Sign of the Apocalypse: Ruminations and Wit from an American Roadside Prophet

By Getchell, John

Friends, neighbors, and passersby from all over the country can’t fail to miss “The Sign’s constantly changing humor and insight. On occasion, The Sign of the Apocalypse (SOTA) traffics in the earnest, but at its heart is rooted in a deep-seated desire to express the sarcastic and snort-worthy. This, and a love of haiku, pizza, Latin, double entendre, and the worst puns ever crafted. Two years in the making, the message on “The Sign” is changed on a daily basis, with the primary benefit of slowing passing traffic to a honking crawl. It was designed to convey pithy tidbits of thought and wordplay. In its conception, SOTA was perpetrated in spite of the objection of the author's girlfriend, and with hopes of creating controversy and dismay in the local community. The girlfriend packed up and left, and the community and town fathers were surprisingly gruntled by the proceedings. Punny and sarcastic signs include: • When attacked by a gang of clowns, go for the juggler • What if doing the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about? • Legalize marinara • A penny saved is ridiculous • Wendy, please take me back / I’m so miserable / it’s almost like / you’re still here

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyhorse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781510726956

Getchell, John

John Getchell is a writer, humorist, and performance artist. He crafted his piquant sense of humor in the company of mellifluous malaprops, and matriculated in a downward spiral of progressively less distinguished educational establishments, ultimately graduating from Bennington College, in Vermont. John is inexplicably single, and awaits being claimed by his birth parents and children. He resides in Arundel, Maine.

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Introduction

I waited for you, Winterlong, you seem to be where I belong. It’s all illusion anyway.

—Neil Sedaka

Winter in Maine can be a grueling affair. Most years the leaves have turned and dropped by the end of October. By the middle of November, the warmth of summer is a wistful memory, and by the darkest day of the year, winter is firmly in residence and has sunk its teeth into the state with the irascible tenacity of a grumpy lobster.

People in Maine find different ways to den down and amuse themselves for the long haul. Random singles couple up for the cold months, ice houses get hauled out onto the frozen lakes, and snow mobiles get readied to molest the general tranquility of the winter woods.

By January, most folks have fallen into a rhythm. The ground is frozen hard, the sidewalks are rolled up, the snow steadily accumulates, storm after storm, not to disappear for months. Most people start the season clearing the snow with resolute, stoic determination; shoveling and plowing and snow-blowing every flake in sight. However, this fervor wanes as the winter storms queue up and unload. By February, there’s no place left to put the white stuff, and not much gets cleared other than driveways and narrow foot paths from driveways to kitchen doors. I’m guilty of