2020 to end with return of the Great Old Ones, conversion of all human cities into sweatshops

This year has been a truly significant one for us mere human insects, not only because some idiot ate a bat and killed millions of people worldwide, but also because we have the honour of witnessing the greatest astrological conjunction of our aeon, when Jupiter and Saturn align on the winter solstice and call forth the Great Old Ones from their sleep.

As the skies themselves burn with the image of the blind idiot god Azatoth, so will the oceans vomit forth untold legions of squamous deep ones and great cyclopean cities of alien design unfold from the higher-dimensional obelisks that even now rise from the ground in every corner of the planet we call ours in our hubris. The cyclopean tombs of forgotten eldritch things will open beneath our feet and the luckiest of us will find refuge in insanity, unaware of the horrific fate their fallen species now shares. For the rest of us shall be forced to labour 22 hours a day producing cheap plastic souvenirs for Mi-Goh tourists.

Yes, you too will be forced at tentacle-point to manufacture ‘authentic Earthling goods’ at a price so cheap even the happy meal toy factories of the night gaunts will be undercut. And you will comply, or else your deep one manager will render you down into novelty Shoggoth food. Dread Cthulhu’s stock portfolio will rise and rise in value as daemoniac tourists splurge on t-shirts woven with real human souls, and the outer gods themselves invest in the distribution of real Earth rocks to twisted non-Euclidian dimensions. Those who sacrifice their fellow human on the Altar of Increased Productivity shall be rewarded greatly with eternal life and a raise of £3 per millennium, and the employee of the month shall be allowed to keep one (and only one) set of cultist robes to keep themselves warm, for central heating is an unacceptable expense. And so the world ends, not with a bang, but with unholy alien creatures clamouring for authentic Earthling fridge magnets.

For legal reasons, the writer of this article would like to remind you that H.P. Lovecraft was a raging racist who thought being part Welsh was a mental illness. The Lampoon does not find those views funny, and believes in shoddy journalism for all.

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