The future. A concept that is overflowing with mystery and a sense of impending doom. Any day of the week you can pick up the newspaper or peruse the top stories on the ultimate tool of the tomorrow itself — the Internet, to find what year Armageddon will strike.

What does this computer crystal ball say?

The wasteful inhabitants of society will sip their last drop of water on Earth in 2324. But then it contradicts itself by claiming that 21 years prior in 2303, the polar ice caps will have completely melted leaving those who can swim stranded at the peak of Mount Everest. We’ll build a makeshift shanty town with those crazy climbers who dare to go nude in negative temperatures.

At least if we go clothes-free, the thermometer will register much higher than it did in 2217 from car emissions that depleted the entire ozone layer causing a skin cancer epidemic that annihilated a significant segment of the population. Damn you, global warming.

Oh, and Jesus returned to save us from all our pain and misery in 2219. He thought it was safe to resurrect after most of the Hollywood Hillers succumb to the Malibu melanoma outbreak of 2217 as it became known.

What is in store for next year?

To some it will be the end of the world. No, there is no rogue comet floating around the galaxy with Washington, D.C., the intended bulls-eye. What will bring chaos, catastrophe, castration and the collapse of civilization?

Hillary Clinton elected president of the United States?

Start building a bomb shelter now and stocking up on canned tomato soup.

How does all this talk of looming tragedy fit into the life of a humor columnist? It doesn’t, but I have become the go-to gal on everything from Britney Spears to tapas-style martini bars in downtown Lowell.

The name is Lowellita — not Madame Cleo. And I would charge more than $1.99 a minute.
One of my many skills is not looking into the future. If I had a crystal ball I wouldn’t ask if Britney will ever get her boys back or if Jennifer Lopez is pregnant with twins. I don’t care if Pam Anderson’s exes, Tommy Lee and Kid Rock, put their differences aside and team up to knock out her new hubby amateur pornographer, Rick Solomon.

I would ask what numbers to play in the Mega Ball. Back in April, I would have asked if the Red Sox would win the World Series, so I could sit with my feet up on my free leather recliner from Jordan’s while watching my boyfriend Beckett.

I can tell you that come November 2008, liberals will finally get their revenge for eight years of torture. Oh and what sweet revenge it will be.

All calls and e-mails to Lowellita are $5.99 a minute plus tax and should be sent to lowellita@lowellsun.com. Have your credit cards ready, all major ones accepted.