The end is nigh, nigh I say. We’ve gone from a world of infinite possibilities to a world of a single possibility, and it doesn’t look good. The only thing we know for certain is that this guy is never going to stop clapping and there’s nothing we can do about it. He’s like the terminator, but for clapping: The Clappinator. Terrifying.

I don’t think the world will recover after this. Sifting though the ashes of our once-great society after it’s put to the torch by the Clappinator doesn’t sound very appealing to me. You can count me out. I’m going to go start a new society with blackjack and hookers. It’ll be like when King Henry the VIII separated the English church from Rome, except with less dead wives and more funny hats. I prefer my wives to be alive regardless of their ability to fart out heirs. At least, I think that’s how it works.

Now’s the time to plan ahead; where will you be when the Clappinator rains down fiery death from the heavens. I’ll be on my space platform in space with enough canned beans to create a civilization of fart-based lifeforms, and my not-dead wives. Beat that.

(Update: we have another contender for the bringer of all death and misery in the world.)