The Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker: Charles Darwin vs The LORD

For the uneducated man one of the most convincing of all “proofs” for the existence of a God is the watchmaker argument. It was presented by William Paley in Natural Theology, and the opening passage begins like this (Paley, 1802): “In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be there; I might possibly answer, that, for anything I knew to the contrary, it had lain there forever: nor would it perhaps be very easy to show the absurdity of this answer. But suppose I had found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place; I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there.” Further down Paley continues: “Every indication of contrivance, every manifestation of design, which existed in the watch, exists in the works of nature; with the difference, on the side of nature, of being greater or more, and that in a degree which exceeds all computation.”

Charles Darwin (in Hell): As Paley notes, there is indeed a reason for the complexity of everything in nature, and that reason is merely survival of the fittest. A tree exhibits all its idiosyncrasies as a result of those particular traits’ abilities to ensure the tree will receive adequate sunlight, water, and minerals. The “guiding hand” or “watchmaker” in this respect is simply nature. Cruel, heartless nature. That lets the weak die off and the strong feed on its bones. That punishes the sick and the poor and rewards the rich and powerful for their blameless fates. I guess what I’m trying to get at here is, if that’s what God is, then I can’t see how it is a benevolent force or one worthy of admiration at all. Especially since He’s had me cooking down here in this flaming sarcophagus for a century and half now.

The LORD: Don’t make me punish you and your followers up on Earth again, Charles. I could turn New York into a red state too, you know. Or I could make it so that when your fans get home tonight, instead of finding a rock or a watch sitting on their doorsteps, they will find a big flaming bag of dog poop. Then they will truly know who the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker is.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aaaah, you ain’t so big, The LORD. Anybody could be the Flaming-Bag-of-Poop-Maker. In fact, I’ve been leaving flaming bags of poop in front of every church, temple, and mosque for years. Those bastards get everything tax free. The hell with that! Step in the poop, you!

The LORD: But who makes the poop that you put in your bags, Sandy? Well, yeah, dogs do. But then who makes the dogs? That would be me: The LORD. I am the one true maker of poop.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Someone told me once that Buddha was the one true maker of poop.

Buddha (in Hell): Nah brah, that’s The LORD. Srsly.

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Buddha? In Hell? Really?

Buddha (in Hell): Yeah, it’s not too bad, really. The LORD set me and my followers up real nice down here. There’s a cow in every garage, for starters.

The LORD: Hey, no problem, Buddha. I’m all about equal opportunity when it comes to eternal damnation.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Aw, c’mon, The LORD. Dogs make the dogs that make the poop! Everyone knows that!

The LORD: But who made the dogs that make the dogs that make the poop, Sandy? Well, yeah, they were wolves long ago. But I made the wolves. And the single-celled organisms that they descended from. But that last point is just between us here on Upstate Ether, okay? If anyone from a red state asks, then tell them I invented all of those things over the course of a week some six thousand years ago. And I invented all living creatures with poop in their colons, so as to avoid any “which came first: the food or the poop?” debates. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got to get down to Washington, DC. I’ve got some cabinet and Supreme Court positions I’ve got to fill.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): I’ve got to respectfully disagree, The LORD. A combination of amino acids and outlandish weather and geological conditions made that one-celled ancestor of wolves all those years ago, and then natural selection took it from there. All you did was take credit for it. And send me to Hell for calling you out about it. I’ve got to say that I certainly don’t think I deserve a conscious eternity in this flaming coffin just for following the scientific method to its logical conclusion.

The LORD: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . . how many times do we have to go through this? Who made the amino acids and outlandish weather, Charlie? That would be me. But, oh, let’s see, I’m thinking you want to cite the prevailing scientific theory, something along these lines: that all the matter in the entire universe existed in a space smaller than a helium atom until a big bang blew it all up and created everything, all in matter of milliseconds. Suuuuuuuure, that’s real believable. Your astrophysicists don’t use scientific method. They make leaps of faith, and bad ones at that. I think it makes more sense to just suck it up and say “And the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of The LORD moved upon the face of the waters. And The LORD said, let there be light: and there was light. And The LORD saw the light, and it was good, fo’ shizzle!” That makes just as much sense to most folks as the Big Bang theory does. Now, excuse me while I go put together an extra big bag of flaming poop for Sandy Twistedpanties’ porch, and appoint Pat Robertson as attorney general. ‘ta!

Buddha (in Hell): You cows stay away from Charles Darwin, please. He is unclean and untouchable.

Charles Darwin (in Hell): That hurts, Buddha. That really hurts.

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Chicken Fluffer

Karellen: I’ve got a bit of sensitive request for you, my Overbrethren. Last night, Mrs. Karellen and I set up the boudoir video cam to capture a little rumpy-pumpy for posterity’s sake, and when I watched the playback, I have to confess that I wearied of waiting for myself to reach full tumescence. I’m thinking that I might need to hire a fluffer. Someone to wait in the wings, as it were, to prime the pump, so that once Mrs. Karellen cries “action,” I’m ready for the fleshy swordplay right away. Can any of you recommend a good fluffer?

Mustapha Mond: I’d be happy to recommend and share my fluffer, Napoleon Boner Pirate. He’s an excellent fluffer. Very professional. He’s fluffed for Space Chubby and Commissioner Gordon Haskell as well, plus many others. He’s friendly and courteous, and always senses when it’s time to get in there and get to work. A real self-starter. He doesn’t need anyone pushing or holding his hand while he works through complex tasks. I’ve got his resume here, in fact. It says: “Highly organized and motivated; exceptionally reliable, conscientious and thorough; excellent written, oral and interpersonal communication skills; familiar with all Microsoft Office applications, bass guitar, and ikebana.” Let me get him on the line for you . . .

Karellen: Hmm . . . he seems like he might be a bit over-qualified for my needs. Plus that name sounds French, and I’m not so sure I want his type lurking around the mothership.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: No no no! I’d be perfect for the job! That’s an old resume, actually. I’m no longer pretending to be familiar with Microsoft Office Applications now that my fluffing career has started to take off! Give me a chance. I’ve got the drive and determination to see any situation through. At least watch me fluff before you make a decision.

Karellen: Let’s not be too hasty, there, good fellow. How about a little conversation first, hmm? Tell me: what’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced as a fluffer, and how did you handle it?

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Well, let’s see. If I understand your question correctly, the biggest challenge would have to have been Drunknard in the early days of Space Chubby. I simply couldn’t get a rise out of the guy. Then one time we were in Montreal and saw a porno film with women acting like chickens, pecking up corn, clucking, etc. Drunky pretended not to be interested but I saw a funny look in his eye. From then on I would bring a couple of hens to band practice and everything was, ya know, cock-a-doodle-can-do.

Mustapha Mond: That shows you’ve got some gumption, kid. The world would be a better place if all fluffers were as goal-oriented.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: The first rule of fluffing is that if you’re not goal-oriented, then maybe you need to find another line of work.

Drunknard: It’s true. Before Napoleon, I didn’t really know that I liked chickens. Now I keep a coop in my basement, and I bring chickens to every show. Thanks, Napoleon. You’re in a league of your own.

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: I can vouch for the chicken thing. Me and High Function Downs Boy tried to practice in Drunknard’s basement a couple of times but we were up to our elbows in chicken shit. I must admit, however, the sound of our awful music was veritably enhanced by the inclusion of the murderous clucking of consistently molested chickens.

Drunknard: Molested? You make what I do with chickens sound so scandalous. The chickens and I make love. Where’s the harm in that?

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: That’s not the way the chickens squawk it, dude.

Drunknard: You wouldn’t know an ee-yawk from a ree-ikkk, my uncouth young friend. And besides, their language by nature is crude and violent to untrained ears. What you hear is simply their begging for my attention.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Begging for your attention? Oh please. The truth of the matter is that a chicken can never say yes. After all, despite your ostensible comprehension of squawk, the poultry language has yet to be mapped out by the best of our scientists. However, the most commonly uttered phrase among chickens as derived at laboratories and through publications I am familiar with is “rape!” Even when chickens are being violated by roosters, they have no choice in the matter. While PETA refuses to go this far, I must insist that all sexual acts involving chicken are by nature forced and therefore morally wrong. Please consider in depth what you are doing, Drunknard, and release the hens. Otherwise, I’ll make a stink so big my local district assemblyman may hear about it!

Karellen: What’s that smell? Yuck!

Sandy Twistedpanties: You know exactly what that smell is, little man. But you clearly aren’t accustomed to the smell of empowered vagina. Just the mention of that word—“vagina”—makes some small-minded, little men uncomfortable. Grow up. Learn to appreciate the way a real woman smells. Like strength.

Karellen: You have to admit . . . it’s a bit musky . . .

Drunknard: What I have with the chickens goes beyond language. It’s called love.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Okay, Drunknard, I thought maybe you were a reasonable man. But now, once again, I am forced to realize the truth that the only good man is a dead man. Prepare for the stink.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Sandy, are you trying to make my job more difficult? Do I have to find another vice for Drunknard that doesn’t involve chickens or other animals? I’m tellin’ ya, before I happened onto the chicken thing the guy was like a deflated balloon. Cut a fluffer some slack, namsain?

Sandy Twistedpanties: Typical male perspective, Napoleon. As if everyone has the same voracious sex drive that must be satisfied. Why don’t you just leave him alone, and not expose all those helpless chickens to psychological devastation in the process?

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: I had a dream that David Bowie was telling me what a wonderful artist I am. I told him he was wrong and to fuck off. “Shut up, David Bowie, you’re full of shit.”

David Bowie: You insult me in a dream, you’d better wake up and apologize.