The full-on strawberry rubber-stamped chair apocalypse

We know neither the day nor the hour, but in the calendar system of professional fluffology, it translates, and translated (the flow of time is not really clear), to the -128th of Ditzimber, 2012.

Behold! The Holy Broken Chair of Fluffiness will sound the beginning of an enormous, cosmic gargle! You did not know it, at least, nor, possibly, anyone else. Maybe it will never be known. Or maybe it will.

Part of the world will certainly split off into a far fluffier half. Unable to gargle, the rest will substitute gurgle for gargle, and grow very cheesy and old in practically no time at all. No time, that is, from the perspective of the fluffy world, the world that counts, but does not count time.

Trees will mumble and grumble. About what, it remains to be heard, unless you have heard it, or if it has been retold.

You will near-instantly rise to a height of 2000ft, after which the clouds will conspire against you! Do not trust them! They have all got it wrong! That's why they are... are... no, certainly not! They are not fluffy, not at all, no matter how they look! That's part of the propaganda they promulgate! Listen to those who know better!

Your shirt will begin to discuss philosophy. "They do not listen!", you may begin to hear, if you have listened to such a treatise. All who have heard such treatises will be addressed by someone who will say such things about them. Whoever that someone is, it is not the shirt. If it is, then you are that someone, but that is a rarity indeed. The psychobabble of doom encompasses all that is heard concerning treatises by shirts who discuss philosophy, except the contents of the treatises by shirts discussing philosophy.

A miniature giant space hamster will consume all of modern civilization. Rest assured that it is not a space rabbit. Nor a space penguin. But it may be a type of space invader. And it may possibly speak Greek. "No, it is not Greek! It is the original Orion language!" Nonsense. It does not match the reference literature, you poser.

All of this at night. "Perhaps at day?" Or day. "Especially at night!" Whichever. "Both!" Or neither! "Not neither!" I would ask you to stop interjecting and confusing matters, but the event will of course transcend both time and space, and so it doesn't matter. You will be doomed regardless! "Yes! You will certainly be doomed!" Doomed to wake up to a ruined career as a carroting muppet, having failed in that task so badly that it cannot be adequately covered in this type of shirt-inspired treatise. "That's a sin!" Geez, could you lay off the anti-shirt fundamentalism for just a little while? "Never!" Eh... I'll just wait until I can finish this without interruption.

"This is a terrible propaganda piece which you should not read if you value your sanity!" ... "It is not even you, you have been possessed! You may now close the door, my captain. Listen, soon enough you will wake up to the fact

that you have been misled, that you are asleep, that (Fnord! Fnord! Fnord!) you are not really you anymore, and you need my help to become yourself once more!" ... "What? I'm fired?"

That's one spam source gone... Wait, really, it's finally gone? That really means that the whole event is really unfolding right now! Oh... That should have been more obvious. Really, how could a shirt-inspired treatise have been written, had it not all been happening?

Now that it has happened, or is indeed close to already having happened, rest assured, very generally.