A 2 year old girl picks up a screwdriver, runs around, falls, and…

She’s fine now, fortunately — it somehow missed her brain. The father calls this event a “Christmas miracle.”

That God fella. He’s such a card, poking little girls in the head with screwdrivers.

A mysterious person going by the name Red Mage sent me the following poem. If your kiddies are still awake and having trouble sleeping, you might want to read it aloud to them. Then they’ll really have trouble sleeping.

‘Twas the night before Squidmas, and all through the house
Not a cultist was stirring, not even a Dagon.
The sacrifices were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Cthulu would not pass past there.

The cultists were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of things man was not supposed to know writhed in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long eon’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny Old Gods.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Cthulu.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he burbled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Hastur! now, Ut’ulls-Hr’her! now, Zhar and Lloigor!
On, Eihort! On, Yig! on, on Nug and Yeb!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of horrors, and Great Cthulu too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each tentacle.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Great Cthulu came with a bound.

He was undressed all in tentacles, from his head to his foot,
And they were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of monsters he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how scary!
His cheeks were like squids, his nose like a cavernous pit of evil!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the tendrils of his chin was as dark as the city of R’lyeh.

The stump of a man he held tight in his teeth,
And the screams it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a not-so-little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jellied remains!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Squid,
And I whimpered when I saw him, in spite of myself!
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And killed all those he came for, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his tendril aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Squidmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

I sought reassurance in an internet quiz, and did reasonably well.

	I received 92 credits on The Sci Fi Sounds Quiz How much of a Sci-Fi geek are you?
Take the Sci-Fi Movie Quizdigital camera ratings

I think I missed the one where the voice says something like “The captain is not on the bridge” — it sounded vaguely trekish, but it was completely unfamiliar.

I admit I’m a a geek, so I’m disappointed in this cartoon that describes 56 categories of geeks, and I don’t fit any of them.

Maybe you’re in there, though…

Why are so many people wearing an octopus on their head?

Initially, I was horrified at what was being done to the hapless cephalopod, but then I saw the stereotype on the right, and realized the real crime was against the kids reading this tripe. (No, my name isn’t Fredric Wertham.)

Hey, now New Scientists is cashing in on the LOL_you_name_it craze. The web is being overrun with bad grammar and cutesie pictures!

(I think this is also the first I’ve seen of the New Scientist blogs — I knew they were planning them a while back. They need to let more people know about these things!)

There’s a cathedral for sale in Los Angeles. Makes a great squidmas present for any atheist.

Uh-oh. Those liberal artsie literature types at Crooked Timber, led by the wicked John Holbo, have revealed the breadth of the alliance. Oh, yeah, you’re used to the god-hating shenanigans of the evilutionists, but now Holbo has gone and engaged in the War on Christmas™ and disclosed himself as a lackey to one of the Icons of Evolution™, all at once. How has he done this?

He has made Christmas cards.

Using the artwork of Ernst Haeckel.

And he even photoshopped in extra tentacles.

And he’s planning to sell thong underwear with some particularly tentacly images.

He has outdone me. I might as well just retire now, and turn the keys to Pharyngula over to Holbo. I’ll never be able to top that.

…people send you their weird and suggestively shaped fruit and vegetables. This reminds me of something:

Thanks, Ema! It even smells nice and lemony.