TKID4 was flying transatlantic the other day in a fever-induced delirium. The wonderful woman in the seat next to me got up to use the bathroom, unnoticed by me. When my lucidity briefly returned, I saw she was gone, as were several other passengers across my row. My God, I thought to myself, this is it, the rapture.
By rapture I am referring to the concept that all Christians will one day be automatically teleported Star-Trek style to Heaven, while the heathens will be left behind to fight it out with Lucifer, demons, elves and the Loch Ness monster.
This rapture theory, while only 200 years old, is the central theme in the "Left Behind" series which has sold over 70 million copies since 1995. The story begins aboard an aircraft where half the passengers vaporize in a hackish way plagiaristically similar to Stephen King's "Langoliers." Then the plane lands and everyone is like, "Where the frig is everybody?" Then a sex pot politician assumes power and a band of non-believer Christians battle(s) him Beyond Thunderdome.
But let's back up. TKID4 is on the plane. People are raptured. Now I have some serious things to consider. One, will lunch still be served. Two, can I stretch across the two vacated seats next to me. Three, do we still have our pilots? The third notion was extrememly disconcerting to me, and made me think that, in addition to arming our pilots with guns, locking the cockpit doors, and employing air marshalls, we should make sure at least one of the two pilots on board are voodoo priests, in other words, unrapturable.
Once I realized the plane was under control, I thought about whether my family and friends were gone. Then I started thinking of people I knew who owned nice cars which I could "borrow" now that they were gone. I don't know anyone who owns a Porsche, which would have been cool to drive around in on decongested roads.
I thought about quitting my job or better yet taking over the corner office of my right-wing Christian conversative boss. I also thought that I might try to walk on with a professional sports team, like the Atlanta Braves, assuming they were all gone too. As I fantasized about this, my fever spiked at 102, my eyes rolled into the back of my head, and worst of all, my seat mates returned. No rapture. Just 7 more hours on board.
