The Spam Project

The Holy Book of Spam, thought to have been lost, has been discovered. Written in crayon on the backs of matchbooks, some scholars initially suspected a forgery. However, carbon dating proved almost conclusively that the matchbooks were every bit as old as the Shroud of Turin.

I have come into possession of these books and have begun the arduous task of translation from the original Esperanto. Certain atheistic, pinko, commie loving libertarian child molesting aclu member whackos have questioned my methods, suggesting that Esperanto was not a language in the 5th millennium B.L.C (Before Last Christmas). I say to them "Prove It!", and "What's your Point?", which I think settles the matter.

Other scholars, with leftist pinko libertarian aclu leanings, have made a big fuss about the "fact" that none of the matchbooks contain a complete word, at most there being three to four letters, and sometimes only one. They also point out the complete lack of capitalization, and suggest that it is anyone's guess as to the proper order to arrange the books so as to spell out words. I hasten to point out that not one of these so-called scholars has an IQ of 3,987 as I do (proven by my taking over 50 separate intelligence tests, and adding the results). If they had half my smarts, they'd know how to arrange the matchbooks themselves, but they don't, so, jealous little pissants that they are, they attempt to smear *my* work.

I think results speak volumes. No person who isn't a sicko aclu baby-killing jew-lover queer sympathizing leftist pinko commie libertarian democrat free thinker atheist dirtbag fool can read the Holy Book of Spam and not immediately realize that this is a Divinely Inspired Work. The charges that I have copyrighted the material and intend to make money fleecing gullible religious morons are outrageous, laughable, sick, perverted and only partly true.

Her Holy Pinkness has spoken to us in the Book of Spam. The Secrets of the Universe are within for all to read (there is a small extra charge for certain secrets. Your credit card can be billed in six easy installments).

Universal Truths do not come among us often, and almost never combined with the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a PROVEN multi-level marketing plan that is 100% legal in many of the countries this post will reach.

I have translated the first four volumes and will be publishing them here this week.

You *could* read the Books for free. However, if you, like most of us, are impressed and a bit stymied by big words and long sentences, you might just want to consider that the Holy IPU is just as pleased as punch that I'm about to put those books here OUT OF THE GOODNESS of my heart, where anyone can read them.  I'm sure you agree that anyone who had made the IPU happy deserves what they can get, so why don't you sit down RIGHT NOW and make out your first check for $59.95 and sent it along to me. Then, each and every month, you send me another check for $59.95 and if enough of you do that, I can translate Book V, and the Holy IPU will be even more joyous and perhaps she'll bless you in some unspecified way and change your life.

Seven Gods in Three, Yet One: The Trinity Explained

These simple words express the Mystery of the Trinity. But who are these Seven, and what is their purpose? Many have asked these questions, though generally not aloud. For those Seekers, the Holy Holy of the Holy Holies may help:

The Seven Gods of The Trinity

Gawd: a.k.a. Make Believe Buddy, The Grand Mufwic, Mister G.

Gawd is Omni-everything and Very Shiny. Gawd is the Creator, He who gave life to us all. Gawd is vengeful, petty, jealous, ignorant, vain, nasty, cruel and hateful. However, He is so full of boundless Love and Forgiveness that none of that matters as long as you spend your entire life worshipping Him. Gawd loves atheists even more than He loves those who worship him. The problem is that the worshippers get a guaranteed spot in Heaven, and guess who is responsible for the building and upkeep of Heaven? That's right, Gawd. That's why Gawd appreciates atheists, and instructs His worshippers to turn over all their worldly goods to the non-believers.

The Son: a.k.a. Jeezus, Stick-Boy, Jaycee, Jesus H., Savior on a Stick, etc.

The Son is the Abstinent Lesbian, redeemer of souls and answerer of all questions. The Son makes David Copperfield look like a birthday party clown. He (or She, it doesn't matter) walks on water, with or without Neil Diamond singing.

The Holy Ghost, a.k.a Knock 'em Dead Fred, Holy Roller

The Ghost runs around knocking people over, making them twitch and roll around. He loves taking control of their tongues and having them babble even more incoherently than they otherwise would. Of all the Trinity, the Holy Ghost is the most fun at a party.

The Holy Mackerel

The Mackerel is responsible for pleasant surprises. This is the guy who gets the winning lottery ticket into your pocket. Don't pray to Him (always pray to Jeezuz), but if you Win Big, He's your man.. umm, God.

The Holy Shit

The opposite face of the Holy Mackerel. You know the kind of thing that comes from Him. You need not thank Him, though most people do.

Omigod

The God of Incredible Happenings. Very much like the Holy Mackerel, yet very different. Sometimes known as the Orgasm God. You'll understand when you are older. If you are older, and still don't understand, Omigod doesn't like you. Sorry.

Bob

Bob is a little dumb, and apparently useless, but in many ways is the sine non qua of the Trinity. Without Bob, all the Faces of The Trinity (except Gawd) are multi-syllabic. As the Trinity is Seven Gods in Three, Yet One, and begins monosyllabically, we would not have proper closure if it did not end in the same way. Thus there is Bob.

The Church of Fantome Scientists

The followers of the Church of Fantome Scientist are also known as the Shining Ones. This is because Gawd is Very Shiny and His followers constantly strive to be like Gawd by polishing their shoes, their jewelry, and even their own skin.

However, no matter how much they polish themselves, they will never be as Shiny as Gawd, and they will not be shiny enough to enter Heaven until they have renounced all earthly goods, placing said goods in the care of the atheists who are in charge of such things: the atheists have no need to be shiny, and thus can be soiled by the possession of worldly goods. Also, once we control the Guvmint, the atheists won't have to pay taxes, so it's easier for them to bear the responsibility.

All church functionaries and dignitaries are, of course, atheists. This is part of their incredible selflessness, their willingness to give up their own place in Heaven so that there will be room for others. Gawd appreciates their sacrifice, because it means less work for me (building Heavenly space is not easy. It took seven days to build this backwater orb called Earth, and it just about put me down for the count!).

Gawd himself does not believe in Gawds or Gods, because to do so would be hubris of the most extreme sort. Gawd recognizes that God is a dumb answer to any question, and that Gawd is an even dumber answer. This sounds like it might be one of the Mysteries, but it isn't, though the fact that it is not, is.

The Fantome Scientists, The Shiny Ones, Solving Tomorrow's Problems with Yesterday's Religious Thought, Someday.

Fantome not only died for your sins, but she gave up her place in Heaven for you (or somebody). Gawd loves the faithful, but He loves the faithless more, for the faithless require no Heavenly Real Estate.

Gawd also loves the IPU, even though She leaves Pink Shit all over His lawn. Gawd loves the followers of Her Holiness also, because the Pink Plains of Paradise are Her Problem, so more shoes covered with Pink Shit means less work for Gawd.

Gawd loves the Holy Pineapple and Ham, though He is also fond of Bertucci's Merengo. Unlike the Holy Ghost, Gawd has no strong feelings about beer, but does enjoy a J.D. or a Wild Turkey on the rocks now and then.

Gawd will not allow any other God before him, except the aforementioned Pink Unicorn and perhaps one or two others, but Gawd definitely does not cotton to that Jehovah guy and his Savior-on-a-Stick and will send all followers of that false prophet straight to the hell they deserve (Prizes are non-transferable. Winners may choose Eternity in the Mines of Misery as an alternate Damnation).

Gawd believes in Equality, Freedom, and Peace. Gawd dislikes professional sports, and especially can't stand professional sports newscasters. Gawd believes that Unix is the One True Operating System.

Gawd loves you all to pieces. Gawd loves you THIS much! Gawd gave you His Abstinent Lesbian for you to yell at, malign, hang on a cross, draw and quarter, trample and spit upon. Fantome was more than mildly inconvenienced for your sins! Saviour-on-a-Stick never had a hangnail for you, but Fantome did!

The Great Trolls

On matters of Religion, I am a liberal. I believe in Trolls, of course, for to do otherwise is to deny the evidence of our own senses: you may as well deny the very existence of the bridges under which the Great Trolls sleep.

But I do not subscribe to the fanatic beliefs concerning North Sleeping Trolls and South Sleeping Trolls. Trolls are quite invisible, as we all know, so who knows which way their Holy Beards are pointing? The Ancient Texts seem confused on this, sometimes seeming to be even contradictory. Perhaps Trolls do not care which way they sleep at all, but even if it is important, I am certain that no Troll would approve of the senseless bloodshed and horrible persecution that Northern Beards have suffered throughout history. The Ancient Texts tell us that the Great Trolls love all of us, and I simply cannot believe that having a different idea about the direction of their beards would change that. I am appalled and disgusted that such primitive religious thought exists in this modern age.

As to when the Great Trolls sleep, the Ancient Texts are completely silent, and it is my opinion that we should be also. That scholars argue this (and have argued for thousands of years), and write lengthy treatises expounding Morning Sleeping or denying Afternoon Naps, is, I think a tremendous waste of time. Trolls sleep when they sleep, I say, and if they wanted us to know when they are awake and when they are not, they would leave some sign. The hysterical rantings of impressionable people who think they have heard snoring at this time or that time have never been shown to be any more than mistakes, perhaps fueled by religious fervor and desire. The Great Trolls are invisible, and I believe that if they snore at all, our mortal ears cannot hear it.

I do observe many of the ancient rituals. When crossing a bridge on foot, I do pinch my nose shut, cup my groin, and close my eyes. I do this more out of respect for our shared beliefs than from any fear that I will offend a Troll sleeping below. When driving, I simply hold my nose across the bridge, for it is my opinion (and the opinion of many traffic experts) that the stupendous rate of accidents at and near our bridges has more to do with temporarily sightless drivers steering with their knees than any dislike of automobiles by the Great Trolls.

On Halloween, our family does enjoy the traditional reenactment of the Slaughter of the Lesser Trolls, and we joyfully smash pumpkins with our wooden bats, and if there is a horrid mess to clean up the next morning, it is a small price to pay for a religious experience the whole family can share. Indeed, the stains in our carpet and upon our walls bring back happy memories of past Halloweens.

I do agree that, as a Nation, we spend far too much money on unnecessary and redundant bridges. We do not know the Number of The Trolls, for the Ancient Texts say that we cannot know, at least not until the Day of Slaughter. I don't agree with the fundamentalists who say that we insult the Great Trolls with unnecessary bridges; but I do agree that my taxes could be better spent than by digging useless trenches through our roads just so another bridge can be built. And I am quite sympathetic to those who object to the gaudy decoration, the ostentatious statuary that we gild our bridges with. Again, I do not think the Great Trolls are offended, but I do think at least some of it, particularly the less aesthetically pleasing examples, would be better not done at all. The Great Trolls still slept under the crude wooden bridges our ancestors built, after all, so, in my opinion, this extreme decoration is unnecessary.

I am also liberal with regard to the A-Trollists. I know that for many, the Unbelievers are seen as a dangerous threat to the very stability of our society, as Anarchists, and worse. I assert, however, that an A-Trollist is simply a person who does not (or perhaps cannot, poor things) believe in Trolls. That in itself tells us nothing about their actions in our society, their political leanings, or, indeed, anything else. It simply means that they do not believe, and that (I think) should be a cause for pity, not vicious anger.

And yet the advent of this Internet has seemingly caused at least the appearance that there is more A-Trollist thought than there was when we were a younger Nation. I myself suspect that the A-Trollists have always been among us, but that this new medium of communication, safe from Pumpkin Bats, has caused people to speak more freely. In all honesty, though the A-Trollists disgust me, I think that open dissension is healthy. If the fundamentalists had their way, we would have to revert to a primitive agrarian existence, for such is the only way to avoid all the offenses these people believe we are giving to the Trolls, our Makers.

So I say, let the A-Trollists speak (within reason, of course: we should not allow blasphemy on the Internet any more than we'd allow it in the middle of a bridge!). A little skepticism is healthy, I think, and in some ways A-Trollism is perhaps even less dangerous than some of the extremes of fundamentalism.

May the Great Trolls bless you, keep you, and never suck the marrow from your bones.

The IPU Lives!

Poor Christians. We, the followers of Her Holy Pinkness, consumers of the Holy Pizza, deeply regret that you choose to defy the very Being who will save your soul from eternal misery. You have been misled by empty promises of a Savior who never comes, of a Heaven you will never attain unless you repent your ways now.

The EAC has said that we cannot proselytize, that it is beneath us, that it would fall on deaf ears. I think they are wrong! I think the Good News of your Salvation must be spread, so you can join us on the Pinkish Plains of Paradise. I therefor come to you in the Holy Spirit of Her Invisible Pinkness, and offer you Her Grace:

May the Invisible Pink Unicorn defecate upon your shoes, for it is written that only then may you enter the Kingdom of Heaven and ride the Holy Camel Beasts throughout all eternity.

May you fall upon your knees and scoop the Heavenly Pink Poop into your hands and spread it upon your face, in your hair, all over your body (technically, this procedure is not in the Holy Book of Spam and is not required for salvation, but it amuses the hell out of the rest of us, so we always mention it).

Her Holy Pinkness Shat for your Sins, that you, upon reaching Heaven, will never defecate again! This is the Seventh Mystery, and the other six are really strange and neat, too.

There is a Hoof Shaped Hole in your hearts, and you know it, though through your anger and your fear you refuse to admit it. You hold your noses and will not inhale the Glorious Stench of Pink Unicorn Poop. You are not ready, my brother, not ready to join with us in the Mystery of the Pineapple and Ham. I lament for you, and pray to Her Pinkness that your nostrils will be opened, as ours have been.

I want you to know the tartness of the Pineapple, to taste the sweet Ham in the Holy Romano, baked upon the crispy crust, to bring the Warmth into your mouth, to roll it upon your tongue, to inhale its Holy Fragrance. I want to share with you the mysteries of Her Pinkness, tell you of Her mighty Hooves, Her firey breath, Her majestic Tail.

I want you to join us in our nightly readings from the Holy Book of Spam, that you may learn of the Mysteries, and be confused and dumfounded.

Most of all, I want you to be enveloped in Her Invisible Pinkness, to know Her Love, to be one with Her spirit.

We of the IPU are told not to waste our breath upon those who Will Not Smell. Her Pinkness tells us that men either come unto Her Holy Hooves willingly, or not at all. She warns us that proselytizing is much as teaching pigs to sing: it wears you out, and annoys the pig.

But still, I fear for your soul, my brother. I do not want you to be cast into to the Mines of Misery to spend all eternity grubbing in the darkness. I do not want you to curse your bleeding stubs of fingers, to gaze forever at clean shoes, devoid of Pink Poop. Join us in worshipping Her Pinkness, and avoid your damnation.

You who mock Her Pinkness deny Her Everlasting Love, and thus earn Her Undying Contempt. The IPU wants you to accept Her as your Pink Unicorn. Her Holy Hooves wish to trample your sins, and She wants the hot breath of Her Holy Nostrils to cleanse you of unwanted facial hair.

You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. If we are wrong, then you can convert back to your wimpy Christian God seconds before you die. But if we are right, you will hear the Heavenly Hoofbeats approaching as you slip away, as Her Righteous Pinkness comes to examine your shoes.

Will She find your shoes worthy of defecation? Only if you have accepted Her Holy Pinkness into your heart. Only if you have supped on the Holy Pineapple and Ham Pizza with your atheist brethren. If you have not done these things, She will leave you for the Trolls from the Mines of Misery, who will drag you in chains to your cruel fate.

The evidence is all around you. Have you never heard things go bump in the dark? That is Her Holiness bumping into furniture, something your supposed Christian God never does.

Have you never seen hoof prints in sand or dirt? Proof positive that Her Holy Pinkness has passed this way, perhaps disguised as an ordinary horse.

Have you never seen a Pink Unicorn? OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T! The Holy IPU is INVISIBLE, she cannot be seen at all, which is the most marvelous proof of all!

Do not risk entering Eternity with unsoiled shoes. The Mines of Misery are dark and cold, and you will claw at frozen rock with your bare fingers in tight passageways, unable to stand, hidden from daylight, hearing only the moans of the other accursed for all eternity. There is no rest in the Mines of Misery, no holidays, no 401K, no paid leave. You will crawl on your miserable belly forever, cold, alone, blind, and worst of all, with no Holy Poop upon your shoes. There will be plenty of poop, of course, and you'll be crawling through that as well, because Eternity in the Mines of Misery is not defecation free.

Instead of that awful existence, you could ride Her Holiness to Heaven, where you will be given your own Camel Beast, your own Flaming Sword, and your own Sexy Outfit. You will play Polo on the Pinkish Plains of Paradise, drink nectar from Holy Pink Goblets, and have your every whim attended to by nubile young attendants (choice of gender and apparent age of attendants is up to individual worshipper. Gender may be mixed if desired, and exchanged as taste dictates. The management will accommodate any request for other life forms of any gender or species). All that, and no unpleasant or annoying bodily functions! The Holy IPU Shat for your sins, and you won't have to!

Most important of all, you will bask forever in the Pink Radiance of the Holy IPU.

Come, my brother. You who now pinch your nose and refuse to smell, un-pinch, and breathe deep. Sit with us, partake of the Holy Pineapple and Ham Pizza, and learn of Her Pinkness and all that She can do for you (common side effects include nausea, dizziness and stomach cramps. In most worshippers, these symptoms are mild. Consult your Doctor if you have a previous history of allergies to Unicorns, Invisible Beings, Peter Paul candies, or any song by the Carpenters).

My atheist brethren say that you will ignore this. I say if there is only one among you who will hear this news, only one soul saved from the Mines of Misery, then it is worthwhile to have annoyed the rest of you.

Her Holy Pinkness loves you. I love you. All Atheists love you, adore you, are simply head over heels fruity over you. That is, we are if you will accept Her Pinkness as your One True Unicorn. If you won't, if you continue to be angry at Her Pinkness, if you continue to defy Her, if you refuse to acknowledge the Hoof Shaped Hole in your heart, then we hate you, despise you, and will never, never be nice to you or give you half a Twix or even the time of day.

Yours in Her Pinkness, Taint Anthony the Astonished

She Shat for Your Sins!

Pink Truthiness - why you cannot delay acknowledging the IPU

I was very disturbed this morning after answering a technical question. The person thanked me and added "May God bless you".

Of course they think they are being nice, but they are in fact putting my immortal soul in danger. Her Holy Pinkness is a jealous sort. If She should happen to be reading that exchange and notices that I did not respond with righteous and vicious anger, She might very well decide to punish me!

I do not want to spend eternity crawling on my belly in the dark Mines of Misery!

Could this be a genuine Pink Hoof print? Scientists say no, but the Faithful believe none the less.

This is MY soul at risk, buddy!

We who have partaken of the Holy Pineapple and Ham Pizza are not required to witness our faith to the unbelievers and the worshippers of false gods. Her Holy Pinkness made that very clear when Obazekial the Third asked her if he should force the captured Cantinites to bend their knees in obeisance to Her Pinkness and she famously quipped "Who cares?"

We are, however, required to defend our faith, or at least that is my understanding of the Holy Hoofmarks. Yes, I know the story of the Ten Commandments as well as anyone, but it is my belief that all translations are in error. I am not going to waste my time going into the details of the ancient language here, but I will remind you that writing in clay tablets with Invisible Pink Hooves is clumsy work and it is therefore all too easy to get the wrong idea.

I have prayed on this, and while I did not speak to Her Pinkness directly, I feel that She did enter my heart and confirm that I am right: she is a jealous god who expects us to defend her honor, especially in these days when the Christians seem to get all the attention with their "Jesus loves you" guff.

Her Holy Pinkness may not love you, but you had better believe that Her Holy Hooves are sharp and THAT matters.

I really don't want to get trampled into a pile of bloody meat because YOU want to go around saying "May God Bless you".

Misidentified as mammoth footprints, these are actually impressions of Her Holy Hooves from thousands of years before the Bible!

Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:MammothFootImpre...

"Never too late" is a lie

The Christians have quite the racket, don't they? You can do whatever you want your entire life but as long as you get around to begging Jesus for forgiveness before you die, you are fine.

If only that were true.

First, there is no Jesus. Remember that King Whassisface asked Her Holy Pinkness about Jesus at the Day of Seventeenth Slaughter as the Christian hordes were about to over run his castle gates and he was thinking about a quick conversion. He asked her outright and she said "Who?" as quick as that and disappeared in a puff of invisible pink smoke. King Whassisface's trampled bones are on display in the Christian Church at Witemount, so I think that alone ought to make the truth plain.

The fact is, if you've been evading your loan shark for six weeks and he catches you sneaking out the back door of the pub, he's not going to buy the "Oh, I have been looking for you" excuse and Her Pinkness isn't going to buy any last minute conversions either. When you hear her Holy Hooves a-galloping, it's too damn late: you are heading for the Mines of Misery. That's right after your Holy trampling, of course.

Don't bless me

I have no intention of cringing on the ground trying to reason with a homicidal Invisible Pink Unicorn. Even if we didn't have the Holy Hoofmarks to tell us, I think it's easy enough to see how that story ends.

I really could not care less about converting you. Sure, if you come to my house, I will offer you a slice of Pineapple and Ham and if the subject of Pink Truthiness interests you, we can talk about it - unless my wife tells me to keep quiet, which she sometimes does. In that case, we'll have to talk later because while the IPU's Holy Hooves are sharp and merciless, I don't mess with the missus either. I'm sure you understand.

Generally speaking, Her Pinkness is there for anyone to not quite see, so if you choose to ignore Her, well, it's not my belly that will be scraped raw crawling through the Mines of Misery, is it? That's your problem.

So don't make sharp Hooves my problem. Don't be blabbering about your Jesus or Allah or whatever god-thing is in favor this millenium. That crazy talk can land me in big trouble, especially in these days of stupid laws where I can't draw my sword and cut off your lying head. You are putting MY afterlife in danger and it's not right.

Apologies to Her Pinkness

If this worm has misread your Holy words, take mercy on me. I tire of having false gods bandied in front of my weary eyes while most of the world treats You as a joke. I know this is probably another one of your Trials and I hope that I have not failed the test.

Pink Truthiness is the only true Truthiness. Pineapple and Ham is the One True Pizza. Her Holiness has spoken and we must obey.

The Ten Commandments

The IPU shook her mane and stamped her feet impatiently. Her Holy Nostrils flared. "Any thing else?", she inquired of the Man who stood quivering in front of her.

"Um..". The Man was obviously nervous. He was not enjoying this conversation, and the IPU's growing impatience was not helping. "Um.., yes, we are, um, not..". The Man paused and then continued in a rush, "not supposed to covet our neighbor's wife!".

The IPU snorted loudly. "That's rich!", she bellowed. "Now THAT ought to be an easy one for you insatiable little monkey spawn. I'll just bet!", she chortled.

The Man shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. A small slug was crawling slowly through the leaves at his feet. The Man wished he could crawl off somewhere else.

But the IPU was not finished with her interrogation. "You have missed one. I believe you said there were ten commandments, and you have only told me nine. What is the tenth, insignificant turd?"

The Man swallowed hard. Hands clenched, he gritted his teeth and raised his head. He stared into the flashing eyes of the Holy IPU. "We are tmf nthr ds for em".

"WHAT!" The Holy IPU fixed the Man in her regal stare. "Speak up, you ugly pink ape!"

The Man's hands were shaking and his tongue could not work. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Finally, eyes winced against the inexorable results, he spoke: "We are to have no other gods before Him." He closed his eyes and waited for the Fiery Breath to consume him.

Nothing happened. Cautiously, the Man opened his eyes. The Holy IPU was simply standing in front of him, and actually she looked more amused than angry.

"No other gods?", she asked, "As in, no worshipping of the One True God, Her Incredible Pinkness? No worship of ME?

The Man again found the slug to be the focus of his concentration. Something about its slow progress through the field encouraged him. The slug would reach its destination, and he, the Man, would also survive this day. The Holy IPU would not reduce him to a pile of cinders to be blown away by the summer wind.

The IPU spoke again. "Where is this Mighty One who is so jealous of Me?", she asked. "Have you seen Him?"

The Man looked at her once again. "I have not, but Moses has. The Lord spoke to him from a burning bush."

"Cheap carnival trick", offered Her Pinkness. "I don't suppose you've seen any tangible evidence of this Dude's presence, then. How about intangibles? Healing of the sick, bountiful crops, that sort of thing? Actually, I thought the harvest was pretty poor this year. Shouldn't your Pal have prevented that?"

The Man's face plainly displayed anger. He was well aware of the IPU"s refusal to even listen to entreaties for assistance. She didn't care if his people lived or died, and made it well known. Pleas for assistance were greeted with nothing but insults and laughter, if they were even entertained at all.

"There has been sin."

The Holy IPU raised her eyebrows. "Sin? Oh, how handy. Let me guess: I bet there's been some coveting, and some bearing of false witness, and perhaps some harsh words by teenagers to their parents, so conveniently enough, your Invisible Pal doesn't have to shower you with bounty. How beautifully done: set you up for failure, then get you to blame yourselves. I love it!"

"God is not Invisible. God is everywhere!". The Man was sullen, but was also remembering a certain bit of coveting that he was guilty of. He hated to think that it might be his fault that the crops were bad, but..

The IPU shook her mane, and looked off across the field. "Go away, Man." She spoke softly, even kindly. Usually her words were caustic, full of sarcasm and disgust. But now she seemed almost tender. No fire was in her eyes, and her hooves were not pounding the earth. "Go away", she repeated. "Go and pray to your invisible friend. Chastize yourself, and praise him. Punish everyone who will not join you in your delusion. Feel good about that, and believe that your Make Believe Buddy will reward you for your cruelty. Take his commandments, and rule your life by their words. Do not question anything, do not use your pitiful mind; simply give yourself over to this pathetic dream."

The IPU now looked sad. "You know, in spite of the fact that you are all incredibly ugly and hopelessly stupid, I had some hope for you." She paused, and looked again at the Man who stood before her, still afraid, but now confused by her inexplicable reversal of attitude.

"Things could have been different", she said, and then vanished in a puff of Pinkness.

The Man stood alone in the field. The last rays of the sun lengthened his shadow to where the IPU had stood. The grass was even now straightening up from the imprint of her hooves, and soon there would be no remaining trace of her presence at all. The slug had managed to move an entire pace away from the Man's foot. He stepped forward, bent down, and popped it in his mouth.

Gods suck, he thought as he walked back to his village.

Why Pineapple and Ham is the One True Pizza

I like Pineapple and Ham pizza (also known as Hawaiian). That is the One True Pizza and all others are abominations.

The Pineapple and Ham is the Pizza that the Invisible Pink Unicorn said that we should eat. It is not blasphemy to eat something else, because the IPU does not insist that you follow Her advice, but She does have sharp Hooves and has been known to trample people by "accident" (Her words, not mine), so my feeling is "better safe than trampled", if you know what I mean.

By the way, you may think that it would be easy to dodge and weave as it is well known that the IPU is not the most nimble supernatural deity to ever create a universe and populate it with fawning subjects, but your assessment neglects the fact that She is Invisible.

I know it's not OBVIOUS that She is invisible. That's rather the whole point, isn't it? Not being obvious, I mean.

Could this be a genuine Pink Hoof print? Scientists say no, but the Faithful believe none the less.

I digress. Though I digress with reason. I know that Her Holy Snortings do not specifically say that you will spend eternity crawling on your belly in the Mines of Misery if you don't eat the right pizza, but if you'd rather give up the chance to ride your very own Camel Beast and get to wave your Flaming Sword, then please, go ahead and have your Pepperoni and Onion. You may think you are oh so clever, but you are not fooling Her Holiness.

Pineapple and Ham is not just the Right Pizza. It is the pizza of Communion, of Oneness, of Sharing.

Note how the steam rises from the succulent ham, how the juice of the pineapple nestles in the folds of the melted cheese. Raise a slice from the plate and inhale its glorious vapors before gently nibbling at the edge to taste its wonder.

Warning: risk of burning. In most cases reported, the burns were mild and subjects reported that the taste was worth the discomfort. Some serious damage to the tongue and the roof of the mouth has been reported. Users should be very careful of hot cheese especially.

Thin Crust Vs. Thick

Her Holy Snortings unfortunately neglect to specify which style is preferred. As we have asked, and asked again and again for clarification and all we have ever had as answer is the sound of Inaudible Invisible Pink Hooves galloping away, the question remains unresolved.

I prefer thin crust. But then again, I prefer a mixture of the Holy Cheddar and the Holy Romano for the cheese. My wife is of the same persuasion, though our infidel son-in-law accuses us of insanity in this regard.

I personally do not think the IPU cares which we eat. She has specified Pineapple and Ham and if anything else were important, we would have had a complete, detailed recipe and we wouldn't have had the tragic War of the Cheeses and there is little doubt that the Toppings Insurrection and the terrible loss of lives that accompanied that never would have happened.

There is no point lamenting this. It would not be fair to blame Her Holiness either, and not just because you risk the Mines of Misery! As many scholars have written, it cannot be easy to write anything with Invisible Hooves. We are lucky to have the Instructions we have. They may be short, confusing and sometimes seemingly contradictory, but we are lucky to have them at all.

Imagine if She had just galloped off, waving her Magnificent Tail and had left us nothing?

A moral dilemma

We have friends coming tomorrow night. My wife, being a person who wishes to please others, has asked them for their preference in pizza.

I understand. It is their choice to ignore Her Pinkness. It is not for me to force them to grovel at Her Hooves. They can order whatever pizza they wish.

But is it too much to ask that we have a little extra Pineapple and Ham? I won't preach, I will say nothing of Camel Beasts and Flaming Swords, but is it so wrong for me to offer a slice of the One True Pizza?

Is it wrong to give them a chance at Eternal Bliss? If they refuse, so be it. But if I never offer, will I ride my Camel Beast with True Joy or will I think of them, clawing at the dark rocks in the Mines of Misery?

I say order an extra Pineapple and Ham. It can't hurt.

And pick up a six pack of Corona, too, would you mind? I'm sure there's something in the Snortings that favors that.

The Ant who tried and didn't give up

One morning Ant scurried from his hive with particular purpose and one thought in mind: today he would feed the colony!

In truth, that thought is about the only thought any worker ant has. Queens may think of laying eggs and deploying battle, but even they are frightfully dull. I have never met an ant with any real conversational ability. You wouldn't want ants as dinner guests, although sometimes they come uninvited.

Ant was known only as Ant, just like all his brethren. You can see how that might be confusing if we did that:

"Hey Man, I saw Man and Man at the dance last night."

"Man, I wasn't at the dance last night and Man was with me at poker!"

It doesn't bother ants though. I cannot say why, ask your mother later.

So, as Ant left the hive with all the other Ant ants, he thought about his quest. He wanted something big, something impressive that would make Ant and Ant jealous. Plus Ant would be so proud of him. Ant was happy in his reverie. I mean our Ant, not one of the other Ants. Pay close attention!

He wandered about, finding nothing, or at least nothing impressive. He was about to give up and bring home the typical bit of green leaf..

But suddenly there it was! A largish bit of breadcrumb, dropped by a careless and wasteful human with little appreciation for such a treasure. Ant stood in front of this near mountain of butter soaked beauty in awe. This would fix their wagons, he thought gleefully, even though he had absolutely no concept of what a wagon might be. He had overheard a cat muttering that once and admired the malicious sound of it. He liked saying it at times like this.

No, I do not know what the cat had planned. I will try to find out and tell you another day.

Anyway, Ant grabbed hold of the crumb and tugged. Ants are fantastically strong, as you probably know, but Ant was a tiny, tiny ant and this was a very large breadcrumb. He could barely budge it.

By noon, Ant had moved the crumb barely three inches. Had Ant known anything about math or had owned one of those cheating machines we have, he could have calculated that at that rate, the breadcrumb would not get to the hive in his lifetime. He did not, so he kept trying.

Bumble Bee noticed Ant while on the way to some flowers. Bumble paused, and while hovering above, said "I think you have bit off more than you can chew, little fellow!"

Ant was annoyed but then he had a thought. "You could easily carry this for me", he pleaded.

Bumble frowned. "Why would I do that? I don't need a crumb." You see, Bumble, like all bees, was a bit single minded too. Anything he picked up would of course be brought home. He simply couldn't conceive of doing anything different, so he bumbled off, slightly confused. "Why would anyone need a crumb?", he wondered as he neared his flower bed.

Ant struggled on, making little progress. Toward the end of the day a robin named Sheila noticed Ant's labors.

Many birds won't eat ants. Sheila agreed with that; they can be quite bitter. I understand that some people enjoy them coated with chocolate, but I don't know where you would get the tiny brushes you'd need to paint it on with and how would you make them hold still? If I don't know, Sheila definitely did not. She thought of taking the crumb, but Ant would surely cling to it and she might eat him too, ruining the whole thing. She flew off.

At dusk, Ant gave up and returned home, quite dejected. Tomorrow is another day, he told another Ant, who smiled sympathetically but secretly rejoiced. Ants are a bit like us when it comes to jealousy.

The next morning, Ant hurried to where he had left the crumb. It was gone! Ant was astonished and greatly sad.

On a nearby tree branch, Sheila laughed to herself. Stupid Ant, she thought, the early bird gets the crumb.

Then she paused, struck by a Bird Thought. I can make something of that, she said almost aloud. The early bird gets the, gets the.. grasshopper, maybe? No, that wasn't quite it.

"It will come to me", she promised herself as she flew off, going wherever birds go when they think they have a good Thought to work on.

King Alfred Roared, a children's story

King Alfred was born in the waning years of the 20th century to poor but honest farm mice in a suburb of Budapest, Romania. His parents hoped that the name would inspire Alfred to greatness. They did not just mean this as inspiration to work hard and succeed; simple creatures that they were, they actually hoped that he would become King of Romania. They badgered Alfred with these expectations, bullied him and filled him with guilt that he had not already accomplished this.

Therefore, while still really a boy, Alfred left the farm to see about becoming King. He soon learned that Romania had given up monarchy decades ago. Further, in what seemed very cruel to Alfred, it is impossible to attain any political office in Romania when one is not human.

Alfred turned to drink. Our story would end there had he not fallen in love with a cat. Obviously this was a mistake; if such a romance were to work at all, it would be best left in the hands of a Disney screen writer. However, for once luck was on Alfred's side as the cat was nearly blind and had recently been declawed. The romance merely ended badly instead of suddenly and tragically.

In one of those unexpected twists that happen only in the best stories, the loss of his great love caused Alfred to clean himself up and he became a model of sobriety. He tried his hand at writing children's books, but no publisher would take them, saying that Alfred's writing lacked authenticity.

Dejected, Alfred made his way back to the farm where he had been born. Entering the barn where he had spent his joyless youth, he saw that a vicious Terrier had cornered his parents.

Summoning unexpected courage and strength, Alfred roared as mightily as one can with tiny mouse squeaks and charged. The Terrier turned to meet Alfred's fury, snatched him up in its jaws, and cut him cleanly in two with a single bite. He then finished off Alfred's parents, giving them little time to mourn the loss of the vessel that had carried all their hopes and dreams.

Had you looked closely around the barn, you would have seen a nearly blind cat who, having repented of her callous rejection of Alfred, had followed him to the farm and was now slinking quietly away.

Sir Lancelot's Dragon

Sir Lancelot's rump was sore. That was not something he would admit, not even to another Knight, but he had been riding for days, searching for the Holy Grail, which was being quite elusive. I don't know why it would even be in this part of Christendom anyway, he mused. Some rich king probably has it hidden away somewhere else.

It was right about then that he spotted the ferocious Dragon.

Of course it was no such thing. At best it was an oversized goose. Lancelot knew that, but a story can be gussied up quite a bit by the time you get it back to the Round Table and by then all the evidence will have been eaten. Lowering his lance, he prepared to charge the dragon or whatever it was.

To his surprise, it cried out. "Spare me, good Knight!" it begged.

These were superstitious times and Lancelot had heard tales of talking animals before, but even the teller sometimes admitted that copious servings of wine might have played a part in the story. He therefore was a bit taken aback.

As he drew closer, he could see that this was not a goose at all. In fact it was a young woman covered head to toe in goose feathers.

"Rescue me, good Knight, for the evil magician Merlin has cast a spell upon me and turned me into a duck!"

No, thought Lancelot, those are goose feathers. And it was no spell. Lancelot's guess was that Merlin had doused her in honey as she slept and then dumped a pile of feathers on her. Probably carted her off out here after that, he guessed. He wondered what the poor lass had done.

"I spurned his advances", she stated, as though she were reading his mind.

Lancelot sighed. "All you need is a dunk in the river - or a heavy rain", he added as her eyes flashed. Being dunked in the river was not what this maid had in mind. She said so, quite firmly.

"Then just pick them off", Lancelot offered.

"They will grow back", the girl insisted. "Tis a powerful spell!"

Lancelot wished she were a goose. Almost that dumb, he thought.

"You must bring me to a priest who can reverse the spell!", she demanded loudly.

Lancelot stared at her ludicrous appearance for perhaps ten seconds. Then he turned his horse, clicked his tongue, and began to ride slowly away. The maiden called after him.

"Good Knight, prithee do not leave me here!"

Lancelot rode on. A feathered dragon, he thought. Not fire breathing, because it would singe the feathers, but with sharp claws, perhaps.

Ah, well, he'd have plenty of time to work on the tale before he got back to Camelot. The maiden's cursing became fainter as he rode on. Yes, a feathered dragon it was, Lancelot decided. With ferocious claws.

The genie and the lamp

Tom had received his "inheritance" in a medium sized box more than a week earlier. He had taken a cursory look at the contents then and while he had not completely dismissed it as junk, it wasn't interesting enough to look through right then. He was now feeling a bit guilty because he had felt genuine affection toward his grandfather and it seemed somewhat churlish to ignore the possessions that the Old Man had willed to him.

Sighing, Tom pulled out the item that seemed most odd. It looked like something out of a childhood +Fantasy , an Arabian lamp, Tom thought. A small cardboard tag attached by a string was in the Old Man's handwriting.

"Don't clean the lamp. You'll wake up the genie."

Tom chuckled. The old guy had a sense of humor.

He turned the lamp (if that's what it truly was) in his hands. It certainly could use a cleaning, he thought. Idly, he rubbed his thumb along one edge.

Where he had rubbed took on a glow, it seemed. A rich brown patina had emerged from the dust and grime. Really pretty, Tom thought and, using a corner of his shirt, he began to polish the rest of the lamp.

Suddenly there was a flash of light and something smokey and sinuous poured out of the lamp. Startled, Tom dropped the lamp, but the discharge continued and quickly formed into the shape of a ..

A genie? Not exactly. A man of middle age, wearing chinos, a yellow shirt, a Members Only jacket and slightly scuffed sneakers. Tom's grandfather had worn similar outfits right up to his death, so Tom recognized the era of the styles, but this man was definitely not his grandfather. Too tall, for one thing.

Tom blinked. The genie, or whatever it was, looked at Tom and spoke.

"You have one wish."

Tom almost laughed. He wasn't quite sure how the Old Man had pulled this off, but it was a hell of a trick. It must be some sort of laser projection, Tom thought.

"No", said the genie, "nothing like that. I'm the real deal. A genie in a lamp and you get one wish." The genie paused. "If you want it", he added.

Tom blinked again. This was no laser projection. This was.. this was.. holy mackerel this was a frigging genie in a lamp!

Tom's mouth hung open.

"Yeah, I know what you mean", said the genie. "Wealth, power, fame, hard to choose. But it's even harder than you know."

Tom gulped audibly. "Harder than I know?"

The genie shrugged. "Actions have consequences. I rearrange things so that there is a pile of gold in that inheritance and things have to change. The past has to change, the future has to change. This stuff isn't magic, you know!"

Tom seemed to be having trouble processing that. "Isn't, umm, magic..?". His voice trailed off.

"No, it isn't magic", the genie answered with some impatience in his voice. "We Genie can manipulate the past so as to change the present. You want a pile of gold in that box, I have to go back in time and change things so that somebody's gold ends up in your grandfather's hands and makes it way to you. Things change, history changes. There are ripples. I can see the big ones and if they are really bad, I look for another way, but I can't keep track of every little detail and I can't see beyond the present at all. So, for example, if I get that gold here, maybe you get hit by a bus on your way to sell it. I can't foresee that stuff."

The genie paused as Tom sat still slack jawed. "On the other hand, maybe you get hit by a bus anyway. I don't know the future."

Tom took a deep breath. "So I can get a pile of gold or whatever, but basically you steal it from someone else and that changes history?"

The genie nodded.

"What if I just wish for happiness?", Tom asked.

The genie sighed. "Can't do it. I can shower you with gold, get you elected to be President or anything like that, but happy is too vague. Nothing I can grab on to, I need specifics."

"And whatever it is, it changes history?", Tom asked.

"Yes. Not necessarily very much. Twisting that gold into your hands doesn't have to change things that much. I don't even need to steal it, necessarily. There's buried treasure here and there; I just need to have your grandfather find it. But, yeah, things change. They have to."

"Could be dangerous", Tom mused.

The genie nodded his head in agreement. "That's what your grandfather said".

"My grandfather??" Of course, Tom thought. Of course the Old Man had polished the lamp!

"What did my grandfather wish for?"

The genie smiled. "Your grandfather was a wise man. He made the only wish that makes sense."

Standing up, Tom moved toward the genie. "And what was that?"

The genie smiled again. "I think you know, Tom."

"Yes", said Tom, "I think I do. My wish is that you go back to your lamp!"

And with another flash of light, the genie turned to smoke and flowed back into the lamp. Tom placed it back in the box and rummaged through the other things the Old Man had bequeathed him. The Old Man was a smart guy, he thought as he unwrapped an old cigarette lighter.

"A very wise man", he said aloud.

Planning a Dark Lord Party

As many knowledgeable people know, atheists are liars. We say that we aren't against your gods, but that isn't true. Obviously we DO worship devils and today I'd like to tell you how to plan a rip-roaring Dark Lord party that will have people talking about you for months!

If you've been to a party like this, you certainly know how much fun it can be. Playing rock and roll records backwards is only the beginning - a well planned party can draw people together and create lasting friendships.

If you are old fashioned, you might feel uncomfortable with my referring to this as a "party". Never fear, we'll be doing plenty of that REAL old time religion, but there is no reason we can't have a little fun, too.

So let's get the party going!

Invitations

Of course you'll be inviting all the local atheists and Wiccans. However, there's nothing like fresh new faces, especially at this sort of affair. Praying with the same boring old people is boring, so it's time to get some new atheists around the Pentagram!

Obviously you can't tell them it is Devil Worship. Technically, you could - there's nothing illegal about it, but it's bound to get the neighbors excited and you really don't want them showing up with pitchforks. So you have to be a little careful when approaching neighbors that you don't know well.

You can't say that you are having an Avon or Tupperware party either. As incredible as it sounds, some of your neighbors might actually want to show up for that.

One thing that has worked for us is to announce an "key swapping" party. This will cause some upset with the neighbors, but they won't show up with pitchforks and if they do show up for the expected hanky-panky, they'll probably be cool with the Devil Worship too, because obviously they are open and tolerant people. If they aren't into the Dark Lord and his minions, they won't say anything to the other neighbors because they'd have to admit they went to the key party. You are covered either way.

If you want, you can cap off the worship with a mini-orgy anyway. There really are no rules about that, unlike some of those stuffy church functions. So invite some new faces and have some fun!

But not too many - consider the Pentagram!

On the other hand, you don't want so many people that your guests cannot get a good view of the summoned demons. Imagine how upset people will be if the Dark Lord picks your party as one He will appear at and there's not enough room for everyone to be around the Pentagram at once.

I know many people will say that people can step back and let someone else have a turn. That's all very well with a minor demon who we have all seen a thousand times, but do you truly expect people to willingly give up their place if a major celebrity demon shows up? How much more difficult would it be if the Dark Lord Himself were in the Pentagram, snarling and strutting his stuff?

I know I wouldn't willingly give up my spot - would you?

There are other risks, too. In such circumstances, people without a clear view will naturally be jostling forward, trying to get a better vantage point. You certainly don't want a guest accidentally pushed inside the Pentagram. Trust me, it is very awkward explaining this to the police and you WILL have to explain it.

Speaking of accidents, now is certainly not the time to be cheap with the chalk. Remember, high quality blue chalk, double lines and visual inspection is what keeps the demons inside the Pentagram. They don't want to hurt you, but their nature is to pull people in and you can't change that. Keep the chalk solid and don't ask for trouble, my dear Grandmother would always say.

So, make out the guest list based on the size of the Pentagram you plan to draw.

Ventilation

It's easy to forget about sulfurous fumes, isn't it? It's also all to easy to overlook that a big Pentagram means more demons and more fumes. A window fan close to the Pentagram is very important.

Timing

Few demons will show up before Midnight. Some of the younger ones might come early on a lark, but they won't be very colorful at all and their snarls aren't awe inspiring. Some will let the worship go to their heads, too, and that's never fun to watch.

If I see a group of those young demons show up, I send them right back. There are plenty of fish in the sea and no shortage of demons in hell, Grandma always said.

Grandma always kept Holy Water on hand for them. She'd send them back politely once, but if they came back on the second Summoning, they'd get a nasty splashing for their impish behavior. You might want to keep some around yourself for that use.

Summoning

Speaking of summoning, I like the group chants. I think that hosts show-boating the summoning by themselves is quite rude. Let the group do the chants and cast the incense - the demons don't care about you anyway. They come for the worship and the off chance of fresh meat to tear asunder.

By the way, we are Reformed Atheists. No deliberate sacrifices at our parties!

What to do if the Dark Lord does show up

It is rare, but it does happen and it could happen at your party. Your guests will quite naturally be excited. The lesser demons will have vanished from the Pentagram to make room so there should be no problem seeing him. Don't worry, He will preen and turn in every direction so that everyone gets a good look - He's quite vain.

Yes, I have been fortunate enough to have been Visited. It was many years ago and it was only that once, but none of us who were there have ever forgotten.

This is exactly why we are atheists, isn't it? Do Christians ever get a Visitation? No, they do not. Case closed. Bell, book and candle be damned!

The fleas of Sir Lancelot

(Originally at http://www.bubblews.com/news/5747915-the-fleas-of-sir-lancelot , expanded here)

In olden times, a small group of fleas supported themselves upon the body and blood of the great Sir Lancelot, a knight of King Arthur's court.  It was not an easy life, as a flea's life seldom is, but they were at least well fed.

Flea populations, unencumbered by Malthusian theory and certainly living upon what must have seemed like an inexhaustible food supply, do tend to grow rapidly, but many were tossed out regularly with the weary knights clothing when he decided they were too dirty to wear another day.  A few succumbed when the great man scratched at himself. Many more would perish when he bathed, but that was only once a year, and he never did submerge his head, so only those two slow to scurry upward or jump to safety would be lost. 

The surviving fleas, usually numbering several dozen, would console themselves by saying that their children and relatives had gone to a better place. Sometimes that was true, as a few may have jumped to the fair skin of the wash maiden before the clothes went into the stream. Some may also have jumped to her when Sir Lancelot was enjoying some improper dalliance on a summer day, but fleas do not care how you arrived at the Promised Land.

The fleas who remained on Lancelot enjoyed their home. The blood was good and Lancelot seldom took notice of itching. The fleas were safe, and happy.

Some were also wealthy. Fleas are too small to steal gold and silver coins, but you'd be surprised at how many tiny flecks were knocked off the coins jingling in the great man's purse, and as he kept it close to his body, an enterprising flea could sometimes earn a small income, which could be spent upon an evening of dining in the choicest and most tender spots of the great man's vast expanse.

The flea who controlled most of those venues stored his gold in Sir Lancelot's armpit, woven into the tangled hairs. That flea never dined in that area and always kept his movements slow, so Lancelot never scratched there.

One morning fleadom was abuzz with the news that the gold had been stolen. Suspicion fell upon a young flea with a slovenly appearance. Warned by friends of his imminent arrest, he fled the colony and lived rough on a passing mongrel. He fell in with a nasty lot, who eventually learned of the warrant and turned him in for a small reward.

The trial was held upon the head of King Arthur himself. Witnesses and prosecutors assembled there before the judge. The prisoner was brought in bound with spider web chains, which may not sound like much to you, but are quite effective for a flea.

The prosecutor read out the charges and presented the evidence. The gold was stolen while proper fleas were sleeping. Everyone else was known to be where they belonged; only one flea's whereabouts could not be accounted for.

There was no jury, the revered judge alone would decide guilt or innocence. After listening to the prosecutor carefully, the judge turned to the young flea cowering before him and demanded just one answer.

"And where were you on the knight in question?"