PZ and his Pusillanimous Pixies

As the most prominent atheist comedian on the planet,I give thanks to the many godless blessings that PZ Myers and his not-so-merry band of Girlyban Skepdinks have provided me. A virtual cornucopia of idiocracy to choose from. The only other comedic assignment with more low hanging fruit than I’ve been provided would have been writing jokes for Bill Mahr during the Bush administration. I could have never have imagined (We all knew!) it would still be going strong at this late stage of the game.

But I don’t make the news, I just report it. PZenu and the pusillanimous pixies of Feminology are holed up over at Pharyngula, which to those unfamiliar with Feminology, is the Internet equivalent of the safe haven carved out by Scientologists in Clearwater FL. Like their cohorts in nonsense, the Feminologists were quick to invent their own rules and jargon. Being blocked and banned as a suppressive person was their initial mimicry. Here we are a couple years on, and now they’ve got an automated process for blocking content off their computers that’s even slicker than the blocking software the Scientologists make their people use to protect them from vicious (truthful) Internet content!)

I swear on the imaginary soul of my long departed mother that I am only adding the tiniest bit of hyperbole as I recount these cult-like similarities, and we haven’t even touched on the Feminologist-specific jargon issue yet! Suffice to,say that those idiots over at Pharyngula HQ are so Out Tech on proper skepticism that rehabilitation seems out of the question. The girls over at the PeezOrg have spent way too much time hooked up to their she-meters. There is always a little hope for their recovery but that’s assuming you could wrestle them away from their firm grasp of PZenu’s balls in the first place (Please no photoshops! (I see it already!)) I run a clean ship over here.

This will probably break the heart and soul of those like Michael Nugent (pity the poor dumb bastard) who favor a policy of NOM (non overlapping menseshysteria) between skepticism and the outright bat shit insanity that appears in faithless femininity, but I see no place for allowing evidence free claims to invade and dilute organizational attention away from the mission of figuratively (trigger warning) bitch slapping creationists and Jeebus slobberers who employ the same techniques (tactics).

One final little dingle dongle to make note of. A sad reminder that the virulent nature of memes (both good and bad-thank you Richard Dawkins) goes on unabated, and can laterally transfer from one group of pusillanimous pixies to another. In the latest example it caused a death (of Adria Richard’s career) and she wasn’t even a part of the skeptic movement! It’s not “something in the water” at conferences or a germ picked up off an unsanitary toilet seat at the buffet restaurant loo (unless that’s where Adria happened to be sitting when she got infected reading the Rebecca Watson Slate article e.g.). There is protection available for those who need it. Simply following this blog or my Twitter feed is a good first step.

Hat Tip to the many positive women of skepticism. Their inspiration and support instills a tingling sense of wonder in the nether regions near my dangling tender jiggly bits. I would name them but I’d sound like Brigham Young reading off a list of his many wives and besides, I’d never kiss and tell.


Facebook Intervention – War on Christmas Edition

First Things First

As you read the following post, do not be fooled into thinking that I do not truly love Holli.  If I wasn’t old and married I would be like totally trying to do her.   “Tech Girlz Give Broader Bandwidth” has always been my motto. She knows male sexual peccadilloes better than a Black Ole Miss law student knows the escape routes from the Oxford campus. Also, this.
When Holli invokes the colorful images of her ‘big ole butt‘ near the very beginning of her FB post, it is no accident. It is a move designed specifically to get the southern boys all distracted from the nonsense of religion long enough that Miss Holli can scoop them into the waiting arms of imaginary Jeebus.
Holli is just so crafty and forward thinking with her feminine charms, I often find myself wondering, “How many a poor southern boy has been Shanghaied to imaginary Jeebus heaven while engrossed in drooling mental images of the aforementioned ba-dunka-dunk?”  I’d safely guesstimate at least a handful.  Maybe some percent of them think they see the face of imaginary Jeebus in the buttcrack of Holli’s ba-dunka-dunk?
(I would put MONEY on it…see below)
Wait a minute I can hear you all screaming!!  What kind of warped shit are you talking about Tim?  Is THIS what drugs does to you?  But hold on there my fair weather friends.  There really IS a Christian precedent for seeing imaginary Jeebus in buttcracks, so my invoking it in the hazing of Holli is entirely within the bounds of respectable human decency, (assuming that which goes on in the minds of Catholics seeing imaginary Jeebus in the Buttcrack of a seat cushion can be considered “respectable”).  But,…I digress.
Fortunately, Holli and I have a long and rather intimate (intimate makes it sound dirty which is why I used it) work relationship over a range of many years so I feel safe she will not rush to commit suicide over me giving her public post a closer examination and broader audience.

Buckle Up For Your Own Safety

Holli posted a rather spirited post to her public profile on Facebook that caught my attention, most likely because she “targeted my FB using her #madtechskillz and still harbors a secret crush on me (I am old, but dam if I am not still outstandingly “fabulous*)***.  Now that she has my attention, and I perhaps yours, please follow the bouncing ba-dunka-dunk down Facebook history lane with me for a very short trip back in time.

***May just be the strong essence of testosterone momentarily making me love myself more than usual, but if it helps an old man feel a tickle in his nether regions, can you honestly begrudge him (ok dammit, ME) the small measure of pleasure still available to a man so far along the Matrix timeline that his dangling jiggly bits are racing towards the canyon floor with a speed and intensity not seen in America since Evil Knievel was spotted plummeting to the bottom of Snake River Canyon in April, 1972?
If God is mad at me and extremely supportive of Holli, she is young and delicious enough just to send an evil prayer my way by winking suggestively at the creator and I’ll have a shorter life expectency than a ten dollar Walmart lawn chair at a Rankin County family reunion barbecue.  It’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Happy Holidays?

Holli wants you to know she has your Happy Holidays tied up in a knot, secure in a canvas bag (left over from when they used to sell bulk Mississippi pecans) and ready to drown in the big muddy, but I am paraphrasing a bit so see below for her impassioned first person account.  The Italian Male Catholic translation of Holli’s Feminine Baptist Message, condensed in the most simple form?  “I got yer’ Happy Holidays right down here in my pants buddy.  Why don’t you come over here and tickle my bells?”

And now, for the inimitable Ms. Holli Hayes (copied and pasted from FB):

12 hours ago near Pearl, MS ·

So now were upon the holidays. I have just heard happy holidays, happy holidays my big ole butt. It’s merry Christmas and if you don’t like it then pack your bags and find somewhere else to spread your pathetic rhetoric, Christ is every where in everything. Alway has always will…no matter how you political pansies try to push you liberal crap on everyone. So give all of us a break and kick Santa to the curb and give Jesus his glory so maybe we can all have harmony. Peace out.

Part Two – My Solitary Comment in reply to Holli

I am so happy to see the lovely and talented Ms Hayes feeling cheerful, even if she is doing the best imitation of “crazy homeless person screaming at me from the corner of Capitol and Pearl” that I have experienced since getting away from downtown Jackson. Thank you again Holli, for caring enough to take the time to share your thoughts with us today and for reminding me that the nostalgic reminiscences I naturally presupposed would eventually settle into the rose-colored recesses of my (sick) mind are in reality, riddled with recollections of nightmares collected at an old day job I held years ago in downtown jay town. But I digress.

One positive and notable aspect of Holli’s Holiday Laments & Rants – Unplugged (available on iTunes) that differs from your average Jackson street crazy is that she is not (yet) trying to bum a dollar (and/or a Marlboro Red) off me even if her incoherent babbling nonsense about SantaChristClaus does mimic that which I’ve witnessed in the lunatic street fringe who often roamed the alleys and loitered in the recesses of the downtown labyrinths where Holli and I made our living once upon a time. But I digress.

First Rule of crazy street people panhandling is to never give EVEN one of the crazy street people a buck even one time. Disregard this advice and quicker than an Asian wannabe Gordon Ramsey can whip up a batch of Gen Tso’s Chicken (using nothing more than an old newspaper, a spatula and a lost puppy)*, an entire throng of mysteriously toothless street people will be gumming you up for a handout. (*Hardcore Iron Wok follows Hardcore Pawn on A&E) But I digress.

We were all natural targets, working in that Mad Men era skyscraper. We all smelt of money, and often dressed as sharp as Don or Peggy if Hawaiin Shirt Friday is ever to hold any sanctity at all (Hi Robin) . You can’t really blame another human, crazy or otherwise, for envying your advance placement in a structure oozing with the essence of Don Draper while simultaneously serving as the best dam fallout shelter a group of rich Jackson business people could cobble together at the end of the cold war. Someplace to bunker down with the other 1% if the Reds decided to push the button down. (I never much worried over the commie threat. I choose to remain calm unless Alabama get the bomb). But I digress.

This is all about Holli “mimicking” the crazy street people described in the paragraphs above, and what is, I fear, a troubling sign of a possible “crazy religious lady” infection.

She may have picked it up accidentally by being forced into sharing the same filthy urban air as the crazy people! Maybe something crawled off one of them and bit her down in the basement of the building? I have seen it happen on a lot of SciFi dramas. One thing for sure, that basement definitely didn’t reek of the scent of Don Draper and 60’s Playboy models!!

Smelled more like dirty gym socks and roach shit with just a dash of added vomit stink from drunken coworker spewing gack all over the work stations (Hi Pete!). Who knows what mutant southern fungi or microbe we were all exposed to back then? I may have inadvertently created the monster infection that seems to be ravaging Holli’s brain and causing what looks like a bad case of delusion, as she is starting to identify imaginary Jeebus with imaginary success of Romney and Karl Rove Republicans. Shit just gets weirder and spookier for her from here on out if we don’t identify and isolate the contagion. My confession:

For scientific reasons, I got in the habit of “feeding” the large tropical plant in the office the last bit of coffee from the bottom of my cup each morning. It was a fairly large cup. I figured it would keep the plant watered WHILE providing a bit of the same caffeine boost that I had found so helpful in keeping me awake during my daylong marathon work sessions (playing Minefield on Win95). Plus, “Brawdo, it’s got electrolytes”.

This ritual of me using pseudo (aka Hillbilly) Brawdo on the office plant went on for at least a couple weeks until a stench developed that was so pervasive it scared the stink from Pete’s carpet vomit half way down the highway to Rankin County (where it is presumed to be “hooking up” with family).

A very brave female coworker (Hi Summer) rather than calling the Environmental Protection Agency, poison control, or Seal Team Six (as would have been prudent), helped me remove and destroy the stinking mutant ‘thing’ in an alley behind the building. It was the same alley I used to hide from the street people (while taking one of MY company provided smoke breaks). I never missed a chance to replace what I perceived as the dangerous fumes of basement funk, toner cartridge dust and radon gas particulates with something a bit more healthy, in this instance, the “gases” that come out of a Marlboro Red if you puff on the filter end while holding a match to the other.

At the end of the day, I worry for Holli. This crazy old lady religious syndrome can lead to all kinds of weird thinking. You can get Mitt Romney and imaginary Jeebus all mixed up in your head. At a minimum, I could literally SEE AND FEEL the veins about to pop in her head as I read Holli’s rants. You probably recognize it too, now that I pointed it out so well.

Few treatment options exist but science is striving to find a cure for Holli’s delusions and I for one, having been a friend and coworker for years, will not stand silently by and watch her brain start to melt and come out of her ears, which could happen just about any second now…..3…2…..1…

People often ask me why I don’t fear hell and damnation. Simple answer. I survived Jackson MS for 25 years. I can easily quench the fires of Lucifer with the piss generated by my weak bladder and a 40 ounce Old Milwaukee.