You know God. He has those mysterious ways. He speaks really, really loudly, sometimes using languages he’s made up and hasn’t even told anyone yet, just for kicks, and sometimes he writes everything down very carefully on tablets designed to last eons and hands them to the clumsiest dude in all of the Middle East.
He’s like that.
But now he’s pissed, and he’s blogging.
BEHOLD, stolen from IAmYourGod who is, of course, on WordPress:
except that you HAVE to read the last line.
Putting the “Party” into Politics, we present (courtesy of the esteemed Dr. Boli) the League of Surrealist Voters; note that while the votes are real, the voters themselves must be surreal. And that describes everyone around here!
Everyone’s heard of the fashion police (they were even handing out tickets here in Vancouver a couple of years back, but they must have stopped since nobody’s tried to arrest me recently) but what about art cops? And I’m not talking about the Bureaucratocracy that runs the galleries; I’m talking about actual men and women of action, prowling around, making sure that art is paid the respect which is its due, whether that’s busting the kneecaps of some thug who tries to stash his gum underneath the Louise Nevelson or this:
We will refrain, for lo we are way tactful, bychez, from pointing out that the nomenclatural congruity here is somewhat … what? Ironic? Perfect? Obvious?
Well, actually, some Star Trek characters themselves function as erectile dysfunction medications, if you believe some of my friends, and I wouldn’t, particularly late on a dark and stormy Friday night. Because they’ll say anything to get you out of the house so they can get back to WoW or Battlestar Gallactica or their nightly recitation of the entire Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (I am SO not getting invited over for Red Dwarf now, eh?).
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