Penned from the Porch: This is a Cry for Help

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Sure, blame my diet of coffee and Chocodiles, but I think it's because I'm a chronic worrier. I lie awake night after night, ruminating over the various horrors that could befall our world.

The following are only some of the troubling scenarios that haunt my sleep:

Bristol Palin will actually win Dancing with the Stars. Honestly, I thought it was a worrisome sign when my state elected Aqua Buddhist Rand Paul (I'm sorry, America. In Kentucky's defense, we eat a lot of pork rinds). Be afraid, people. Be very, very afraid.
Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt will procreate, resulting in an army of babies with flesh-colored beards who think they can sing.
My campaign to make MC Hammer's "Too Legit, Too Legit to Quit" hand gesture the Official Hand Gesture of the United States will fail. But you know what? I'm 2 Legit, 2 Legit 2 Quit. (And yes, I made the hand gestures. If you didn't, I don't even want to know you.)
I'll end up in a coma or vegetative state, and no one will ever wax or tweeze my face, resulting in a unibrow and goatee. Everyone will stand around my bed, laughing, pointing and calling me Menifer.
Hugh Jackman will get a [gulp] beer belly. Honestly, I can't...even...go...there..
We'll one day discover what Brett Michaels has under his do-rag. I'm thinking gremlins. Or Ross Perot. Same thing.
The government will put a sin tax on donuts, so I will no longer be able to compensate myself for this blog in long johns.
No matter what Stephen Hawking says, the Large Hadron Collider will create a black hole, and we'll be forced to confront the Romulans. Even worse, I'll have a bad hair day.
I will never go into puberty and grow boobs. (It's not too late. It ISN'T. Shut up.)
Radio stations will refuse air time to any musical artist who doesn't put the word "Shawty" in a song, resulting in Taylor Swift singing, "You're on the phone with Shawty. She's upset. Shawty's going off about something that you said. 'Cause Shawty doesn't get your humor like I doooooo."
Hostess will (a). stop putting Ding Dongs in thin foil wrappers, when everyone knows the foil wrappers make Ding Dongs taste better (and yes, this entire blog post was just an excuse for me to type "Ding Dong"), and (b). Hostess will stop selling Chocodiles east of the Mississippi. See, people? That actually happened, proving that my fears aren't so ridiculous after all.