‘We’re going to burn you in effigy! Slim down, or next time we’ll put you in there when we light it on fire. For the sacrifices of those caught in some offence are more pleasing to the gods, but if the supply of such people runs out, we will not hesitate to sacrifice innocents.’*
Can we expect to see Jamie Oliver officiating as Chief Druid?
Hat tip to Longrider, Leg-Iron, and Ambush Predator.
*Adapted from Caesar, De Bello Gallico VI.16 for maximum absurdity value.
This is rather an old post, but everything about it is funny to me, including the title: Hands Off My Loaves and Fishes, Hippies.
26But Libertarian Jesus was great in wrath, and did goeth on at great length about negative liberty and natural law.
27And on.
28And on and on.
29And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the Pharisees begged Libertarian Jesus to holdeth his peace, but to no avail.
30And lo, presently the Legion came upon Libertarian Jesus, and gave him a bloody good crucifying.
31And there was much rejoicing and loud were the hosannas.
32And Libertarian Jesus looked down upon the Pharisees and said, Forgive them LORD, for they know not the principles of Minarchism.
Iowahawk strikes again:
But there’s a problem: as the worker researchers attempt to store each raw datum into the neat honeycomb hockey stick structure provided by the hive’s Alpha Grantwriter, they discover that few will fit. The infrared shows them growing cool with fear. This signals the climate researcher’s instinctive behavior to begin viciously beating, rolling and normalizing the data into submission. According to Dr. Nigel V.H. Oldham, professor emeritus at Oxford University’s Centre for Metascience, this violent data dance is what makes climate researchers unique among breeds of scientists.
Professor Nigel V.H. Oldham:
Like other species in the order homo scientifica, the climate researcher gathers and organizes data to lure grant money to the hive. In contrast to those other species, however, the climate researcher has evolved a set of complex violent behaviors to insure any data leaving the hive is perfectly adapted to nature’s most lucrative and sweetest grants. It really is a marvel of natural selection, and explains why the climate researcher continues to thrive in any kind of weather condition.
Truly, Iowahawk is a giant among satirists. Do go and read the whole thing.
From commenter D. Bum at the Devil’s Kitchen:
But when it comes to broken promises, explicit promises, Labour and the Liberal Democrats are two cheeks of the same Vichy arse and I would gladly cut off his cock and winch Gordon Brown’s intestines from his treacherous stomach and cook them for him in front of his remaining eye before cutting him in four and beating the rest of the cabinet to death with bits of him, the cunt.
D. Bum, I commend you.
Gangland Julius Caesar offers some advice to President Obama:
And believe me, nothing boosts an imperator’s public approval rating like turning the opposition into lion snausages. Your loyal plebes will love it, and after the games you can hand out free bread. And healthcare.
Shit, I dunno, maybe I’m being to hard on Obamacus. The big problem is that the punk don’t know how to pick a posse. Look at his Senators. Jupiter H. Cripes, I thought that crazyass Caligula was straightup psycho for appointing his horse to the Senate, but that thing had more brains than half these muthafuckers. Combined.
…
I know you be thinkin’ you’re some kind of stone cold Claudius, layin’ down some phat oratory at the Forum and plowing your enemies’ fields under with salt. But you still a teleprompter punk, and you gotta know what you don’t know…Lesson one: rule first, deification later.
Iowahawk has breathed new life into my Friday afternoon. Go read the whole thing; everybody knows regular blogging on a Friday snuffs out around 2 pm.
From Terry Eagleton’s review of The God Delusion in the LRB:
Dawkins speaks scoffingly of a personal God, as though it were entirely obvious exactly what this might mean. He seems to imagine God, if not exactly with a white beard, then at least as some kind of chap, however supersized. He asks how this chap can speak to billions of people simultaneously, which is rather like wondering why, if Tony Blair is an octopus, he has only two arms.
The mental picture… ahahaha. Ha.
His take on the Waxman-Bullshit Cap and Trade Attainder is absolute class.
Whether you think the results of Iran’s presidential elections were valid or not, you have to laugh at this:
Among the countries congratulating Mr Ahmadinejad on his victory were Iraq, Afghanistan, Venezuela and North Korea.
Don’t you? ‘Cause I did.
Flatmate: [watching Terminator 3] What’s phenobarbitol?
Bella: [paying no attention] It’s truth serum, isn’t it?
Flatmate: Why would a vet’s office have truth serum? To get information out of recalcitrant puppies? “You there: did you poop in the corner?“
…and yet somehow so amusing:
“The only way Gordon Brown can win the general election is if Madeleine McCann’s body is found in David Cameron’s garage.”
Flatmate had a right good laugh at that. So did I.
From memory:
Jacqui Smith.
Hazel Blears.
Beverley Hughes.
Tom Watson.
James Purnell.
John Hutton.
Geoff Hoon.
Margaret Beckett.
Tony McNulty.
Caroline Flint.
And why, when I google ‘uk minister resignation,’ is Al-Jazeera the top result? Suspicious, no?
Anyway, dare I say it: this meltdown is vastly more exciting than any other political event I’m old enough to remember, including Obama’s this-that-and-the-other. Although I was a child when the Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union fell apart, and Germany was reunified, these things meant nothing to me, living as I did with no understanding of twentieth-century Europe.
But I know a good farce when I see one, and I concur heartily with Obo: break out the popcorn. This truly is turning out to be The Best Show On Earth. Big, toothy, gleefully sadistic smiles all round.
The scene – bella and flatmate are discussing full-serve toilets, as featured in today’s Guardian.
Me: Those toilets don’t sound so bad, the way you describe them.
Flatmate: And you know what – the Japanese-style ones, they’re like Continental toilets in that there’s a little shelf for inspecting your output. It’s weird; there’s like this little Viking longship poo sitting there, and then you press the button, and whoosh, it sails out. I feel like I should salute as it goes past.
Me: [dies laughing]
I am fortunate enough to live with a flatmate who not only enjoys cooking, but does it well; and one of the innumerable pleasures of living with him is the fact that he is wont to make sausage sandwiches on occasion, most notably Saturday afternoons when I am ever so slightly hung over. He made sausage sandwiches recently using some rather lovely pieces of pork obtained at a butcher’s.
‘What do you want on your sandwich?’ he asked upon the completion of the grilling, extracting bread and butter from the cupboard.
‘Ah,’ said I; ‘I shall doctor my own.’ Two slices of bread I placed to one side of the plate; a small helping of brown sauce I placed to the other; the sausages I situated in the centre, next to my fork and knife.
‘What the hell is that? That’s not a sandwich. That’s heresy!’ exclaimed flatmate, staring at my plate in horror. ‘You’re supposed to put the sauce and the sausages between the slices of bread, not off to one side like that. You’re a sandwich Cathar, you are, with your bread and filling duality!’
And so it was decided that we are perfectly suited to be flatmates, not simply because our sillinesses match, but because we both know what Cathars were. How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such flatmates in’t!
The scene – bella and the flatmate are sitting together on the sofa, reading their RSS feeds.
Me: [confused by intricacies of the interwebs] How do I know… um…?
Flatmate: It’s in his kiss.
Every time I read Iowahawk, I laugh like a fucking drain.
First, the classic Tale of the Asse-Hatte.
Now, the Idiossey.
If he writes another one of these, I won’t have any kidneys left to burst.
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