10 Reasons Why We Hope The World Really Will End This Friday

Forget Christmas wish lists—with only three days left before the fateful 12/21/12, it's all about bucket lists. Because, according to those crazy Mayans and their much-ballyhooed calendar, there's a good chance that the world as we all know it will cease to exist Friday. Thus, there are approximately 72 hours available for you to jump out of an airplane, sample fresh caviar, streak down crowded streets with nothing on but a Santa Claus hat, and/or find your biggest celebrity crush and plant a big smooch on their lips.

Should anyone actually believe that the world is a wrap this Friday? Of course not. Keep in mind, it wasn't too long ago that end-of-days wackjob Harold Camping made headlines for being a hilariously failed foreseer. Predictions of mankind's ultimate reckoning are always in vogue, but the fact that the Mayans' theories have been around since the 5th century BC—and global warming has Mother Nature going crazy—gives this whole 12/21/12 hoopla a bit more credence.

Say it all comes true, though—will it really be such a bad thing? Falling into eternal sleep Thursday night would spare everyone from many eventual pop culture happenings that no person should have to witness. With tongues firmly planted in cheeks, Complex is here to offer up 10 Reasons Why We Hope the World Really Will End This Friday.

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Written by Matt Barone (@MBarone)

It didn't take long for the programming masterminds at MTV to piece together the next Jersey Shore. The Seaside Heights reality show's final season isn't even done airing yet and there's already an all-new gang of frisky youngsters ready to engage in all kinds of debauchery for intrusive cameramen. And, based on Buckwild's obnoxious commercials, it's going to be even more mind-numbing.

Set in the rural sticks of West Virginia, Buckwild follows backwoods degenerates with nicknames like "The Spicy Southern Belle," "Bengali in Boots," and, get this, "Justin Beaver." Unlike Jersey Shore, which started out innocently enough before exploding into a pop culture phenomenon, MTV's latest Real World knockoff feels more gratuitous by the day.

Considering the hate-love-hate relationship we've had with Jersey Shore, the thought of going through that shameful ringer once again (not to mention, every other time if Buckwild hits big and spawns its own copycats) is enough to make the end of days seem appealing.

Within Hollywood's comedy circuit, Whitney Cummings is a force to be reckoned with, even though she's about as funny as Rob Schneider (and, fortunately, much better looking).

There's her terribly unfunny NBC sitcom Whitney, in which she stars, produces, and basically handles everything. On CBS, she's the co-creator of 2 Broke Girls, one of the year's worst TV shows and challenges our deep love for Kat Dennings. And finally, the former stand-up comic hosts Love You, Mean It with Whitney Cummings, her very own Chelsea Lately-esque show where she offers snarky commentary about pop culture and makes us yearn for Sarah Silverman.

Like it or not, Cummings is rapidly ascending up Hollywood's proverbial ladder. Before you know it, she could have the same amount of industry clout as our girl Tina Fey—hell, she may already yield more power than Fey. Soon, Cummings will headline motion pictures, flood bookstores with laborious memoirs, host a major awards ceremony, and supply pop culture catchphrases. That's one soundboard we hope never has to happen.

Anyone who thinks that infallible director Christopher Nolan's huge Dark Knight franchise is so amazing that DC's movie division will leave well enough alone clearly doesn't comprehend the power of the almighty dollar. As long as there's boatloads of cash to be made, Hollywood will continue churning out new versions of the Caped Crusader, starting with the in-development Justice League movie.

Call us cynical, but it's difficult to imagine a better take on Bruce Wayne's crime-fighting alter-ego than what Nolan and his creative partners accomplished with Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, and The Dark Knight Rises. And now that Gotham City fans can own the entire saga in the recently released The Dark Knight Trilogy Blu-ray pack, there's no reason to allow major studio producers to lure folks back into theaters to see any non-Nolan attempts.

Like nearly everyone else in the world, we're big Taylor Swift fans around here, partially because her music is so damn catchy but mostly because she's sweet, sexy, and can sell one million albums in a single week. Yes, jealousy creeps in whenever she's spotted with a new male celebrity, whether it's John Mayer, Jake Gyllenhaal, or that lanky dude from One Direction. And, sure, it's cathartic to sing along with "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together," even though it's female empowerment to the max.

But is anyone else feeling Post-Swift Breakup Anthem fatigue? At this point, it's starting to feel as if Swift's team sends her out on dates with famous dudes just so they can eventually part ways and give her fuel to pen the next "I Knew You Were Trouble." Our own romantic lives are difficult enough as it is.

Anything new from Stephen King is a cause for celebration, so, in theory, his announcement last February that the long-discussed Doctor Sleep was really happening should've been a joyous occasion.

Back in November 2009, the iconic author first mentioned the possibility of a sequel to his classic 1977 novel The Shining, which would find Danny Torrance all grown up and saving a little girl from an RV-traveling band of people who kill folks who can "shine." Oh, and did we mention that there will be a cat that can look into the future?

Yeah, where's the Overlook Hotel when you need it? Just as movie follow-ups often tend to sully the sterling reps of their predecessors, literary sequels are susceptible to disappointment. Besides, Stanley Kubrick isn't around anymore to improve upon Doctor Sleep cinematically.

TLC's shamefully exploitative reality show Here Comes Honey Boo Boo isn't going away anytime soon—meaning, we're all stuck with poor little Alana Thompson and her morally (and, yes, physically) revolting mother. So far, the phenomenon hasn't veered too far beyond uncomfortably funny. It's great fodder for spoof programs like E!'s The Soup and host Joel McHale to flip scathing one-liners towards.

Eventually, though, Honey Boo Boo will grow up. And if you thought Lindsay Lohan's formative years in the public eye have been difficult, one can only imagine what Little Miss Thompson is about to experience. Especially once she's old enough to catch up with Here Comes Honey Boo Boo re-runs and see it all for herself.

Next summer, Walter White's (Bryan Cranston) reign atop the New Mexico drug world will surely come to an unpleasant end, and it's going to be brutal for Breaking Bad fans to endure. The pain should be twofold. On one hand, the realization that AMC's award-winning series won't be around anymore is already excruciating, so imagine how it'll feel next fall. Secondly, now that Walt's brother-in-law, DEA agent Hank (Dean Norris), is legitimately on to his hustle, the Heisenberg empire is about to crumble.

And, frankly, we're not ready to watch Mr. White's world come crashing down. Before Hank's big toilet bowl discovery (during Breaking Bad's recent midseason finale), Walt's business was producing serious profits, and, despite the fact that he didn't seem all that excited by it anymore, his dreams of becoming The Man materialized.

That's how we'd like to remember him. Until, of course, Breaking Bad returns (half-a-year after the Mayans' predictions failed) and it's time to obsessively watch the misery unfold.

It took awhile for hardcore hip-hop heads to come around, but it's official: Electronic dance music (or EDM) is the truth. Just step into any nightclub on any given Friday or Saturday night and feel the energy that erupts from every Swedish House Mafia record or Avicii-made beat.

It's the biggest thing going in music nowadays, with R&B artists like Ne-Yo and Usher morphing into full-on EDM crooners. Records like the former's "Forever Now" and the latter's "Numb" go hard, and we're all about them when there's dancefloor and drunk, hot girls ready to grind.

You know that new Ludacris song, though? The one backed by a David Guetta beat that totally rips off Afrojack's "Can't Stop Me Now" and features an Usher hook? That's right, the single in question is "Rest of My Life," and something tells us it's the start of an all-out rap-meets-EDM phase for pop radio. These are two musical genres that we love individually, but together? There's serious potential for it all to go down like a bowl of ice cream covered with ketchup.

It was as poignant a moment as we've seen in years: Addressing the world after the horrific tragedy in Newtown, CT, President Barack Obama broke down in tears, live on camera. In that instance, he looked like less of an otherworldly authority figure and more like any one of us, people so emotionally devastated by the Newtown event that all we can do is sob.

Sadly, in four years, somebody else will step into the White House and try to follow in Obama's footsteps. There are plenty of capable, intelligent, and promising politicians in both the Democratic and Republican parties, and there's every reason to hope that 2016 will introduce us to the next great American leader. But there's also the possibility of another Mitt Romney, or, gasp, Sarah Palin somehow sneaking into the big seat. Not even the Mayans could have prepared for that.

Come Thursday evening, streets all across the world will be jam-packed with drunken stumblers, thirsty partygoers, and horny people ready to bang the night away. OK, so that's more wishful thinking than reality, but with the (slim) possibility that everything we know will cease to exist by Friday morning, Thursday seems like the perfect time to indulge in all of those vices that, on any other day, would send you to prison.

Around here, the bottles will be popped and strong beverages will be a-flowing by about 5 p.m. EST. From there, toasts shall be made and the town shall be painted red. And, yes, there's a chance of incarceration. So, hell yeah, we'll be keeping our fingers crossed for armageddon—waking up in a jail cell without any hope of parole is worse than not waking up at all.