More Signs of the Apocalypse

With the passing of Slim Whitman, the world is now bereft of yodeling cowboys. This does not bode well for humanity in general, and it makes me very sad.

It also makes me wonder what will happen to his fortune. He reportedly sold over 70 million records (2 of which were purchased by yours truly), and (like most yodelers) was not known for flagrant spending and an opulent lifestyle. So I'm guessing he left a good chunk of change for his kids, and because he had a reputation as an extremely nice guy, there were probably generous endowments to cowboy charities, as well. In any case, I'd like to express my sympathies to his family, friends, and fans across the globe. RIP, Slim.

But that's not the main reason I woke this morning with a sense of dread. That was because of a horrifying nightmare.

Regular readers know that I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do, they usually involve things like swimming, space travel, or Cybill Shepherd. In other words, pleasant and comforting things that are natural extensions of the thoughts I have throughout my waking hours. But this morning, I awoke from a dream where I had just won a Gold Medal at the Olympics.

Sounds like something to celebrate, right? After all, I am reasonably competitive, and I continually strive to improve as an athlete. Yet while it's obvious to most people that I'm not entirely grounded within reality, I have never become so completely deluded as to believe I had a shot at beating Phelps, Lochte, or Tyler Clary in swimming. Still, it's OK to dream, and if I were to somnambulate my way to the podium for a victory in, say, the Olympic 10K Open Water event, I'd consider that a delightful fantasy.

But this dream wasn't about swimming. It wasn't about triathlon, either. Nor giant slalom, luge, or bowling...or any other sport in which I might have aspirations.

In this dream, I won the gold in the 100-meter dash.

Yes, that's right -- the two things I most thoroughly suck at in the entire world: running and sprinting. Even within the dream, I could not accept the grand cosmic wrongness of it. I vividly remember diving across the finish line to beat Sylvester Stallone by a fingernail's width, while Khan Noonien Singh was close behind in third. As I was escorted to the podium, I protested that this didn't make any sense, and that I was certain I hadn't even signed up to run that race. But they draped the medal around my neck nonetheless.

I woke in a sweat, and after calming myself down and reorienting myself to reality, I recognized that the clarity and power of the dream was almost certainly fueled by some aberrant salsa I had consumed at dinnertime. But still...if a dream can be that far from any conceivable reality, it's not unreasonable to assume that the end of the world is approaching. And with no yodeling cowboys to protect us, what are we to do?

Go to work as usual, I guess. That's what I'll do, assuming no particular strategic epiphanies strike me during these final few hours before the solstice. And regardless of the possibility of impending doom, there's probably no reason we can't play a little trivia game to keep ourselves amused as the Horsemen approach.

Here's your challenge: Column 1 contains a list of folks who go by a nickname. See if you can match them to their actual given name from the list in column 2. Try to do it without using the Internet. Good luck, and we'll chat tomorrow (assuming there is one.) Have a great day!

"Slim" Whitman "Boxcar" Willie "Slim" Pickens "Hulk" Hogan "Clubber" Lang "Tiny" Lister (pictured above) "Beef" Jerky "Wrong Way" Corrigan "Two Sheds" Jackson Buck Dharma Buck Buchannan Buck Henry Buck Owens

Henry Terry Ottis Tommy James Donald Douglas Jethro Lecil Louis Alvis Junious Arthur