We are members of a very weird species.
There are some things Mankind was not meant to comprehend
Pharyngula
Evolution, development, and random biological ejaculations from a godless liberal
We are members of a very weird species.
A “psychic” octopus named Paul is predicting the outcome of World Cup games, some Germans claim. I don’t believe it. Why would an octopus be at all interested in a game where you can’t use your arms?
I don’t believe in precognition, but I do think octopuses are smart. It’s more likely that Paul is sneaking out of his tank at night to read the sports magazines, and then makes informed decisions about likely results of the matches.
You’re all good, upstanding, moral atheists who like children (and not just on the barbecue!), so you’d all be happy to donate to Barnardo’s, a children’s charity even without any incentive. Incentives are nice, though, so we’re going to give you one: it’s a competition.
You see, Big Dave (bearded) and Simon (hideously naked-faced) are asking people to donate to Barnardo’s, and for a £2 minimum donation, you also get to weigh in on the Great Beard Question: do they suck, or are they a majestic addition to manly beauty?
They are collecting the beard/no beard votes, and on 5 July they’ll be tallied up. If their total goal of £1500 in donations is reached, and if it is mainly esthetically-compromised philistines who vote no on beards, then Big Dave will shave his beard off — a great loss and tragedy, but a sacrifice willingly made to benefit the children. If the goal is reached and a majority of wise and appreciative fans of the noble beard vote, then the frighteningly bare cheeks and chin of Simon will be graced with a new growth of dignity.
I know you’ll all do the right thing and get over there and vote for beards and donate. But you know, just to be sure, I have generously offered to also put my beard on the line. This is a huge sacrifice, but I figured it would help sway the pro-beard vote, since no one could possibly vote to chop off my lovely facial hair. Right? Right? Please tell me I’m right.
If I’m wrong, and the voting is dominated by boorish, effete barbarians with no taste, then I will have to face public humiliation and will take a razor to my pride. With photos. Posted here. I will look ridiculous, because in addition to the intrinsic grandeur of the beard, a beard is also a good way to hide a funny-looking face.
So go forth and save the beard. I’m counting on you.
OK, what is this thing? I’ve been nominated for Best Blog About Stuff, which is OK, but then…Best Celebrity Blogger? Somebody has a very slack definition of “celebrity”. Then there’s Best Religion Blogger — this is an atheist blog, sometimes, only vote for that to annoy the faithheads. But, really, this one is freakish: Hottest Daddy Blogger? What does that mean?
At least I wasn’t nominated for Freakiest Blogger, Most Obnoxious Blogger, or Worst Blog of All Time.
And the little douchenozzle’s angry diatribe just confirms that fact.
I cannot possibly say it any better than NY Magazine:
With the owners of the Empire State Building firm in their decision not to light up for Mother Teresa’s 100th birthday, the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum — a former aircraft carrier that served in World War II and the Vietnam War — has stepped up to the plate, because it also has lights that can change color, apparently. “The aircraft carrier museum is illuminated red, white and blue most nights, so the staff will simply replace their red lighting with additional blue and white lights,” the Post reports. And with that, Mother Teresa’s soul can finally be at peace.
Because when I think Mother Teresa, I think engine of death and pain.
This was the Touchdown Jesus of Solid Rock Church in Monroe, Ohio.
That monstrosity was six stories tall — a giant eyesore.
This was Touchdown Jesus last night.
Here’s the odd thing: they’re promising to rebuild it. You would think that it’s a rather unambiguous sign when your giant idol is smitten by a bolt of lightning from heaven, erupts into an all-consuming conflagration, and burns to the ground that maybe Jehovah is a little bit fed up. Yet the Solid Rock Church plans to offend God again.
I guess they don’t really believe.
Grandpa Simpson is that old character in the animated show who tells odd, rambling stories. “We can’t bust heads like we used to, but we have our ways. One trick is to tell ’em stories that don’t go anywhere – like the time I caught the ferry over to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for my shoe, so, I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on ’em. ‘Give me five bees for a quarter,’ you’d say.” That sort of thing.
Grandpa has been hired by the Huffington post, and is writing stuff under the pen name of Robert Lanza. For instance, he’s got a fascinatingly weird tale up titled “What Happens When You Die? Evidence Suggests Time Simply Reboots“. Now if you or I were writing something with that title, we’d probably write something about what happens after we die, or about time, or maybe we’d get really ambitious and write about some evidence linking the two. Not Grandpa Lanza! No, we learn that when he was a boy, his hobby was killing small mammals by torture, until one day a blacksmith destroyed his trap and gave him a new mission in life. “I’ll give you 50 cents for every dragonfly you catch,” the old man said, and when the excited Little Lanza had caught one, the blacksmith made a model dragonfly out of iron rods. Oh, and he fixed a squeaky chimney cap by blowing it away with a shotgun. But it’s not dead! He’s sure it’s squeaking somewhere.
Someone needs to explain to Grandpa Lanza that the plural of anecdote is not data. And neither is the plural of senile rambling.
I’ve got to wonder: would the Inquisition give the maker of this toy a benediction, or would they tie him to a stick and set him on fire?
Also, could you get your money back if the loaves and fishes don’t multiply, or if the glow-in-the-dark hands fail to heal your skinned knee?
Let’s not even think about all the drunk kids reeling about when they use his power to turn water into wine.
