I Have More Questions

If there is a god, ya know, in the traditional Protestant sense—white dude reeking of power and importance, floating around on some cloud, looking down on his creation (all of it, all at once, all the time)—is he horrified at how his project turned out?

He bloody well should be.

Does he wonder what the fuck he did wrong when he fancied up humans?

Does it boggle his bean that we life forms that he created in his very own image, are, as a species, astoundingly egomaniacal, power-mad, depraved and just generally villainously putrescent?

Does this theoretical supreme being, creator of all there is, feel guilt? Are there nights—sitting in his big comfy chair in front of a crackling fire, sipping his 25 year old Glenmorangie—when he feels the heavy weight of his colossal fuck up? Does he wonder if he had just added a pinch more sugar, a touch less vinegar, heated the mix for 20 minutes on low instead of 40 minutes on high, maybe humans wouldn’t have come up as such warmongering, malevolent, self-destructing shitstains.

Yeah, yeah, NOT all humans and shit BUT, fer fuck’s sake, this designer, presumed infallible, this father of all life, the mold from which we were all cast, created us and we are decidedly, phenomenally glitch ridden.

As you may recall, I’m a devout agnostic. IF, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, there’s a maker to be met, I will be sure to ask them what the astonishing fuck were you smoking when you created mankind?!

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud is a poem penned by William Wordsworth, an English Romantic poet.

This, the poem, is such snottwaddling, navel gazing, grade school, poodle poop. I mean, honestly now, where’s he get the idea that a cloud, any cloud, might be lonely? They, you may’ve noticed, have shitloads of brethren AND seem to hold regular social events. If anything, I imagine, they’d crave alone time. Anthropomorphism for environmental phenomena anyone?

Also, I guess, given this stanza (noted below), the poem can no longer be read to grammar school students in Florida.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

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Word for the day:
Sciamachy
noun \ sīˈaməkē \
an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy

Republi/Fascists revel in sciamachy. They fabricate obscene fictional foes as a diversion from their own crimes and misdemeanors. It’s all distraction theater and projection to gull the rubes.

WHY? Is it all about money, power and fame at any cost? I think I just answered my own question.

The real world is a book in bad need of an editor.
~ Jasper Fforde, The Eyre Affair