And the little douchenozzle’s angry diatribe just confirms that fact.
Pharyngula
Evolution, development, and random biological ejaculations from a godless liberal
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.
I am not easily grossed out, but this story hit me on a couple of levels.
Ex-porn star Houston says she became so used to marketing her celebrity status that when she got a labiaplasty, it was a no-brainer to encase her labia “trimmings” in lucite and sell them.
Labiaplasty is simply another form of female genital mutilation, so I find that repellent. That women feel compelled to get their genitals sculpted to fit some inappropriate ideal is criminal (the rest of the article at that link talks about how society discards porn stars). And that some sick, sick man has these lumps of flesh displayed on his mantel somewhere … what the heck is wrong with you?
I don’t want to know what that guy (and you know it is a guy) is doing with them.
Here, quick, puppies! Think about cute little baby puppies!
Awww, urge to hork fading…fading…gone.
I’m going to my high school reunion later this summer, and I’ve just had a revelation that will color the experience. A Catholic philosopher has exposed the awful truth.
In the column, published last week, the writer argued that one reason the children of gay parents should not be admitted to Catholic schools is the “real danger” that they would bring pornography to school.
I remember high school, and I remember some of the guys who would bring porn to school, or had it in their homes. I remember groups of guys getting together on the football field to snigger over the latest centerfold.
I had no idea they were all gay! Or that their parents were gay!
I’m going to have to bring that up at the party. I’m hoping that all those jocks have melted down into plump balding insurance salesmen, though, so I don’t get beat up too bad.
I’m still baffled by one thing, though. Why were all those hedonistic gay boys drooling over pictures of naked girls? I don’t think I saw a single scrap of gay porn until the internet was discovered and fundamentalist Christians started sending me pictures of men having sex with each other.
Oh, sure, this strategem may have given the LA Dodgers an edge for a few seasons:
Frank and Jamie McCourt, the multi-millionaire owners of the LA Dodgers, have been revealed to have employed a Russian scientist to beam thought waves to boost the team’s chances.
That’s over now, though. I urge all loyal readers to close your eyes, face LA, and beam baseball hatred at them. To really potentiate the effect, you can also wiggle your fingers and go “Nnnn-nna-nna-naaaaa” or speak in tongues while doing it. We’re also going to pray for the New York Yankees*. Dodgers are dooooomed!
Although…
According to Bill Shaikin of the LA Times, the McCourts paid Vladimir Shpunt several hundred thousand dollars over five years to apply his “V energy” and help the Dodgers to victory. Between 2004, the first season under the McCourts’ ownership, and 2009, Shpunt was retained for Dodgers matches, despite the fact that he knew little about baseball.
…you know, “Vladimir Shpunt” is an awesome name for a Russian woo artist.
I might also be persuaded to end my campaign of psychic oppression for a few hundred thousand dollars, myself.
*Don’t worry about it, we’re atheists and already going to hell, so rooting for Satan’s favorite team won’t do you any more harm.
Sadly for them, someone told them it meant relations in public.
It’s hard to believe that no one at the magazine looked at that cover and noticed that it might have some unfortunate associations, especially given recent church history. Either they are extraordinarily naive, rather stupid, or somebody on the inside was engaging in a little media sabotage.
It’s a conspiracy. I was sent another magazine cover.
Yeah, the Catholic church is full of mass debaters.
