Creationist Disneyland

I love travel almost as much as I love absurd nonsequiturs, bouncy balls that come to life when parents leave the house, cat-sized African rats in Florida and gay flamingos.

So, it should come as no surprise that I spend unhealthy amounts of otherwise potentially productive time researching where I will take my next trip. Usually, my imaginary adventures take me to exotic and enticing international locations that boast an equal amount of cultural wazoo and natural, jaw-dropping zenaliciousness.

(yes, I just used the word 'zenaliciousness' and, no, it isn't a real word.)

This time, however, my dream destination has been decided, and it is not the megaliths of Malta or the tourism-free island of Tokelau. I have decided that I desperately want to visit

…drumrole and gentle gong hits…:

Petersburg, Kentucky.

Why would I want to visit this flat, uninteresting stitch of Middle America?

The answer: To visit the 60,000 sq/ft, $27 million Creation Museum that opens tomorrow, May 28th.

Not only is it a Museum that teaches the Truth (namely that the Earth is 6000 years old rather than 4.5 billion and that humans were lucky enough to have been created on the same day as dinosaurs and, thus, chill together in the Garden), but it also has some wicked cool special effects and some pretty intense attractions and exhibits worthy of any good amusement park/ museum.

For example, if you’ve ever wanted to see a live poison dart frog, visit with an animatronic dinosaur created by the Universal Studios designer of JAWS and KING KONG, recline comfortably in a planetarium as you come to understand why there was an all-mighty Creator and not an illogical BANG..., then you should look no further!

You can also ride the surround-sound video biblical history Adventure and experience why making seemingly irrational assumptions before analyzing fossils is logically necessary, see how the Grand Canyon was formed in mere days, as well as be delightfully sprayed with water as you learn about the Flood that wiped out everything but Noah’s Ark!

I’m especially looking forward to seeing my sincere literary appreciation of the Book of Genesis put to shame as I come to see that this intriguing story is, in fact, not allegorical, but instead backed up by scientific proof.

During my trip to Kentucky (which, I admit, is fantastically created in my own head), I will also have a Press-Pass badge that reads:

“-c, Super-respected, Open-minded Member of Compassionate Journalists International”

And, with this imaginary badge, I will immediately command attention. I will chat with the mechanical version of a stegosaur baby (whose tracks we just found). I will also gain an exclusive interview with Ken Ham, the creator of this spectacular museum. I will ask him how they got the animatronic dinosaurs to look so unsurprised when they saw human children giggling beside the waterfall, and what feats of technology enabled the museum to get the audience seats to shake when the Flood came.

If we establish a good rapport, I might also guide him to conclude with one of his favorite quotes from his father: “If you don’t believe in Genesis, then the whole rest of the Bible falls.”

I, of course, will also get to hold the poison dart frogs in my hand.

And name them Iggy, Stan and Leviticus.


*Editor's Update: As sarcastically decided as I may seem in my own opinions, I vampirically crave the opinions of others also so that I can continue to reevaluate. What do you think about this new museum?

Tag Hag

I love the world of Blogging. BUT, every time I see another silly chainletter-like “Tag” being passed through the home-typist gauntlet, I feel a bit embarrassed.
Usually, I pass these by, hoping someone else will find fulfillment in answering questions about their first crushes, most embarrassing moments and first pets named Fluffalufugus.

This time, however, I was unintentionally “dared” to participate. A few months ago (yeah, I’m a procrastinator), Frustrated Writer wrote on his blog:

“I would’ve tagged -c but I doubt she would’ve responded…”

Now… I could hardly leave this blatant “dare” alone without feeling like a rejected, weak, cajones-less pussy (which I most certainly am not. I’ll have you know that my turkey flesh-like cajones are bigger than most). So here I go, attacking my first, semi-official “tag” ever:

The rules:

1. Get tagged.
2. List five things that have not been revealed on your blog.
3. Tag five others.

Well… screw all this. I wasn’t “officially” tagged, I’m not going to prescribe to the correct number of requested revelations, and I’m not going to “tag” anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged. Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Yup, I reached my quota.

So without further a doodle, here are 9 insights never before shared on this blog. (Why 9, you ask? Well, because its square root equals exactly 3 more than the number of nose hairs I ever hope to have visible to the public, of course.) Here goes:

1. I sometimes shave my armpits and wash the shower tiles at the same time (efficiency is not only for the Japanese and the insect kingdom)
2. I sometimes critique the conceptual art Mr. E has made on the shower walls with strands of our hair
3. I once got a full-body rash from skinny dipping in an Italian canal bordered by thistles and interested bridge-watchers
4. I like the way the word ‘flatulence’ rolls off the tongue
5. I was valedictorian of my tiny high school graduating class, and I showed up barefoot and stoned
6. I once performed vile acts of “loose bowel movements” in the meticulously-sculpted bushes in front of the Governmental Palace in San Cristobal, Mexico.
7. I was once asked to spell out a man’s name in cocaine on the back of an Ecuadorian toilet. Luckily, he had a short nickname.
8. I often play the Devil’s Advocate despite my beliefs
9. In person, I’m not actually the biting, vulgarity-embracing, smart-ass I often claim to be on my blog. In fact, I’m actually pretty quiet and shy. Ah… how honesty doth free the soul!

Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Man, what a harsh and obnoxious word.

It has none of the linguistic grace that the word “flatulence” possesses.

Rhymes with Muscular

Today’s Vocabulary Word: Crepuscular

Definition (according to Dictionary.com):
1) of, pertaining to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct
2) Zoology. Appearing or active in the twilight, as certain bats and insects

How would you use this adjective?

"I've always been rather crepuscular in my ways."??
"The bat's crepuscular diatribe bored me despite his sonar arguments."???
"The crepuscular arguments batted the sonar board's diatribe."???
"Fine, you win! Just crepe us, queller!"???

Obviously, I need some help with this word...

Of Dirty Clothes and Smart Designers

Did the Great Platypus make my Laundry Basket?

He showed up this morning without warning. Not a phone call. Not a knock. Not even an email.

With the epiphanic bomb he was about to drop on me, you would think he would at least have the proverbial balls to send some kind of sign or warning. A quick lightning bolt to the earlobe… A burning hairbrush with words of guidance… Shit, even a single singing telegram delivered by a Sea at low tide would have been enough.

But, no. He caught me unprepared. He symbolically slapped me with a pubescent pineapple while I was unsuspectingly watering my house plant (whose name, though irrelevant, is Ignacio).

As I turned towards the sink to refill my glass blender (yes I water Ignacio with the same receptacle that I use to mix my morning fruit Smoothies), I was suddenly kicked by a steel-toed and profound Epiphanic Moment (Ok—if ‘epiphanic’ isn’t a word yet, it should be!). And I had to stop, completely transfixed by a spectacular and chore-halting display of beauty.

I couldn’t help but stare.
The color composition was exquisite. The geometric design, impeccable. The chaotic exactitude, seemingly miraculous.

How could such an incredible masterpiece have just appeared from nowhere? How could so many improbable elements have come together at just the right moment to allow for the blossoming of such a powerful exhibition of life energy? There couldn’t possibly be a viable, falsifiable and comprehensive explanation for the origins of such a complex and spectacular splurge of seeming splendor aside from that of an Intelligent Designer…

And then my pseudo-religious epiphany was toppled by a devilish and logical inner voice.

“Why the hell are you staring at your overflowing laundry basket?” asked the voice.

“Because it’s so beautiful,” I answered. “I can’t stop wondering how something so complex and aesthetically precise in its imbalance could develop without the aid of some extra-terrestrial, higher-powered hand. I mean, it seems damn-near improbable that the fuchsia panties would just HAPPEN to be lying so perfectly beside the worn denim jeans, and that the forest green cargo shorts would just HAPPEN to fall so complimentarily close to the off-red Engrish tank top reading ‘Life always happily, Be Cheer.’ I have a hard time believing that science could explain that.”

“Well,” the voice said, “YOU tossed all of those terribly unstylish articles of clothing there. I think the most logical explanation is simply that you have poor aim.”

“But I just hurled my clothes at the laundry basket randomly, and without intent or underlying meaning,” I countered.

“Precisely.”

“But… how can you explain the complexity of color composition and the emotion-invoking beauty of this laundry landscape? I mean, something of such beauty doesn’t just EVOLVE through arbitrary disrobement. That seems too difficult to explain. It must have been CREATED with some intent purpose and meaning, by some force grander than myself.”

“Nope. You just took off your dirty clothes and threw them there." The voice was sounding very matter-of-fact now. "Your clothes fell the way they did due to a lot of physical and chemical factors we can discuss at a later time. As for the awesome beauty of your soiled array of clothing-- it’s just as simultaneously random and precise as your own beautiful existence. There IS, however, one last matter to address…: the matter of WHY you removed your pink panties before throwing them there…”

“Isn’t that irrelevant, though, if the beauty of my dirty clothes heap was not meaningfully sculpted by an omnipotent Designer?”

“Absolutely. But, it makes for better conversation.”


*Editor's note: No, those are not my panties.

But, they'd probably look good in my laundry basket.

Portland kicks cool tides and child stool into a can

Is it cooler than Seattle? Yes.
Does it rock the house? Yes.
Rock the boat? Yes.
Rock the frail foundations of traditional social Ineptitude? Yes.
Am I writing this of my own volition? Yes.
Is there some critical, mythological, prodding prick of a Portland P.R. Agent hovering over my shoulder as I type this? Yes-- I mean, No.
Does he brandish a big, brain-washing, evergreen gaze? No—I mean, No.
Does he sport a funky hair-do with the words “authentic identity” shaved into his sideburns? No.
Does he look like a gypsy on a syncopation binge? No.
Does he patch his crotch holes with muse-drooled fabric? No.
Is he poking my tongue now with his humanity-fired flavor prod? No.
Does he want me to move to Portland? Absolutely not.

What do you think I am, some kind of schizophrenic lunatic?

*Editor’s note 1: Sorry I've been gone so long. Excuse: forthcoming.
*Editor's note 2: Excuse coming forth at a speed infinitesimally slower than the currently translatable speed of forthcoming excuses.
*Editor's note 3: I didn't mean to change the colors on my blog. The Great Intelligent Designer (the new blogger) finally caught up with me. Nothin' you can do when Omiscience overrides your natural blog evolution...
*Editor's note 4: Portland rocks!