What happens the day Mickey Mouse finally cracks? When he grabs that little kid by the pants – the one who's been pulling his tail all day – and punts him down Main Street USA? Would the magic of Disney be lost forever? Probably. Parents would no longer buy their children Disney toys, the Disney channel would be banned (“too violent”), and Disney theme parks would crumble. A corporate empire would vanish. All because of one ratty little mouse.

Such responsibility is shared by the big-headed mascots of all types and professions. Take for instance the cute little buffalo at the local baseball stadium – the one my younger brother pulled down by the tail because he ignored requests for a high five. If that furry fellow had turned around and chucked my brother into the bullpen, I would not have been surprised. But instead, he chose to ignore the taunts and walk away passively. He saved the business. But I was disappointed.

Which brings me to another point. Mascots are terribly abused. Everyone wants to see Daffy Duck get punched, and the amount of slime that accumulates on Winnie the Pooh from drooling babies must be enormous. Job satisfaction? I think not.

Thus, we must address the pressing question (a question not of if but when): What will happen the day the mascots go on strike? The mere thought – thousands of distraught, furry creatures stampeding through major cities, not allowed to speak but wholly prepared to trample – terrifies me. And will we be able to reason with them? Come to think of it, are they even human?

The zombie apocalypse is nothing compared to this imminent disaster brewing in our stadiums and theme parks, our car lots and TV studios. The errant Mayan calendar and the creeping undead are merely a sideshow to the main act: sheer doom that dances merrily before our eyes. The mascots will rise. They will conquer. And they will be smiling.