The real is precisely the opposite. There is no grand order of things, merely a million ad hoc systems conspiring to engender apocalypse. There is no single date for the end of the world, there is a slow wheezing like a geriatric on air supply as we crush the world underneath the most mundane of our whims. Everyone is culpable in our fatal problems (environmental degradation, capitalism). There are solutions but they're not sexy enough, we become bored with them quickly and make our way to Chik-fil-A. It could hardly be called tragic, or ironic even.
The world won't weep for us when we're gone. Only children miss the dinosaurs.