international Pictionary tournament.

Productivity will remain inversely proportional with average lifespan.

The handshake will be replaced with a daunting three-week greeting ritual beginning with single combat and ending with marriage. It will still be considered infinitely preferable to having idiots crush your hand.

The human soul will enter the commodities market in the next decade, and cost far less than you imagine.

A continent-wide genocide will be prevented by a single hug. A hug around the trachea, delivered by a CIA agent in the dead of the night. But a hug nonetheless.

“Monopoly: Columbia Edition” will be taken off of the shelves due to the use of real bullets and dime-bags of opiates as game pieces.

Submitting to our alien overlords will earn large discounts on slave collars, obedience pills, and high-definition televisions.

George Carlin will be canonized by a Pope fond of irony.

Africa’s not getting better anytime soon.

Unwarranted self-importance will gain recognition as a professional sport.

Stephanie Meyer’s bibliography will be declared a neurotoxin by the Department of Health, to the surprise of no one of sound mind.

I will continue taking cheap shots at Twilight.

Religious leaders and military officials shall experience extreme embarrassment when Ragnarok begins.

They’re coming. Duck.