There may be only four horsemen of the apocalypse, but something as history making as Dr. Sketchy’s fifth birthday demands more. In this lugubrious installment, Jennifer Somerset imagines the hell of being late to the last party…on earth. Bob almost missed it, “the” apocalypse that everyone had been tweeting about ad nauseum for weeks now. The odds on the exact day and time out of Vegas were either up or down, taking into consideration the relation to Pluto to Haley’s Comet in conjunction to the number of tree frogs found under this one particular log in the Amazon jungle. But all of this was the least of Bob’s worries at this particular moment. You see, he was charged with the task of delivering a case of wine to Kali as gift from Dionysus—another story for another time. The long of the short, it had something to do with an end of the world party, burley girls, art monkeys, apocalyptic horsemen, and Bob tuned out somewhere around cover charge so the exact details about things are fuzzy at best. At this particular moment Bob was stuck in the middle of a gridlock on the interstate watching these ghastly colored clouds undulating overhead, as if the most arrhythmic tribal dancer was running the show. It provided him a distraction from the growing frustration over what caused all sixteen lanes—in both directions—to move no faster than a snail’s crawl. By the time he had gotten close to the cause, Bob had imagined that the gates of Hell had opened in the center median, purging each and every soul held within since the dawn of time, treating this particular stretch of asphalt as their own person taxi cab stand. But no, as he discovered moments later, nothing that remotely interesting at all, the cause was nothing more than a lone blinking light in the median. It was small, about the size of a soft ball. It was blue, and not a particularly exciting shade of blue at that. It reminded him of the lights used to guide planes on the runways at airports. It was strange that it was in the exact middle of the median, nestled amongst the beautification wildflowers that some random soul had tossed about in an attempt to liven the place up. Bob sighs, shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Sheeple…” as he is finally able to speed off to his apocalyptic ending with luscious ladies, drink and art. Jenn Somerset manages her deeper importation in the South through sarcastic colored glasses and artistic inspirations. You can find updates on Twitter as hippykatart and at society6.com/studio/HippyKatArt. Be like Jenn and add your scrofulous musings to the Apocolyptic apple-basket. Fuck the mixed metaphors, drink a martini and email your doc to .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).