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?"