March 25th Skeptics Circle Will Be Here

Each couple weeks, some random jerk’ll
Host the latest Skeptics Circle
Thursday next, *I* (by some quirk)’ll
Take the task in hand

Write your best! Submit your entries!
High-end stuff or elementaries;
Don’t be scared–the dogs and sentries
Wait on my command.

You do not have to write in rhyme,
But those submissions made in time
May be annunced in verse sublime
(Or fair, or bad, or rotten).

The Circle–cast in verse immortal,
Worth a thought, a tear, a chortle
(Though the poems that I contort’ll
Quickly be forgotten)!

*****

That’s right, the March 25th edition of the Skeptics Circle will be hosted here at The Digital Cuttlefish. You can email me (addy over there at the right) or use the comments to this post to submit something. Tell your friends, tell your neighbors, tell your friends’ neighbors and your neighbors’ friends. If you read something you think should be entered, please let that writer know.

The earlier you submit, the easier my job is, but don’t let that stop you from suggesting something even at the last minute, or later. (Yeah, I know, but they let you edit, after all…)

Two, They Say, To Tango

It has become such old news–this pope, that pope, embroiled in yet another sex scandal. The video that PZ linked speaks of some of what some children went through at the hands of priests, behavior which has been systematically covered up–and recent allegations suggest that the current occupant at the Vatican will be unable to deny knowledge of both abuses and coverups.

Something about the video touched a nerve–a single line, which I don’t think I’ll go back and listen for. The following is a tango; in my dream, it would be sung by Tom Waits. No one else could come close. (And yeah, I’d trade everything I ever wrote to have written just one of his songs, so *I* can’t come close either.) And yeah, writing this, in the voice of a conspirator, makes me want to go take a shower and bleach my frontal lobe.

Would you like to help the padre?
Well, we’re giving you the chance
It takes two, they say, to tango
And the padre wants to dance

We’re auditioning the choirboys
For a very special job
And you’ve come to our attention
Yes you stand out from the mob
If you’ll step this way a moment
We’ve arranged a little test—
You’ll be just fine; the padre, he knows best

This will be our little secret
There’s no need to tell a soul
We all do the work of God here
And you play a vital role

You’ll massage the padre’s stomach
While he’s lying on his back
I know you’re just a young one
But I’m sure you’ll get the knack
You’ll know when you are finished
Cos you’ll see the padre smile
And maybe you could stay for just a while…

You can hear the padre breathing
Hear him tell you that you’re good
You can take his words as comfort
You have done just as you should

Wash the semen from your hands, boy,
And we’ll send you on your way.
This will not last forever
You’ll be too old some day.
The padre is important
See, he’s friendly with the Pope
But little boys can always live on hope…

It takes two, they say, to tango
But only one of them can lead
He will claim you were complicit
But the padre did the deed

Wash the demons from your head, boy,
Try to send them on their way
The nightmares last forever
But you’ll never make him pay
The padre is important
See he hides behind the Pope
And little boys need something more than hope…

Now, a palate cleanser. The tango starts about 3 minutes in, if you foolishly wish to skip ahead (or click here for just the tango, but it’s music only, no video). Once he builds up a head of steam, it’s a thing of beauty:

Cuttlecap tips to Ed Brayton and PZ Myers.

“Oh Lord, we really prefer not to know”

Hello; my name is Cuttlefish, and I am a versaholic. (Hi, Cuttlefish!) It’s been just a few hours since my last “Rejected Canon” hymn (ok, a little more than a few–I did have to work, after all!), but I’ve fallen off the wagon! Another hymn it is… this one in 6/8 time, for those who care.

Oh, Lord, we really prefer not to know
We’ll take it on faith
No evidence needed
Lord, cognition we’ll gladly forego
And as the Lord sayeth,
His Word shall be heeded.

Knowledge is best when revealed from on high
And who’d prefer truth to a comfortable lie?

Lord, we really prefer not to know
We’ll all attend mass
And heed to your ruling
Lord, just call me enlightenment’s foe
Biology class
Is fun with home schooling!

Scientists wonder, “how ancient is Man?”
Far more important–he’s part of God’s Plan!

“In the beginning” my textbook begins
With Adam and Eve there in Eden
Knowledge is clearly the greatest of sins
The minimum’s all that we’re needin’

Lord, we really prefer not to know
Concern for our souls
Takes precedence ever
Lord, whatever you’d like to bestow
Our knowledge has holes
Still we think we’re clever

Is there a future attractive as this:
Spending our lives in an ignorant bliss?

Oh Lord, we really prefer not to know!

*****

edited to add….

Looks like this was the straw-hymn to break the camel’s back. This was great fun, and I thank the Making Light hosts for the opportunity to write these, but I think this will be the end of it. Do read their comments, though- #80 is far, far better than any of mine; it is, in my opinion, the only verse of the lot to come close to (let alone achieve) the potential stored in the title itself. This was a wonderful little exercise, and I thank all involved.

“I thank thee, God, for buttocks firm”

One more from the “Rejected Canon” (I can’t help myself–they’re like potato chips–I can’t stop!). This one will be considered offensive by some who defend the nastier bits of organized religion. Consider yourself warned.

I thank thee, God, for buttocks firm
For skin of alabaster
For pouting lips
Eyes dark as pips
Which rouse me all the faster

I thank thee, God, for rosy cheeks
For slender, active fingers
For winsome smile
Where, for a while,
My roving glance still lingers

I thank thee, God, for perfect voice,
A clear and pure soprano
The angels long
To hear a song
In forte or piano

…

I thank thee, God, the Bishop said,
For this small piece of heaven
So dear to me
Too bad that he
Will soon be turning seven

“You have to admit, this sounds pretty far-fetched”

Ok, last one. I promise. But these things are like heroin to someone like me…

You have to admit, this sounds pretty far-fetched
Certum est, quia impossibile
But my mem-o-ry has it indelibly etched
Certum est, quia impossibile
There once was a garden, with Adam and Eve
Along came a serpent, with plans to deceive—
What part of this tale am I s’posed to believe?
Certum est, quia impossibile

Lot’s Wife was transformed to a pillar of salt
Certum est, quia impossibile
The bible implies she herself was at fault
Certum est, quia impossibile
The sinning in Sodom, it made the Lord sore-eyed
She didn’t obey; now she’s sodium chloride—
A message which all of the “sinners of yore” eyed
Certum est, quia impossibile

Some children once pestered a man with no hair
Certum est, quia impossibile
Who prayed for revenge, and so God sent two bears
Certum est, quia impossibile
Which mauled all the kids in a terrible fight
And killed every one, with a blow or a bite,
So that next time, the children will act more polite
Certum est, quia impossibile

Then God gave us Jesus, to die for our sins
Certum est, quia impossibile
To re-write the books, so a new age begins
Certum est, quia impossibile
And Jesus was tortured and nailed to a cross
To render us clean, through his terrible loss
(Or maybe his dad was just showing who’s boss)
Certum est, quia impossibile

And ever since then, why, the message has spread
Certum est, quia impossibile
That mankind will live, because Jesus was dead
Certum est, quia impossibile
I have to believe them, they urge and implore,
For ethics, for morals, for peace evermore…
Then battle each other, in bloodthirsty war
Certum est, quia impossibile

It’s a nice simple form, in 3/4 time; feel free to add your own verses!

“Holy” like a Donut, “Holy” like Swiss Cheese

“Holy” like a donut, “Holy” like Swiss Cheese,
“Holy” like creationists’ own brand of expertise
“Holy” like a leper with some flesh-eating disease,
“Holy” like My Saviour’s feet, beneath his holy knees.

“Holy” like a colander, or like a piercéd ear,
“Holy” like a fishnet blouse, that’s so much more than sheer
“Holy” like a movie’s plot (The Bible’s, too, I fear)
“Holy” like My Saviour’s side, through which was thrust a spear.

“Holy” like a lake’s thin ice, a helpful signal warns
“Holy” like a matador who did not dodge the horns
“Holy” like John Dillinger, whom everybody scorns
“Holy” like My Saviour’s brow, beneath a crown of thorns.

“Holy” like a bagel, or like a leaky pail
“Holy” like security protecting your e-mail
“Holy” like my engine block, which leaves an oily trail
“Holy” like religion, just a grown-up fairy tale.

As with today’s earlier post, a bit of context.

“Even Cripples Praise Your Name”

God of Wisdom; God of Beauty
God of Water, Wind, and Flame
We, your subjects, do our duty:
Even cripples praise your name.

God, who cured the lowly leper,
Plays with mercy like a game–
Eking praise from each twelve-stepper
Even cripples praise your name.

Mangled feet and withered fingers
Malformed faces hung in shame
Still this love of God still lingers
Even cripples praise your name.

Thanks to Salk and vaccination
Fewer children now are lame;
Still, I see to my frustration,
Even cripples praise your name.

God, who could have cured the sickest;
God, who chose instead to maim;
Here is where the bullshit’s thickest:
Even cripples praise your name.

God receives Earth’s bounty’s credit,
Satan, only Evil’s blame–
Hordes of faithful zombies spread it:
Even cripples praise your name.

God, it’s really hard to swallow
You’re as good as you proclaim;
Now, to me, it all rings hollow:
Only cripples praise your name.

Cuttlecap tip to HP (glad to edit in your name, if you prefer), for pointing me to a bit of fun on Making Light. The idea is to take one of Molly Wilson’s “Rejected Titles for Hymns“, and … write the hymn. I may have to have fun with a few more. You should, too!

I Just Love A Good Vatican Scandal!

(Channeling Mark Russell, and wishing I could channel Tom Lehrer…)

The Vatican is rocked by scandal!
No more singing Bach or Handel;
Finding men to suit demand’ll
Get you in the end!
Caught on wire as he confesses
Finding dates for men in dresses;
Hold the tape and stop the presses,
Better to attend!

What’s the problem? Prostitution;
Finding, matching, distribution,
Knowing later absolution
Wipes you free of sin!
A chorister who likes duet work
Organized a proper network
Told the gigolos they’d get work;
“When can you begin?”

With ornate bedposts, leafed with gold, and sheets of finest satin
Your tips are better, we are told, if you can moan in Latin.

He’s lost the high ground in these quarrels
No more resting on his laurels;
If the Pope should speak of morals,
We can roll our eyes.
Throughout time, since Eden’s apple,
Till the current papal grapple,
Seems the urge to fuck a chap’ll
Always get a rise!

Hat tip, PZ, of course.

Botany Is Destiny

Sigmund Freud (in)famously opined that “anatomy is destiny”, that (to oversimplify greatly) one’s personality and one’s potential were, to a large part, determined by what equipment one possessed between one’s legs. Penis envy (he has one, and I don’t!), castration anxiety (she doesn’t have one, maybe they’ll cut mine off, too!), and other Freudian concepts stem directly from whether you are an innie or an outie (so to speak).

The phrase has evolved a bit, and now is also seen as “biology is destiny”, with somewhat fewer genital-related shades of meaning, but the earlier meaning is sometimes (often? I have not done a thorough review, so cannot say) lurking just under the surface. Whether our reasons are Freudian or Darwinian, there seems to be enough interest in that one set of complementary organs to support several industries… and the continuation of life as we know it.

We have long known that the brain includes multiple areas involved in face-detection; I begin to wonder if the entire rest of the brain might not be involved in genital-detection. We see them everywhere.

Take plants. I have a cousin, an artist, who (decades ago) exhibited a number of paintings of plants, and of close-ups of parts of plants. It probably won’t surprise you to know that a split-open peach pit, in the proper perspective, will make the vast majority of a family gathering blush. It looks quite like the anatomical wall chart I once saw at an OB-GYN’s office. Robert Heinlein’s “Notebooks of Lazarus Long” includes a phrase that puzzled me when I first read it: “Have you noticed how much they look like orchids? Lovely!” And more recently, PZ Myers’ “Wednesday Botanical” posts have included both phallic and yonic photos (or perhaps that is all in my perception).

Oh, underused powers
Of beautiful flowers;
They tantalize, tempt, and entice,
Whether insect or human,
When flowers are bloomin’
There’s something that makes us look twice.

The curves I adore, kids,
I oft find in orchids
(Such flowers are dear to our hearts)
It’s not quite the same in
A pistil or stamen
But sometimes, it seems, parts is parts.

In just the right lighting
It’s rather exciting
When beautiful form follows function
In plant pollination
Or *our* fornication
When parts can perform in conjunction

That such an attraction
Creates a reaction
Is fact that a blind man could see
You might think me crazy–
I’m off to find Daisy
To ask if she’ll just let me bee.

Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!

First, the only viddy I could find with John Reed–from The Mikado, the beautiful “Willow, Tit-Willow” (and unless you are already familiar with the song, you need to watch it before continuing):

Unbelievably, this is is the only John Reed video I could find online! I can only hope that his fans will remedy the situation in the coming days.

Meanwhile, the organ which passes for my brain began twitching uncontrollably, and produced the following, purely fictional (I assure you!), work:

In a random encounter, a skeptical lass
Said “Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle–
There’s a DNA helix tattooed on my ass,
Oh Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle.
And because it’s a picture in sepia ink,
I thought I’d show *you*, just to see what you think.”
Then she turned on her heel, with a mischievous wink:
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”

So I said “As a skeptic, you know what I need.”
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”
“It’s evidence only, a skeptic must heed.”
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”
“There are times when reality’s not what it seems,
But a manifestation of innocent dreams,
And you’ll melt into moonlight on watery beams”
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”

As I followed along, she continued to flirt,
Singing “Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”
My attention she drew to the hem of her skirt–
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”
Then she hypnotized me, with her magical tune,
And discreetly she showed me a lovely half-moon…
And I heard, through a fog, as I started to swoon…
“Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!”