Oh yeah, we’re back, baby. Once again, for a limited time only, feast your prying eyes on TWU’s favourite collection of horoscopes that are decidedly not real horoscopes because they are based on no astrology of any kind. These are based on the faculty of your major, not the stars or any other form of divination. Are we clear on that? Do we all understand that these are not real horoscopes, and that’s why this premise is funny? Because comedy relies on the subversion of expectations? These horoscopes ARE NOT REAL. And if I have to explain this to anyone else, my poor tiny brain will explode—and you will all be invited to my funeral, during which a Muppet version of me will burst forth from my casket and tell everyone that I died because comedy died at TWU. 

Anyway, dystopias! What role would you play in a dystopia based on your major?

If you’re in . . . 

Business: Let’s face it, you’re probably the ones who caused the dystopia. Who cares about a few billion human lives when money is so much shinier? You’ll probably be living it up in a marble-walled bunker, munching on dried caviar until you decide to wait out the worst in a cryogenic freezing chamber. Then the person who is supposed to wake you up forgets about you until one night, while brushing their teeth, their wife says, “Did you remember to take the billionaires out of the freezer?” No, they did not, and they will run all the way out to the desert canyons in their bunny slippers to unplug you, but by then you’ll all be freezer-burnt. And believe me, a freezer-burnt human is not a pretty sight. 

Nursing: Literally every survivor group will be begging you to join them. You could start charging hefty fees for your medical knowledge, even if those fees wind up being shrapnel or zombie fingers (they taste like chicken). The apocalypse probably won’t faze you much. Blood, death and dumpster fires? Please. You’ve seen worse during your clinicals. You can deal with any unsavoury fluid the world throws at you. 

Education: I’m so sorry. You wind up in a group led by a 16-year-old rebel looking to start a revolution. It doesn’t matter that she just won an institutional battle royale or is part of the Faction Of Very Cool Special Ones or just escaped a death maze, she’s still 16. That frontal lobe is not even close to fully developed, and she can’t even decide if she likes the pretty blond boy or the pretty dark-haired one. What is happening, you’ll think. When I was sixteen I was begging my mom to delay our family vacation so I could watch my crush’s reaction to the anonymous candy gram I sent him. Why am I taking orders from someone who is barely done puberty? And yet, you will, because her hair is so cool. 

HKIN: You’d think you would be fit for a dystopia because you’re probably fit in general, but you’ll actually start withering not long after Doomsday. Not much protein left unless you’re into cannibalism. You’re not, so you’ll get excited when the Billionaire Overlords In All Their Mighty Wisdom introduce Feat, the Best Fake Meat You’ll Ever Eat™. Supposedly, it’s packed with far more protein than any meat or meat replacement from the old world was. Unfortunately, Feat™ causes some interesting traits in those who consume it, including slumping, grunting, drooling and rotting. Don’t worry about it. 

Natural and Applied Sciences: You tried so hard to warn the Billionaire Overlords that Feat™ wasn’t quite ready for the market yet, just like you tried to warn them that the Atom + Bomb was a little too explode-y and that the genetically engineered mutant dinosaurs weren’t a great fit for petting zoos. Did they listen? No. Congratulations, your hubris and willingness to sell out to corporations caused the apocalypse. You’ll huddle in an abandoned mall parking lot, wallowing in guilt until a spidersaurus lays its eggs in your lungs. 

Social Sciences: Your majors likely depend on you being able to talk to people, so your skills will quickly brand you as a leader to hapless survivors. In fact, you will wake up one day and realize you’ve started a cult. Look, you never asked anyone to start wearing hooded robes or call you “the waymaster” or treat a glitchy Amazon Echo you found like an oracle of wisdom. You’ll keep telling them to leave you in peace, but they’ll just call you “the peaceleaver” and ask to hear from the prophetess Alexa again. You’ll sigh and pull the Amazon Echo out of your bag, because an octopusaurus just showed up and your devoted followers are very willing to fend it off for you. 

Humanities: You’ll have a sad and lonely job working as a propaganda minister for the Billionaire Overlords, wondering if the relative safety of government walls is worth it until someone starts chatting with you online one day. You’ll reply on a whim and discover that this person is the love of your life. You have all the same interests and they’re so charming; the world is beautiful again. Then you’ll find out this person was an AI designed to sell you chapstick. You’ll go home to sob in your government-sanctioned apartment, but then you remember that you can’t get through the door because the room is stuffed with all the boxes of chapstick you’ve bought in the last week. 

SAMC: How much you like this dystopia will depend on your major. Art majors will love that they can finally have a career as a full-time graffiti artist. Music majors will wind up like that guy strapped to the back of a truck playing a flamethrower guitar in Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), which is probably the best job anyone could be offered in a dystopia. Game development majors will be stoked until they can’t find any cassette tapes. “Where are the cassette tapes?” they’ll wail. “I was promised cassette tapes! And the ammo drops suck out here! Where is the healing fluid?! I need my healing fluid!”