Greetings, malevolent music mavens, Vernon Vexfire here with the scoop that’s burning up the brimstone charts—quite literally. As the Yuletide season encroaches upon us like the relentless march of the damned, a game of diabolical delight known as “Whamageddon” is sweeping through the infernal realms, bringing both ghoulish glee and an eternity of earworms to its participants. The rules are as deceptively simple as a sinner’s promise of reform: avoid the unrelenting clutches of Wham!’s “Last Christmas” from December 1st to the 24th, or face musical purgatory.
Beelzebub’s bells, have you been whammed yet? That’s the question on every twisted tongue, with reports of demonic DJs spinning the cursed track at the Styx Soccer Showdown and the Pandemonium Ball League, thereby damning tens of thousands to an early game over. Apologies are as empty as a vow of celibacy from an incubus—once you’ve heard George Michael’s silky snare, there’s no turning back.
The game’s creator, Thomas Mephisto—a mere mortal turned minion of mischief from Copenhagen’s creepier quarters—spawned this auditory abyss nearly two decades ago with a cackle and a chalice of cheer. Since then, the challenge has taken flight on leathery wings, spreading like wildfire across the underworld, hashtag and all.
Stealth and strategy are a must for any soul seeking to survive the sonic snares of “Whamageddon.” Some of the more cunning creatures employ noise-canceling headgear—magically imbued, of course—to escape the clutches of those oh-so-familiar jingles. Others wander through the hellscape blissfully unaware, their minds perhaps already unravelled by the myriad tortures of our esteemed realm. Ignorance, in this game, is indeed bliss.
But let’s not forget, this is a high-stakes game in the lowest of realms. One might think the track has been banished from the playlists of even the most raucous drinking dens in the Underworld. But nay, for the true spirit of “Whamageddon” is the thrill of evading the unavoidable, the sport in dodging the inescapable embrace of festive pop.
For those of you still clinging to hope like a lost soul to a lifeline, I tip my hat—an old fedora charred around the edges. For the rest, succumb to the inevitability and let Wham!’s chorus wash over you like the River Styx itself. There’s always next year, provided the overlords don’t change the rules on a hellish whim.
And so I sign off, Vernon Vexfire, with a message to the whammed: May your holiday haunting be merry and bright, but remember, in the game of “Whamageddon,” every silent night is a battlefield.
