Phun Stuff!

For those of you (the majority, I would guess, based on the site statistics) who do not read the comments to these posts, you are missing some fun! I am getting my metrical, metaphorical and metaphysical ass kicked by Phunicular on the Daniel Dennett post; what is more, Phunicular is serving up this can of whupass in wonderful verse! (If you are fundamentally, morally opposed to reading comments, at least some of the Phun stuff is here, in a recent series of posts.)

Now... I need to compose another reply. I know what I want to say; I just need to find the right words to say it. This is not nearly as easy as Phunicular makes it look! (And now I must actually stop browsing through Phunicular's writing and post this; I see his cunning plan now--distract me with all sorts of wonderful writing...)

Cunningly, funningly,
Phriendly Phunicular
Shares in the lyrical
Cuttlefish curse.

Some say obsession is
Psychopathology;
We say, of everything,
"It could be verse."

The Distillation of Religious Truth

PZ reports on a very silly UN resolution, which attempts to make defamation of religion illegal.

The major religions all gathered together
To fathom the depths of god’s will
They listed their tenets, examining whether
There’s Ultimate Truth to distill.

There were some that rejected a literal Jesus
And some the Nicenean Creed;
But by carefully looking though all of the pieces
There’s one thing to which they agreed:

I’m right and you’re wrong, I’m right and you’re wrong,
Come gather together and join in my song
You can all go to hell, which is where you belong,
With your stupid beliefs, ‘cos I’m right and you’re wrong

They argued all week over “one god or many?”
Original sin, and the role of The Fall
The atheists said they believed in “not any”
Which hardly, to me, is religion at all!

They spoke up for Allah, and Loki, and Isis
They pounded their desks till their knuckles were sore—
Then, just when the argument bordered on crisis
Agreement was found, and they started to roar:

I’m right and you’re wrong, I’m right and you’re wrong,
Come gather together and join in my song
You can all go to hell, which is where you belong,
With your stupid beliefs, ‘cos I’m right and you’re wrong

For every religion, each cult, sect, or practice,
Each prayer, incantation, recital or song
A neutral observer would notice the fact is
That other religions all thought it was wrong!

Much bloodier, though than a plain disagreement,
These differences lead to crusade or jihad
The leaders each saw, though, to just let it be, meant
That people might realize they don’t need a god!

So, enemies once, now they joined protestations,
Their new common cause made them pause to reflect,
They petitioned the world, through the United Nations
To legislate everyone equal respect.

They couldn’t admit to the truth—quite unwilling,
They couldn’t admit that it all was a fraud
They glossed over eons of torture and killing
Pretending to worship the very same God:

We’re right and they’re wrong, we’re right and they’re wrong,
Come gather together and join in our song
They can all go to hell, which is where they belong,
With their stupid beliefs, ‘cos we’re right and they’re wrong





Ok... for those of you who lasted through that, a reward: an actual worthwhile bit about politics and religion, from the amazingly talented international rock-star, Tim Minchin:

The Creationism Dance

The NPR story has legs, as they say; today's verse is inspired by the comment thread on the Darwin story, which as of this writing has 338 comments, and is well worth a read. [oops--spoke too soon--NPR has closed commenting on the thread, so it no longer has legs. It was extremely mild when compared to, say, a Pharyngula thread, but NPR must have more delicate stomachs. It is still worth a read, although now I cannot link this verse to the thread. boo hoo.]

The Creationism Dance:

I don’t know evolution, but I know what I believe,
My scientific ignorance worn proudly on my sleeve;
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know what we’ll find
When we look to find the origin of mind.

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

We know the human eye is irreducibly complex
We know that Adam saddled a Tyrannosaurus Rex
We know that Darwin’s theory has a monumental hole
When it comes to evolution of the soul

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

When scientists explain the evolution of the eye
I’ll never understand it—I don’t even want to try—
As they go through my objections and they check them off the list
I’ll keep looking for the ones that they have missed.

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

I'll check to see they dot each i, make sure they cross each t,
And thank the Lord such scrutiny does not apply to me
If they can't prove their case beyond a shadow of a doubt
Then god is what creation's all about!

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

The board of education knows exactly what to do
I've told them "keep an open mind and teach both points of view!
The one with all the evidence and logic on its side,
And the will of God, which cannot be denied!"

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

And once we've done Biology, we'll hit the others, too--
Astrology and alchemy are honest points of view
We'll teach them demonology, and when they've swallowed that,
We can show them that the earth is really flat!

I look to evolution and I see the hand of God
This universe could not arise by chance!
But teaching that’s illegal, so I’ll throw up a façade
And we’re doing the creationism dance!

Say It Ain't So, NPR!

In National Public Radio's series Darwin: The Reluctant Revolutionary, we get this story: Doubting Darwin: Debate Over The Mind's Evolution. An interesting possibility, actually; I could think of a number of fascinating guests to interview on this.

But not Michael Egnor. This story is no place for a creationist's ignorant spiel.

Egnor says that an intelligent designer was involved in producing not only the brain but all living things and certain features of the universe. Without this designer, the brain would be just a meat computer made up of brain cells, he says.

"There is nothing about neurons that scientifically would lead you to infer consciousness from them. They're masses of gelatinous carbon and hydrogen and nitrogen and oxygen, just like other kinds of flesh. And why would flesh have first-person experience? So, even logically, it doesn't hang together."

In real life, I have had this debate many times. It can be a great experience, and there really is a tremendous amount of evidence to bring to bear. But again, not Michael Egnor.

"My personal view is that we have souls and that they're created by God. But you don't have to hold that view to recognize what I think is the evidence that the mind is not entirely material."

Big claims of evidence... but he's brought a cork-gun to the O.K. Corral.

He simply does not deserve to be in the NPR story. There is too much good information to waste a second of airtime to his drivel.

It is wholly unsurprising a creationist dismisses
Scientific contributions to the study of the mind;
When your theory’s based in ignorance (in such a case as this is)
Your omnipotent creator shrinks with every fact you find.

Every question that is answered using evidence and logic
Is a blow to the creationists, and likewise to their God;
They prefer to couch their arguments in speeches demagogic—
An appeal to base emotion with a sciency façade.

Michael Egnor has a history of pure apologetics;
As a scientific expert, there is nothing to his rant.
Could he cite a proper journal for his odd take on genetics?
I am certain he would do it in a heartbeat—but he can’t.

This is clearly not a story with two equal sides competing;
The minority opinion Egnor holds is quite bizarre;
In the march of human knowledge, it’s a view that’s fast retreating,
And I’m fairly disappointed that it’s here on NPR.

The Digital Pack-Rat, volume 12

Ok, the first is from here--a bit of a discussion about a badly reviewed journal article "Mitochondria, the missing link between body and soul: Proteomic prospective evidence".

Creationists' goal is to prove there's a soul
That's impossible to have evolved;
The task is quite trying; instead, they keep lying,
And think that their problem is solved.
These pinhead god-floggers just woke up the bloggers
Who slapped them back down to their place;
With options now fewer, they'll try something newer;
A godly stupidity race.


Next, from here, a comment on the observation that creationist cure for so very many physical ailments is... enemas. The nature of the problem hardly seems to matter--if there is half a chance they can make a badly-argued connection (and remember, making badly argued connections is a property of creationists in the same way that inertia is a property of matter), they will prescribe a high colonic for everything from the common cold to lung cancer.

Creationist pinheads and half-wits and numbskulls--
You name it; Pharyngula's got 'em.
Some people go straight to the doctor for pains:
These people go straight to the bottom.
No antibiotics! No surgery! Nothing!
The Bible says "this too shall pass"
We only want medicine Jesus approves of...

So here, stick this hose up your ass.


I don't tend to include limericks in the pack-rat series, but these I enjoyed. One of PZ's fans had written him... long on words, short on paragraphs or content. And, as per policy, PZ presented it in his traditional Comic Sans font.

"I get email"; we know what comes next
In this case, an immense wall of text--
So there's no other choice
But the standard "kook voice"--
Comic sans, pathologically vexed

We know briefness contributes to wit
And this fellow, he wanders... a bit.
And although there is levity
In sheer lack of brevity,
More words: greater chance that it's shit.



Lastly, the most recent kerfuffle in Washington State, where a legislator is concerned that the Supreme Ruler Of The Universe is getting short shrift. Of course, I would kinda think that a supreme ruler could take care of him, her, it, or themself(ves), but rep. Struiksma apparently thinks God--er, the supreme ruler of the universe could use her help. Seems she has more power in this than the SROTU does.

If this ruler really rules,
then the courts and laws and rules
Are already gleaming jewels
in his crown.
Does she think that we are fools,
She can use us as her tools?
Let’s just wait until she cools
A little down.

Does she think her ruler shy?
If we slight him, will he cry?
After all, she does imply
In her bill
That our power to deny
Is sufficient to defy,
Overcome, and say good-bye
To his will.

If this bill of hers should pass
Then her power would surpass
Her god’s greatness, and alas,
She’d be greater
Which, although it may be crass,
Means this legislative ass
Joins the new and higher class
Of “creator”.



Poor lady. I bet she doesn't even suspect that the Supreme Ruler Of The Universe is a cuttlefish. Or that he really doesn't care about recognition by Washington State.

The Theist And The Blade Of Grass

John Holbo of Crooked Timber has newly acquired a wonderful old book, in which he finds a poem, "The Atheist and the Acorn" (hat tip to PZ for the link). Go read it! Then maybe my little verse will make more sense.


Methinks this “God” is strangely made
For something of such worth,
An introspective theist said
As plucked he up a single blade
Of grass, from off the earth:

Behold, quoth he, this tiny thing,
This single blade of grass,
Enough to make Walt Whitman sing—
They grow in millions every spring
Unnoticed as we pass.

But God counts every single leaf,
Each hair upon your head
(For bald men, he just counts their grief)
The reason that we know? In chief,
It’s what the Bible said.

But where is God when good men die
In wars, fought in His name?
He counts the grass—He can’t deny
He hears the wounded moan and cry—
He sits there, to His shame.

He mustn’t think; he mustn’t doubt,
This theist on the lawn;
His worship must remain devout;
One thought that he might do without
And poof—his God is gone.

He cannot help but smile and nod
It feels so good; so right.
He’d looked upon the face of God
And found it merely a façade—
And now he’s seen the light.

God's Hands

"Hold up your hands before your eyes. You are looking at the hands of God."
– Rabbi Lawrence Kushner

If my hands are god’s hands, and god’s hands are mine,
And god has no hands of his own
There’s nothing that I can achieve with god’s help
I can’t do myself, all alone.

I’ve heard that he once had unlimited power
I don’t really see it today;
It seems he grows weaker with each passing hour
And now he just gets in the way.

I’m taking the middleman out of the picture—
This “god” isn’t pulling his weight—
He doesn’t do well with corrections or stricture
And doesn’t show up much, of late.

If I did my job the way god’s doing his
I would surely expect to be fired;
Omnipotent? Impotent! All that he is
Is a loser; it’s time he retired.

If god’s hands are my hands, and my hands are god’s
But wait—there’s one thing to recall—
The truth is, it’s infinitesimal odds
There was ever a god there at all!

If my hands are my hands, and your hands are yours,
And god's hands—let's face it—are none,
There's a long list of problems that god just ignores:
Come on, then—there's work to be done!

Urine For A Big Surprise!

Via Effect Measure, a story of a religiously-motivated culinary revolution--or, at least, a taste revolution. Reuters reports:

NEW DELHI, Feb 12 (Reuters Life!) - A hardline Hindu organisation, known for its opposition to "corrupting" Western food imports, is planning to launch a new soft drink made from cow's urine, often seen as sacred in parts of India.

The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), or National Volunteer Corps, said the bovine beverage is undergoing laboratory tests for the next 2 to 3 months but did not give a specific date for its commercial release.

they expect big things:

"Cow urine offers a cure for around 70 to 80 incurable diseases like diabetes. All are curable by cow urine," Om Prakash, the head of the RSS Cow Protection Department, told Reuters by phone.

Prakash, who is based in Hardwar, one of four holy Hindu cities on the river Ganges where the world's largest religious gathering takes place, said the product will be sold nationwide but did not rule out international success.

And here some people thought Pepsi Clear was a daring move.

Anyway, I have been working on their jingle, should they decide to enter the US market.


I don’t like the taste of Pepsi,
I don’t like the taste of Coke;
Dr. Pepper’s not the drink for me right now.
7-up and Sprite are dreadful
Every Root Beer is a joke;
What I really want is urine. From a cow.

If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!
If you think the taste of piss is bliss, it only costs a buck!
If you want to float your kidneys, you can buy it by the truck—
If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!

I don’t want to drink the Kool-Aid
I don’t want a mug of juice;
I don’t even want a tall glass of iced tea.
I’d really hate a cold V-8—
That’s vegetable abuse—
What I really want’s a cup of bovine pee!

If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!
If you think the taste of piss is bliss, it only costs a buck!
If you want to float your kidneys, you can buy it by the truck—
If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!

It’s a cure for diabetes,
It’s the finest healer known—
You will never need another drink than this!
In the battle of the soft drinks
This elixir stands alone,
And I guarantee it really tastes like piss!

If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!
If you think the taste of piss is bliss, it only costs a buck!
If you want to float your kidneys, you can buy it by the truck—
If you like the taste of urine, you’re in luck!

Daniel Dennett's Darwin Day Delivery

As I mentioned on Pharyngula, I was invited by a philosopher friend to attend the Darwin Day talk by Daniel Dennett, at Framingham State College. The talk, "Darwin and the Evolution of Reasons", was interesting, and meta-interesting; it not only was a good presentation of memetic evolution, it was a good demonstration of it as well, with successful elements of his earlier talks replicating themselves in this one. (Also, in a vivid display of horizontal meme transfer, I invite any who saw Dennett's talk to also watch Sue Blackmore's TED talk, to count the number of similar memes. For those who did not see Dennett, the Blackmore talk will give you the gist of it. No, they are not identical; variety exists among members of this species.)

After the talk (and the exodus of rude students who must have been there only for class credit), Dennett invited questions from the audience. Two (or maybe three; my notes are not clear) questions stood out for me, questions which explored Dennett's claim that, despite our robots-made-of-robots-made-of-robots bodies, and the unthinking replicant memes infecting our brains, we humans have free will--a free will of the sort worth having. The last questioner asked whether we were actually free moral agents, or whether we were the hosts to parasitic moral memes; Dennett's reply did not really satisfy me (nor my philosopher friend). Dennett made the analogy (a big part of his talk, too) of eukaryotic cells enjoying the benefits of the combined prokaryotic cells which compose them, and of humans enjoying the benefits of our symbiotic memes. All well and good, as far as that goes, but it seemed a strain to speak of memes as evolving separately, substrate-free, not caring about their human hosts other than as a means to reproduction, and then to turn around and claim that as a portion of our free will!

Perhaps I am misunderstanding him, but I have certainly read enough of his writing to doubt that, and I have read enough to know that Dennett misunderstands some aspects of some areas of my own expertise (which I would go into detail about, but it would rather get in the way of trying to remain an anonymous cuttlefish), so I have no illusion that he is infallible.

In another example of memetic transfer, I offer a replicated song. The structure (and tune, if you are inclined to sing it) are replicated from the original by Joni Mitchell; the first replication by Judy Collins shows that structure, descended with modifications in the chords, can successfully sell. Both versions are beautiful. Mine, less so.
Memes, it seems, are parasites
Inside our minds, so Dennett writes;
Poetic turns, and verbal flights
Evolving in our brains
But then he claims that we are free
To choose among the things we see
It doesn’t fit, it seems to me,
His explanation strains

I’ve looked at memes and at free will
From every way I can, but still
In spite of Dennett’s siren call
I don’t believe we’re free… at all

Memes are things that replicate
At really an astounding rate
From blind selection, they create
A culture that evolves
But now the concept gives me pause
I’ve got to stop and look for flaws
This explanation—might it cause
More problems than it solves?

I’ve looked at memes and at free will
From every way I can, but still
In spite of Dennett’s siren call
I don’t believe we’re free… at all

Love and hate and peace and war
Are memes that were selected for
Dreams and themes you can’t ignore—
Memetic, every one.
It seems the memes are in control
They take the place, they play the role
We used to say required a soul
Now souls are all undone

I’ve looked at memes and at free will
From every way I can, but still
In spite of Dennett’s siren call
I don’t believe we’re free… at all

A Down-Under Valentine

I don't think I'll ever quite get the hang of this time-space continuum thing. Here in the real world, it won't be Valentine's Day for many hours yet, but in the mystical Land of Oz, Valentine's day has been either here for hours or done and gone some weeks or years ago, I can't keep it straight. But just as ScienceWoman's boots inspired a verse, Podblack Cat's time-space coordinates, and her mere existence, inspired another. Happy Valentine's Day, Kiddo!


A Valentine’s poem for my sweetheart Down Under
Where summer is winter, and springtime is fall,
Where lightning is loud as the brightest of thunder
And dangerous drop-bears are feared most of all.

Down Under, where everything’s mixed up or backwards,
You have to be careful to mean what you say:
A whispered “I love you” is vicious attack words,
So what should I write on this Valentine’s Day?

I’ve heard it’s romantic, in Western Australia,
To bash someone’s head with a didgeridoo;
And a compliment—one guaranteed to not fail ya:
“Your lips are the bung of a red kangaroo!”

I’ll romantically fasten this poem to a brick,
And lovingly toss it through her window-glass:
“G’day to my sweetheart who’s making me sick:
Happy Valentine’s Day, you old pain in the ass!”

A Valentine From God

In the "small town news" file, this story made the front page!

Evelyn Ferland's Valentine's Day gift came two days early this year after the 70-year-old Newington resident woke up Thursday morning to find a giant heart shape had frozen into her backyard pond.

Ferland, along with eight other women in her Bible study group, all fell witness to the spectacle Thursday and have each deemed it to be "a Valentine's Day miracle."

I love the "fell witness to the spectacle" rather than "saw", and "deemed it to be" instead of "called it". Gotta have the right miracle language, after all.

Even Denise Williams-Labbe, 47, said she believes the formation of the heart shape was a gift from God.

"God made it and gave it to her (Ferland) as a Valentine," she added.

Because Ferland's home is located near the Pease Tradeport and planes carrying troops fly over the property all the time, Labbe said she believes the godly creation could be a special gift for the troops as well.

Ah, well, there you have it. It all makes sense now.

When Evelyn Ferland glanced out of her window
The ice on her pond looked a little bit odd;
In perfect proportions, a heart on the surface—
A valentine message, delivered by God.

Eight women, who gather to study the Bible
At Evelyn’s cabin each Thursday, agreed:
The image was clearly a Valentine Miracle;
God was the one who accomplished the deed.

The valentine sits where the planes fly above it,
Where troops from the tradeport could see it below.
One woman believes that’s the point of the message—
So soldiers can see that God loves them, you know.

How sweet, that this kind and omnipotent being
Should carve such a message, a beautiful heart
To lighten the spirits of soldiers returning
From war-zones, where God must refuse to take part.

I picture a soldier, returning from duty
Who looks out to see a heart, carved in the ice—
He scratches the stump where his leg once continued,
And knows that God loves him, and murmurs “how nice.”

Omnipotent God could bring peace to the people,
Iraq, or Afghanistan—far, far, beyond—
But God, it appears, is too busy to do it;
He’s carving a miracle heart on a pond.

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin (You Were Right)

On the newsstand at the station
There it was, a publication
With a bold prevarication
Where it asked “Was Darwin Wrong?”
Darwin stands among the giants
Of our modern view of science
So, in answer and defiance
I’m replying in this song:

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Variation in the features
Of all sorts of nature’s creatures
Was a sign of God, for preachers,
But you thought you’d take a look
It’s descent and not creation
That explains the population
So we start the celebration
For the guy who wrote the book

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

From the South Pacific Islands
To the bonny Scottish Highlands,
In the oceans and the dry lands
We can see the evidence.
From diversity most splendid,
We infer that we descended;
It was you who comprehended
And your impact was immense!

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Well, the theory you created
Has, for decades, been updated,
But it shouldn’t be unstated
That it all began with you
That’s the way with any theory
Though detractors may grow weary
As they try to make folks leery
But they can’t deny it’s true

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!




Yeah, it's still a day early here in Cuttletown, but it's been Darwin Day in Darwin for over 7 hours now!

I think the song is self-explanatory. If anyone finds a tune for it, let me know; I have one, but not one I am happy with.

An Uncommon Valentine Poem

Disclaimer: No, I am not in love with ScienceWoman. I don't even know her; I have never met her. I have never seen anything but her muddy boots. But something about those muddy boots triggered a Valentines Day verse-if her husband wants to steal it, he is more than welcome.

Here’s a valentine poem for an uncommon woman
An uncommon verse is the method that suits
It won’t be an ode to some delicate flower;
My love is a woman with mud on her boots.

Her hair is pulled back in a practical fashion
The dirt from her glove leaves a smudge on her cheek;
The sleeves of her sweatshirt rolled up to her elbow,
She’s beauty itself--but she’ll never be chic.

She’s smarter than I am, which isn’t surprising,
She’s comfortable both in the lab and the field
Gathering samples or sorting through data,
Excited to see what the process will yield.

I’ll take muddy boots over heels in a heartbeat,
The hand that I hold may have mud on its glove
This Valentines Day, here’s my uncommon poem
For my uncommon woman, the one that I love.


Further disclaimer: I have nothing against heels. A very dear friend has a collection of over 400 pairs, mostly unworn and collected for their artistic merit. But for any who think a stiletto is necessarily sexier than work boots... it ain't necessarily so.

Charles Darwin: The Singing Comedian

Ok, this guy is either my new hero or my nemesis. I haven't decided yet. (video at link)

Related story:

“Everyone should find his own Darwin,” Mr. Milner says. “The man was so large. He was a zoologist, a botanist, an explorer, a travel writer, a philosopher, an abolitionist, a doting father, a radical intellectual revolutionary with an utterly conservative and blemish-free lifestyle. He revolutionized every field he touched, and he was trained in none of them.”

O.K., he was large. Granted, there are many Darwins to find. But until Mr. Milner came along, no one had ever found Darwin the Singing Comedian. There were not a lot of laughs in “On the Origin of Species,” and its author said that just the thought of public speaking made him sick to his stomach. He had such bad stage fright that he asked someone else to read his landmark paper to the Linnean Society.

Somehow, though, Mr. Milner has turned the shy naturalist into a suavely bemused performer doing patter songs about trilobites, garfish and tortoise shells. (You can see excerpts at nytimes.com/science.)

My Darwin song will be up on or before Darwin Day, this Thursday.

Paranoia, Grandeur, and Red Ink

PZ reports on Daylight Atheism's recent emails...


Y'know what's fun? Putting yourself into the mindset of someone who writes that sort of letter. Imagining that every time you see someone whispering in someone else's ear, they are talking about you. Imagining that a national press conference contains secret messages, if only you can decode them. Imagining that there is this vast conspiracy of competent government workers, running the world from behind the scenes, and you are the only one who sees the puppet masters at work. Imagining that the buildings you don't go into don't even have to be finished on the inside, since the outside is all you will see. Imagining that just outside of your line of sight, people are planning what will happen to you. Paranoid, yes, but delusions of paranoia go hand in hand with delusions of grandeur. How important you must be, to have discovered this plot. How important you must be, to have such a vast conspiracy attempting to fool you.

Y'know what's not fun at all? Thinking that way all the time.


Dear sir--

I am writing this, in secret, with a pen dipped in my blood--
There are mind-controlling substances in ink--
To expose the vast conspiracy, existent since the flood,
That controls the way the common people think.
I have stumbled, inadvertently, upon the subtle plan,
And I'm worried that my life may be in danger;
It's the greatest vast conspiracy in all the reign of Man,
Which is why I'm writing you, a perfect stranger.
When I tell my friends and family, they merely roll their eyes--
They are clearly in the Legion of the Beast--
And I'd never tell the Media-it doesn't fit their lies--
And the Military surely are policed.
As soon as this is posted, I will change my hiding-place;
I'll find a way to read how you condemn
And expose the Evil Legion; rip the Mask off of their Face!
Unless... Of course!... Oh, Shit!... You're one of Them!

Of Porcupines And Valentines

I was trying to come up with something that sounded deep, but wasn't. (More than usual, I mean.) So anyway, this is for those people who, for whatever reason, have a valentine who is easier to give a card to than to actually approach. Don't look for any hidden meanings; the whole point is to really not mean a damned thing.


I write today of valentines, with velvet trim and laces,
The sort we give to porcupines, instead of warm embraces;
We blame such silly practices on love, or fate, or Cupid,
But hugs for walking cactuses are nothing less than stupid!
The concept was romanticized by Hallmark (for the money),
But no one ever fantasized a quill-pig as a honey.
We end up with our porcupines in some or other fashion,
Then have to turn to valentines to substitute for passion;
We need a card’s assistance to protect us from a puncture,
When the need to keep a distance is required at this juncture.

So… my cuddly little porcupine, I’m sending you this card—
I want you for my valentine… but please, don’t hug too hard!


Oh, and for all those hits I keep getting for people searching for valentines day poems, click the tag for "love", and there are a few more on this site. If you have someone you think might like one of them, you are incredibly fortunate; they are not Hallmark.

An Experiment

Over there at the top right, just under the banner, there is now a little link to a CafePress store. This is no big fundraiser thingie (although it could be at some point), but I just like Michael McRae's art so much that I wanted it on a mug. I knew CafePress could do that, and thought, what the heck, in case anybody else wants something, I'll throw this thing together. It is not fancy--it is quite the opposite of fancy, in fact. I'll probably put up some more stuff with the original cuttlefish logo, too, but that is not there yet.

If anyone has any special requests, just let me know. I bet against anyone wanting a cuttlefish thong, for instance. And right now, the artwork is just the beautiful cuttlefish, not the blog title or anything. Which makes it the perfect gift for a writer or poet, but you already knew that. The artwork is used with the generous permission of the artist.

Oh--if anyone does buy anything, send me a pic with you wearing/holding it! I'd love to see!

ETA:
This limerick's here just for Ray:
I neglected, in verse form, to say
That for some, the best part
Of this blog is the art
So this post is for those folks, today!

Sorry, Ray--I'll try not to do it again!

Busted!

Orac busts the snake-oil sellers on a regular basis, and it is always an entertaining and enlightening read (and has inspired more than one Cuttlefish post). Today's is a good one--once again, the weasels are out in force, creating a market by cultivating human insecurity. This time, the target is right there on your chest. Er, breast. Breasts. Anyway... I can hear their advertising jingle right now...

It's new! It's scientific! It's
The latest way to grow your tits!
Don’t like the way your sweater fits?
Then just pick up the phone!
Embarrassed by your tiny chest?
Or want more bounce back in your breast?
You simply want to look your best—
And no, you’re not alone!

You say you want to up-size
To a new and bigger cup size?
Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?
Send your money in today!
Our CD-ROM will show you
How, hypnotically, to grow you—
Just you wait; before you know, you’ll
Have some melons on display!

We’ll show you how to hypnotize
Yourself into a bigger size;
Develop right before your eyes
Into a better you!
We know it works; we asked some men
To concentrate on breasts, and then
The method proved successful when
Some pieces of them grew!

You say you want to up-size
To a new and bigger cup size?
Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?
Send your money in today!
Our CD-ROM will show you
How, hypnotically, to grow you—
Just you wait; before you know, you’ll
Have some melons on display!

The simple secret to success:
Hypnotically, you will regress,
Then grow a pair to fill your dress
Through concentrated will;
So send me cash, and you’ll look hot
And whether this stuff works or not
The greater purpose is, I’ve got
More money in my till.

You say you want to up-size
To a new and bigger cup size?
Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?
Send your money in today!
Our CD-ROM will show you
How, hypnotically, to grow you—
Just you wait; before you know, you’ll
Have some melons on display!

The National Treasure Who Plays In The Park

There’s a piper who plays in the center of Sofia
Songs from his country’s remarkable past
I sat on the curb and I listened, transported,
So willingly under the spell that he cast



I’d been told that the man was a national treasure,
A world-class performer who played in the park
He’s there every day, or at least very nearly,
Performing his magic until it grows dark.



He approached me and asked, though he barely spoke English,
“What would you hear today? Happy? Or sad?”
“Sad”, I replied; “I am leaving tomorrow;
I can’t hear a happy song, feeling so bad.”



He played me a song of a terrible story
An Ottoman soldier had chosen a bride—
A Bulgarian beauty, who so loved her country
She threw herself into the ocean and died



His pipes were enchanted, they shouted, they whispered,
At turns calm and peaceful, then wonderfully wild
They barked like a dog, and then sang like a lover,
They wailed like a mother who’s just lost a child.



When he finished, we talked for another half hour;
I put all the money I had in his case
Then, late for a meeting, I turned and departed,
Appreciative teardrops still wet on my face



If ever you find yourself visiting Sofia—
Business, for pleasure, or just as a lark—
I love the whole city, but best in my memory,
The national treasure who plays in the park