The cuttlesignal went off the other day–I’ve misplaced the link, but it was another case of pareidolia; a business was in tough times and needed a sign that everything was going to be ok, and then *drumroll, angelic trumpets* the image of Jesus appeared in a flag, or a towel, or an awning, I forget which. It hit the news when a local priest agreed to go check it out–and of course, business at that [water park, I think] has been booming. It helps that there has been a heat wave, after two consecutive summers of record rainfall during the busy season. But I guess this was just J’s way of making sure we all knew who was responsible for the good weather.

And I started thinking–are there ever any of these cases where someone sees Christ in their shower curtain and thinks “eww, mold–I’d better clean” instead of “call the priest and FOX news!”? I mean, there have got to be times when Jesus is just not the guy you want hanging around… (for my non-USA readers, “Hints from Heloise” is a newspaper advice column with household cleaning and cooking tips.)

Dear Heloise, I’m writing cos I need some good advice,
And I knew that this was trouble, by the time I’d washed it twice
It’s a rather dicey problem, so I hope you’ll be discreet:
See, I’ve got the face of Jesus on my sheet.

It all started when I noticed, just a week ago, a stain;
It was still there after washing, but I’m not one to complain
If it’s clean enough for sleeping on, there’s nothing more to do
But my girlfriend had a different point of view

We were heading for the bedroom for a bit of bad behavior
When my girlfriend was distracted by the visage of Her Savior
And I knew, as of that moment, I was wholly out of luck,
Cos my girlfriend won’t let Jesus watch us fuck.

Just a bit of dirty laundry
But it’s got me in a quandary
So I’m asking you to help me get it clean
Cos I’d love to do some sinnin’
But with Jesus on my linen
I’ve a snowball’s chance in hell to get obscene

I’ve tried OxyClean and Method; I’ve tried Gain, and All, and Tide;
I could sit here twenty minutes, listing all the things I’ve tried
I’ve tried bleaching and ammonia, but I’ve only met defeat;
There is still the face of Jesus on my sheet!

I could make a bit of money if I called the local priest,
And the local news affiliates—or email FOX, at least,
All the money-making options leave me dizzy in the head
When I only want to get my girl in bed

If I tell her it’s spaghetti sauce, or motor oil, or semen,
She would hit me with her rosary and shun me as a demon
So I’m asking you, Dear Heloise, cos you’re my only hope,
Have you got a special Christ-removing soap?

So the problem, as I tol’ ya
Is annoying pareidolia
She sees Jesus Christ, where Jesus really ain’t
Though my Mary ain’t a virgin
She’ll need more than simple urgin’
Cos with Christ around, she’s acting like a saint

…

I could soak and boil and scrub it, for forever and a day
Or just give it to my girlfriend, and then send them both away
Cos the problem’s not the image, when you get right down to facts,
No, the problem is in how the world reacts.

There was Christ in a potato; there was Satan in a cloud;
There were things in Rorschach inkblots that we dared not speak aloud
It’s a feature of perception, not a puzzle to perplex
So go on, let Jesus watch you having sex!

I’d shill for a shilling
But no one is willing
To pay for the things that I write.
I’d rant and I’d holler
For minimum dollar
But no one is offering, quite.
A couple of euros
To stuff in my bureau’s
Sufficient for verses like these;
Though some call it whoring,
I’m begging–imploring–
Come, sully my principles, please!
If someone would shell out,
I’d promise to sell out–
My standards, I’ll keep in my purse–
For now, though, I’m sighing
Cos no one is buying…
And all I can write is Free Verse.

Originally posted at ERV.

Ok, the truth is, I once got an offer of some money to put an advert anywhere on the right side of the page. I don’t think I ever replied, because frankly I did not believe it could possibly be a serious offer!

The internet’s a funny place
For learning or for study–
Compared to books, a different pace,
And apt to be more muddy;
An ADHD metaphor,
Abstraction in mosaic;
A banquet for an omnivore
That’s more than most can take;
It’s drinking from the firehose;
It’s rumors, lies, and flames,
Where no one seems to care for clothes
And people make up names.
Where idiots who’ve learned to type
Can act as Trusted Source,
Spew propaganda, spin, and hype
And change a nation’s course!

But let’s not go all addle-brained
In praise of books in print;
Their reputation’s not un-stained
(Not even if we squint)
The printed book of days gone by,
That stalwart of the ages–
It seems to me, a lie’s a lie,
In pixels or in pages.
If better days are sorely missed;
Of elevated worth;
The New York Times Best-Seller List
Will bring you down to earth.
The books that people buy, I’ll bet,
Are rarely what they need–
And books, as well as internet
Can mangle and mislead.

When reading leads to tedium,
Both book and web are one:
It’s writing that’s the medium–
Not rare, and not well done.

Context: David Brooks in NYTimes
Cuttlecap tip to Adam Bly’s new blog.

With all those arms (or are they legs?)
The octopus named Paul now pegs
The Spanish team to win the day,
Or so the German papers say.

With all those legs (or are they arms?)
Paul’s pick makes Germans sound alarms—
The credulous are worried sick
Since Paul has made his octo-pick

But me? I’ve seen the Germans play;
I’ll go out on a limb today
(And since I’ve two more limbs than Paul,
My pick is better, all in all)

I’ll choose the Germans over Spain;
The octopus has picked in vain!
His streak will end, once I have won!
(And yes, I know… it’s just for fun.)

Of course, no one really believes the superstitious claptrap that an octopus can see the future. Besides, why just *see* the future, when you can influence it?

Germany coach Joachim Loew says he will wear his blue sweater during the match because it has brought him good luck. “I am not superstitious, but the coaching staff want me to wear it because we always score four goals when I wear it,” he said. “They won’t let me wash it and I do think I will wear it again.”

Source

Update: Ok, I was wrong and the octopus was right. My only excuse (cos, the thing is, I was wrong) is that when I made my pick, I had forgotten that Muller had picked up a second yellow and was out for today’s game. Good luck to Spain, but my hearts are with The Netherlands!

In Iran, Sakineh Mohammadie Ashtiani has been sentenced to death, by stoning, for adultery. There have been 126 executions in Iran thus far this year (as of June 6). There have been 30 in the US, as of last week.

Pick a stone, and feel its heft;
We want to make this last.
Convicted of adultery,
She should not die too fast.
The whore confessed to all her sins
Beneath the lash’s sting—
By number 99, of course
She’d say most any thing—
Now we, as Allah’s instruments
Must rob her of her breath;
The law’s the law, and clearly calls
For stoning her to death

Her acts were unforgivable;
We’re righteous as we kill–
Her act was human selfishness
While ours is Allah’s will

From CNN:

A veteran Iranian human rights activist has warned that Sakineh Mohammadie Ashtiani, a mother of two, could be stoned to death at any moment under the terms of a death sentence handed down by Iranian authorities.
[….]
Ashtiani, 42, will be buried up to her chest, according to an Amnesty International report citing the Iranian penal code. The stones that will be hurled at her will be large enough to cause pain but not so large as to kill her immediately.

The perky breasts of mannequins
Inflame the poor Irannequins;
Because their lust could not be sated
They had the boobies amputated!
Now, lest you think their actions drastic–
Plastic surgery on plastic–
The clerics claim they had good cause
To hack away at tits with saws;
There is, I think perhaps, an answer–
A cause as cruel, as dire as cancer:

Religion is the real disease
That led to these mastectomies.

Image source. Cuttlecap tip to PZ.

So I heard, today—you’re dying; God has blessed you with a cancer
In the past, a certain-death-by-torture sentence.
So I send congratulations! “Why?” you ask; well, here’s my answer:
Now there’s time and motivation for repentance!

Since the hand of God has touched you, with His doom-inflicting fingers
Your esophageal cancer is sublime!
And I wish for you the type of death that lingers, lingers, lingers,
With the merciful benevolence of time!

You have time to turn to Jesus, and to thank your carcinoma
If you’ll listen to Our Lord Almighty’s voice
Just repent to God, your savior, just before you lapse to coma,
Cos Jehovah gave you time to make your choice

If you choose to shun the chance to make a godly new beginning
And you tell yourself it’s really just as well
Then you’re reaping what you’ve sown, and since you spent your life a-sinning
Then I hope you like eternity in Hell!

Context.

Apparently it is Zombie Day over on ScienceBlogs. I never get those memos. Anyway, I’m reposting a couple of Zombie-themed verses from a while ago, just for fun.

Mmmmm…Brains…

The delicious brains of Jessica Hagy, that is. I can’t believe I had never seen her site before Pharyngula posted this one:

I commented there, but added a few more stanzas here…

We struggle in vain to distinguish a Mass
From your typical Zombie behavior
As they guzzle down red by the bottle or glass
And delight in Filet of Our Savior.

Perhaps it’s a matter of what’s on the menu;
Your Catholic is more of a snacker,
But if you feel teeth on your shoulder, why, then you
Know zombies want more than a cracker.

When Jesus said “This is my blood that you drink,
And this is my body you eat”
Did something he knew of their tastes make him think
They were zombies, and lusting for meat?

Did the Catholic Church, from the time of Saint Peter,
Rejoice in the words that he said,
And at least once a week, become Zombie flesh-eater
And feast upon Jesus Undead?

I worry it’s some sort of slippery slope
Where they struggle ‘gainst gravity’s chains
And I wonder if Ratzinger got to be Pope
By eating the Cardinals’ brains.

I awoke one early morning, stretched my toes to reach the floor;
Trying not to wake the dog up as I shuffled to the door.
I was quiet as a whisper as I tiptoed down the hall—
Then it struck me, that I wasn’t being skeptical at all!

I’d assumed I had awakened, but perhaps it wasn’t me—
It could possibly be someone else, or maybe two or three!
I’ve experienced illusions, and perhaps this was the case
(After all, the room was dimly lit; I couldn’t see my face!)

I’d assumed the floor would hold my weight, and wasn’t boiling hot,
I’d assumed my bed was on the floor, but maybe it was not;
Had I walked along the ceiling? Was the gravity turned on?
Was it possibly the clouds that I had trod my toes upon?

So I poured a cup of coffee, and I listened to the news,
Where some talking heads were arguing with one another’s views,
These were unfamiliar topics, but I knew which thoughts to trust—
But that isn’t “being skeptical” the way I know I must!

Maybe this time it was special–maybe this time (what the heck?)
Maybe everyone should listen, just this one time, to Glenn Beck–
Maybe Hell had frozen over–who was I to know for sure?–
Maybe bounty was now growing where there once was just manure.

Had I traded in my frontal lobe, and final shreds of sanity,
The fence that keeps the normal folk from buying into Hannity?
I know I must be skeptical, but… must I all the time?
Can I trust that when you read these lines, you’ll notice that they rhyme?

Long ago, a pedant told me “every time that you assume,
You make…” Likely he’d continued; I’d already left the room.
When he chased me down to finish it, I told the pedant “Hey,
Don’t assume I give a damn about a thing you have to say!”

Or at least, I think I said it–at the time, at least, it seemed
Quite unlikely that the episode was something I had dreamed
Looking back, I have to wonder; as a skeptic, I must doubt,
Cos it seems to me more likely I’d just suck it up and pout.

But the moral of the story, if a moral can be found,
Is that skepticism’s wonderful, and good to have around,
But it isn’t all-or-nothing, it’s a matter of degree;
Don’t demand it, but encourage it, is how it seems to me.

(and yes, I know I am conflating modern skepticism with Cartesian, but that’s where the muse dragged me.)

In the little bits and pieces I’ve deciphered from the news,
As I search the databases for the tiniest of clues,
I’ve discovered there’s a pattern, and it’s filling me with fear:
Seems the animals are gearing up, and we provide their gear!

From genetic alterations making salmon grow much faster
(Which I swear I saw on SyFy, though the film was a disaster)
To a cute bionic kitty, newly fitted with faux paws,
There are animals aplenty, each ignoring nature’s laws!

When they modified a rabbit (which is now ten years ago!)
With a little bit of jellyfish, to make the bunny glow,
Why, it set the critics moaning, “We are turning into gods!”
They all knew where we were heading, and they didn’t like the odds.

Now the streets are filled with unicorns and twenty-five-foot spiders,
The apocalyptic nightmares feared by government insiders
And the necessary outcome (well, that’s what the papers say)
Of the scientific progress we rely upon today.

So let’s put a stop to science! In your heart, you know we should!
It can only lead to evil; it has never led to good!
It is mankind’s worst invention, we acknowledge (to our shame)–
If I live to be a hundred, I say science gets the blame!

Inspired by the comments at the NYTimes following the first linked story above.