Pauly called to tell me about the ice caps melting.

This was 3 a.m.

He said the world might flood at any moment.

I said, "That's nice," and I want back to sleep.

Pauly, a vigilant as a blood hound, believes if the president doesn't doom us, a natural disaster will.

For Pauly, this is good news.

Where as normal people take up sensible hobbies like collecting postage stamps, Pauly contemplates the end of the world.

He believes can survive.

He plans to buy land where we can rebuild civilization and has demanded we give him a percentage of our weekly wages.

Hank has complied.

Garrick told Pauly to get a job.

Thus Garrick has no place in Pauly's new society.

Paul's calls inevitably come in the middle of the night, my phone jangling me awake with reports of an earthquake in Ecuador or an out break of flu in Peru.

When CNN recently reported a possible asteroid strike, Pauly nearly poked his eye out peering at the skies via telescope - calling me hourly with its progress.

I've been tempted to turn off the telephone.

I've debated whether or not to tell Pauly not to call.

But somewhere in the back of my head, stirring among the unending echoes of media's doom and gloom, I wonder: What will I do when the time comes?