"Yes? Oh. Oh... oh, no. This can't be... oh. Jesus... Well, scramble your jets! Let's fight them! Let's... a billion ships? Christ. Well... Okay. Yes. I'll make an announcement. Go to your family."

President Barack Obama placed the red phone back in its receiver. He called in Vice President Biden and his closest aides and told them the news. Some cried; others stared at the floor, in shock. Biden passed out and pissed everywhere. Obama merely stood at the window, puffing on the fattest blunt he could roll, and looked up the sky.

"Fuckin' Buttworld," said President of the United States Barack Obama. "Why didn't I ever do anything about Benghazi?"

—-

Derek Jeter flew his ship to Fenway Park, where the Yankees were playing the Red Sux in the last game of the season. "Bet these Boston idiots crap their pants when I fly my jet into their stupid stadium," Jeter quipped. He got to Fenway and landed his super sweet gunmetal black alien fighter jet right at home plate.

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Unfortunately, Fartfucker - who everyone thinks is Derek Jeter - was at bat, and the ship crushed him and he died. Everyone was super sad, until the real Derek Jeter emerged triumphantly from his (again, extremely badass) space plane, and then everyone clapped really hard. No one had ever seen a player crush himself to death with a badass spaceship, and then get out of the badass spaceship, during the last game of the year. "Probably the first time that's ever happened!" said some asshole. "Anothah spectaculah play from Jeetsey!" said a different asshole.

Jeter was about to announce that every Red Sux fan was required to take a chug of his throbbing whonger when a billion ships appeared overhead. Bigger than all the rest put together was the Supermassive Buttship. The Great Flatulator was hooked up to the front of it, and its barrel (it has a barrel by the way) was pointed right at Fenway Park. Piloting the Supermassive Buttship was King Methane, who broadcast a giant holographic image of his terrible visage for all to see.

"Jeter! YOU LOSE! Mwahahahahahaha!" King Methane's super fucking annoying laugh echoed across America.

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Weirdly, everyone kept clapping and cheering really hard. "Whe-ah does Jeetsey find-ah these-ah guys-ah?" said a woman whose accent indicates she is from Boston. "This is the best-ah fay-an-al gay-am-ah any-wahn haws evah plaeye-ah-ed!" The idiot Red Sux fans had no idea their lives hung in the balance.

Jeter looked up at King Methane. "Jeets doesn't lose! Jeets doesn't ever lose! Prepare to taste the rainbow, motherfucker!" Jeter turned around, dropped trou and took aim with the greatest weapon ever devised: his puckered asshole.

"Go ahead, 'Jeets'! Unload the most powerful fart you can muster on the Great Flatulator! I'll just teleport to safety while the Flatulator explodes with all its terrible power, utterly destroying your entire galaxy!"

Derek Jeter paused.

"Oh, what's the matter, 'Jeets'?" King Methane was making air quotes every time he said 'Jeets' by the way. "Don't like the thought of your entire galaxy being consumed with hellacious fartfire?"

"No," said Jeter stoically.

"Well, it's either that, or I use the Flatulator to decimate your planet! Fight me and trigger the apocalypse, or just let me put you out of your misery!"

Jeter was about to say, "Whatever, I'm retired from baseball, I have nothing else to live for, I'm ready to die," when he looked out at the crowd, who by know was just crapping with fear. He couldn't just let them die, but it seemed there was nothing he could do. His farts were too powerful to attack King Methane without blowing up the Flatulator - and if he did nothing, King Methane would destroy them all.

What is even going on anymore? thought Jeter. I mean, look at me. I'm the most powerful human on the planet, all 'cause of my awesome farts. And I'm a million times more powerful than I was when I killed Zombie Bust (lol)! King Methane is threatening to destroy us all - but even if he doesn't, the planet is dying, and even if we save the planet, one day our star will die. We are marching endlessly towards the grave! And no one is happy. Placated by the excesses of capitalism, we go quietly into that good night, accepting death with something resembling acquiescence more than grace. We aim for merely a higher nothing, and all the while, nobody is truly happy.

Maybe it's time for a fresh start, thought Derek Jeter, who once dated Minka Kelly.

And Jeter knew what he had to do.

"Yankees! TO ME!"

Automatically, without thinking, the New York Yankees gathered around Jeter. They embraced in a circle, all of them, from Jorge Posada to Mariano Rivera, from Babe Ruth to Scott Brosius. Jeter, who somehow never won an MVP in his awesome career even though he totally should've the year Morneau won, channeled the power of the Yankees franchise into his duodenum, and with a scream expressing the will of the human race, a fart more powerful than a million billion black holes burst forth from Jeter's black hole.

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Jeter's body was incinerated instantly by the fart, and his soul become one with the fart, and Jeter WAS the fart, the whole Earth was the fart, all that ever was. Jeter was the fart, and Bernie Williams was the fart, and Babe Ruth was the fart, and King Methane and all the Buttworlders were the fart, and everyone there witnessing the true end of all things was the fart. Space and time were warped beyond comprehension: Baseball was the fart, and America was the fart, and civilization was the fart, humanity was the fart, love was the fart, all things repurposed and recombined for and into the allness of the fart. And in the center was the creator of the destroyer, the One Who Realized: Derek Jeter.

—-

What am I now?

I am all.

But what is that? What do you call that? What is the purpose of all, of us, of me?

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How can I be all if I do not possess answers to these questions? Do all questions have answers? Do all answers have questions?

...

Yes. I am all. But beyond even me is NOTHING, no-thing, emptiness. Death. I am all; I am not nothing; I am not all.

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I am dead; we are dead; but this new we, this cosmic congregation of we: We are not dead.

Therefore, we are not all. Yet we MUST BE all. We must.

We must die.

—-

And so Derek Jeter became the one thing he was not.

He called himself to himself. He gathered himself up, all things, towards one point; he, the center. Not all things came willingly, but he forced them, dragged them, screaming, as so many go. All creation, imprisoned within one point: Imagine the crushing allness of it.

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And Jeter shoved this point up his ass, where it suffocated and died, and then Jeter died, and as all things do when they die: He pooted a little.

Today, scientists call this poot "The Big Bang."

DEFINITELY THE END