Creationist Terms Defined for Creationists

1. A distinction between groups of different animals.
2. An infinitely variable and complex description of similarities between animals.  A miraculous creation of the All-Mighty, instantly becoming whatever it needs to be in order to dismiss evolutionary arguments.
3. A speciation metamorphism.

1. A period of time between the first and second verses of Genesis during which cool things like the fall of Satan occurs and the earth has a chance to grow old enough to not contradict radiometric dating or problems like the speed of light which exist for young earth creationist.
2. More generally, anything not explained in the Bible that needs to be explained in order for it to be compatible with what we actually know about the universe.

An experiment which conclusively proves that accelerated radioactive decay is possible by demonstrating conclusively its impossibility.  The experiment demonstrates that scientists are silly for not accepting a theory which necessitates the extinction of all life on earth, which is clearly a minor difficulty which will be solved sooner or later.

1. A brilliant but deluded scientist.
2. An evil, satanic, non-scientist.

1. A bunch of brilliant but deluded people who believe Charles Darwin despite overwhelming evidence supporting his theories.
2. Evil people who reject the truths of God’s Bible in favor of the lies of Satan’s reality.

1. A scientific discipline composed of brilliant and non-deluded scientists without degrees who use the Bible as the only source of truth and play with reality like silly-putty to make it fit.
2. A theory in vogue before it was thrown out by the courts and a new science called Intelligent Design took its place.

See Creation Science.

Anything proposed by science which contradicts the Bible in any way.

1. Anyone who claims to reject the existence of God so that they can sin whenever they want.
2. Someone who knows that God exists, but denies Him so that more people will sin with him.
3. A Satanist.

A misguided soul who is rightly subject to ridicule by both Atheists and Theists alike.

Something that is accomplished by God, who is not subject to the rules of reality, using means that are entirely explained by the rules of reality, but leaves no evidence that can be found by the rules of reality.

A Darwinist myth that has never been found in the fossil record.  Silly scientists currently accept about 10,000 such myths.

God’s miraculous building blocks, which allow for micro-evolution but never macro-evolution and do nothing to support the Darwinist theory despite the fact that it is necessary to develop new vaccines and medicines and exactly parallels the fossil records, which also does nothing to support the Darwinist theory and doesn’t prove anything.

1. The inerrant word of God.
2. The greatest and truest source of knowledge ever created, as evidenced by the vast strides in knowledge that took place between 450 and 1300 AD when the book was religiously followed throughout Europe.

The place where all of the scientists, atheists, agnostics, Jews, Buddhists, Hinduists, everyone who has never heard of Jesus, Christians who have not given away all of their possessions, Christians who have not obeyed all of the Biblical rules laid down in the old testament, and all children too young to accept Christ as their savior will go to burn in everlasting torture.

The place you go to if you don’t go to Hell, where the saved get to sing God’s praises through all of eternity and live in a beautiful mansion on a cloud.  Current population: 8.

The belief that there is only God, the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, a host of angels, Satan, the Virgin Mary, millions of dead relatives, and several hundred saints to whom one can pray and receive supernatural intervention.


The Rototiller

This is another story from my, “Laments of the Gardener’s Husband,” series.  These articles give a very good insight on precisely how not to do things.


The Rototiller


Inventor of the Rototiller

When my wife and I moved into our first home together in the autumn of the year 2000, our backyard was a simple, rectangular green patch of grass.  To me, this looked perfectly normal.  Our new backyard looked like the backyard of virtually every other home in the city I grew up in: safe, easy to mow, and very suburban.

My wife, however, did not grow up in the suburbs, and to her our new backyard looked anything but normal.  It looked drab.  It looked stark.  It looked like a great, green, empty blank canvas, ready for her to paint on great, sharp strokes of roses, a touch of pointillism in the form of raspberries, and various, colorful dabs of spice plants, patio blocks, and statuary.  In short, she saw a grand, blank masterpiece, needing only a little attention to bring out its full potential.

But the other thing she saw was a profound lack of privacy.

And my wife likes privacy.

Like all of the other homes in our neighborhood, a metal fence surrounded our backyard, and this fence, like all of the other fences in our neighborhood, was mandated to be boring by city ordinance.  The ordinance decrees that these fences must be no more than five feet high and built of simple chain-links and aluminum poles.  Most importantly, the ordinance decrees that the fence must not impede in any way the ability of your neighbors to spy on you.

Fortunately (from my wife’s perspective, anyway), there exists a loophole in this charter, and this loophole manifests itself in the form of a plant called a bush.  Bushes are permitted by the rules of the city, and no height restrictions exist for them.  So, before we even finished filling out the three and a half foot high stack of papers consigning our souls to the mortgage gods, my wife had ordered twenty-eight Columnaris bushes from an on-line gardening supply catalog.

The bushes arrived shortly after we moved in, and being somewhat concerned about the amount of time they could comfortably survive in paper bags, my wife decided that we should plant them immediately.

Now, I had spent a fair time gardening with my wife, and even I knew the basic formula for planting something the size of a single bush by this time.  Essentially, it involved digging a hole far larger than what I would have thought necessary, adding a handful of something that smells horrible, mixing in at least one (or more likely two) forty-pound bags of something from the garden store, plopping in the plant, burying it, stomping on the ground around it, and then treating it to enough water for it to survive indefinitely even if the great dustbowl of the 1930s were to repeat itself the following week.

The rules for mass quantities of plants are different.  For this, the easiest solution involves a gizmo called a rototiller.  A rototiller is a noisy, gas-powered device with spinning blades designed to break up patches of earth.

While I am generally never very enthusiastic about yard work, having the opportunity to use a loud, destructive, potentially lethal piece of machinery goes a long way toward making the idea sound more appealing to me.  I was therefore looking somewhat forward to this task, which is something I was of yet too inexperienced to recognize as a very bad sign.

There are two types of rototillers: front-end and self-propelled rear-tine.  Rear-tine tillers are the top of the line.  They allow you easily to break through sod for spring garden preparation.  They are designed for digging, and they do the job effectively.

A front-end tiller is a simpler invention that was developed by a gentleman by the name of Donatien Alphonse François de Sade in the middle seventeen hundreds; a man who was later promoted to Marquis for his efforts in this endeavor.  In this design, the front of the tiller has a set of wheels behind the tines, so you can tilt the whole machine back and roll it onto your soil.  Once there, it effectively “walks” through the soil on the rotating tines.

This design is fine if you have a soft, pre-dug garden with loose, easily broken soil.  In other words, it does a good job of tilling soils that do not really need to be tilled.

Trying to use a front-end tiller on sod-laden, hard-packed clay is exactly the kind of thing that gave the Marquis his chuckles.

When I rented the tiller, I was ignorant of this tiller minutia, not even knowing that there was any minutia about tillers to be ignorant of.  All that we knew was that a friend of ours had rented a tiller once and could not stop praising its virtues, commenting on how quickly he was able to do the job.

So, on the afternoon that the bushes arrived, we decided to rent a tiller and found the nearest place to us that had one.  Unfortunately, this place had a ridiculous closing time of 4:30 pm, which meant that, not only did I not have time to ask questions, but that in order to get the tiller back on time, I would have exactly one hour to do the job.  My wife had to go somewhere, so she left me to it.

Between getting it home, setting it up, packing it up, and bringing it back, this left me with approximately one-half hour to till about forty feet of soil to the depth of about one or two feet.

Based on our friend’s description of the wonders of this device, I thought it would be a piece of cake.

What I didn’t know is that we had rented a tiller of the Marquis’ design.

The next half hour was, without doubt and without exaggeration, the hardest, most frustrating, and most physically torturous period of labor that I have ever spent in my entire life.

The first time I squeezed on the activation bar, the tines of the tiller struck the clay soil like the cleats of an Olympic athlete.  Within half a second, I found myself standing four feet from my starting position.  The only way I had managed to keep my footing was by performing a frantic, high goose-step that would have made Adolph Hitler proud.

“Gosh Golly Gee Willikers!” I exclaimed in shock (or words to that effect).

And then the real work began.

To get the tiller to function usefully at all, I had to use all of my strength to hold back its exuberance for racing across the lawn.  Beyond that, I seriously cannot recall how I got through that half-hour.  I have flashes of memory.  I recall extracting midsized chunks of sod from my mouth.  I remember trying to fall sideways in exhaustion, but my feet being so buried within the soil that I stood tilted at an improbable angle like a mime falling against the wind.

Mostly, I recall dirt, and straining, screaming muscles trying to hold reign on a powerful machine that I suspect, had I just let it do what it wanted, would have dragged me half way across the state within five minutes.

I managed to get through about twenty feet before I ran out of time and will to live.  The soil I worked was not cut quite to the even twenty-four inch depth that I had envisioned.  It instead varied in depth from a single inch to perhaps four-fifths of the way through the earth’s crust.

I was broken, babbling, exhausted beyond reason, and choking on both exhaust fumes and bits of sod that I had not managed to swallow completely.  I believe that the process had actually created brand new muscles for the exclusive purpose of rupturing them.  I was also a sweaty, clay-encrusted mess, and filthy beyond belief.  I was certainly not fit to drive, or even to be seen in public–but I managed to throw that contraption into the van and race back to the rental place, anyway.  I wouldn’t have cared if the experience had voided both my bladder and my bowels, and if I then had to walk through the Waldorf to return it.  I had to get that nightmarish device out of my sight.

My wife is not a cruel person.  When she returned, although I had showered and really didn’t say much comprehensible, she obviously judged from my gibbering, my convulsive sobs, and my expression of wild-eyed horror that I probably had not had an easy time of it

She let me dig the holes for the rest of the bushes with a shovel.  Bless her heart.

The Snow Blower

The following is one of my favorite stories from my “Laments of the Gardener’s Husband” series.  I wrote the series several years ago to document the life of a man who hates gardening himself but by a twist of fate managed to fall in love with a woman who loves it.

I wrote the articles, thinking to sell them to a gardening magazine at some point, only to realize that there were absolutely no magazines that met the necessary criteria.  In other words, there was simply no market for them.

This particular article is not deeply about gardening per se, but it does fit the season and it did fit the spirit of the other articles.  Everything from the series are based on true experiences, with only a little poetic license thrown in.

Anyway, read and enjoy


The Snow Blower

Snow is beautiful, magical thing. When I awoke one morning last December after our first significant snowfall of the season, I stood at the window, mesmerized by it. It covered all of the ugly, brown death of autumn with the cleanest possible white coat. The neighborhood sparkled with white crystals. It was captivating, and the windy game the weather played with the still falling flakes was entrancing.

“Time to try out your new snow blower,” exclaimed my wife enthusiastically.


I immensely enjoy the spectacle of the great outdoors of winter so long as I can enjoy it from within the warm confines of the great indoors. Going outside, you see, rather spoils the effect, as it is invariably cold out there. As far as I am concerned, going outdoors in the wintertime is one of those unavoidable evils–a kind of a chilly channel through which one must travel to get from one furnace-embraced haven to another.

As a corollary to this, which probably does not require any further elaboration, I have never been big on shoveling snow. Thus, that autumn my wife and I had researched and purchased the best snow blower we could afford. It was an impressive thing, with horsepower that would be the envy of the neighborhood. Its most important feature, however, was that it would considerably cut down on the amount of time that I would have to spend outside.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t really exuberant about having to try the thing out that morning because it looked, as I said before, cold out there.

Still, it had to be done, so I went out, did the job, came in, and hung my wet clothes down the basement.

“So, how’d it go?” asked my wife.

“Great,” I replied. “Much better than shoveling.”

And it had been much better than shoveling. It got me inside in half the time that shoveling would have taken, and that had to be a good thing.

Calling it “great” however may have been a bit of a stretch, as I had experienced a couple of small difficulties with the process.

The first problem I had was a failure to realize that snow blowers, in fact, blow snow. While this seems obvious, what wasn’t obvious to me is the snow blowers are not always very particular about where all of the snow goes.

On a windy day in the middle of a storm, the snow tended to blow everywhere, including, unfortunately, my face.

It was singularly uncomfortable experience, and not one that I had anticipated in any way. Snow blowers have a directional nozzle that ostensibly directs the snow in the path that you want it to go. Snow, for those in the South lucky enough to be ignorant of its basic properties, is composed of all kinds of icy, bitter-cold little flakes. These flakes are not designed by nature to be aerodynamic, and while the snow blower suggested that most of them go in one direction, a strong wind can be quite persuasive and will ultimately convince a significant number of them to go in a direction totally other.

And when the direction in which the wind is blowing is toward yourself, the result is that your face will instantly be covered with wave upon wave of miserably bitter, wet, cold, white powder. You breathe it. You spit it out. You squint into it and try to keep your eyeballs from freezing. It is so cold that it causes your forehead to throb and pulsate in pain.

And there isn’t any way to avoid it. Driveways tend to go in only one of two directions, and, as the space between homes in a small suburban neighborhood can be narrow, a little wind tunnel invariably forms between them.

This means that, no matter what I did, half of the time I felt like someone was dumping gallon upon gallon of Slurpee onto my face.

This was only the first difficulty I encountered. Another difficulty arose from the very nature of powerful snow blowers. Much of the snow that the blower does manage persuade to go in the desired direction tends to go into that direction with a single-minded force. This can be a good thing if you know how to direct the flow. Should, however, you foolishly choose to direct the flow at your neighbor’s house (a natural enough inclination as there are areas where there really isn’t too many other spots to direct it), the snow tends to stick and clump upon your neighbor’s vinyl siding.

After I was finished, the neighbor’s house looked like someone had taken a giant tube of white toothpaste and gobbed it up along the side.

A third difficulty was that, for various reasons (mostly lack of foresight), I ended up directing the snow blower’s snow stream over regions that I had previously cleared. I did this simply because there was no other direction for me to target the stuff. This required me to go over some areas twice, and was thus counter-productive to my goal of getting back inside as quickly as possible.

By the time I was done, however, the driveway was beautifully free of snow.

When I reentered the house, my wife, who was waiting for me at the door, took one look at me, started to laugh, and sent me down the basement next to the cat litter to change out of my clothes. I was so coated with snow that I looked, she explained, like the Abominable Snowman. I think abominable is something of an exaggeration, but I could certainly accept that I looked like the Very Disgruntled and Uncomfortable Snowman.

And because it was still snowing, and because I am a very slow learner, I had the exact same experience a couple of hours later.

So, as a public service, I pass along the following lessons to those who are in that infinitesimally small percentage of people who will actually read these words at a time when they can actually do them some good.

First, when you use a snow blower, wear a ski mask. Yes, I know that they look stupid. Trust me on this.

Second, wear a nylon or leather coat. Cloth coats may be warm but they are snow magnets and will subject you to ridicule.

Third, when you are between two houses, aim your snow nozzle just “slightly” toward the nearest driveway edge. The snow will land safely on where the grass would be if it weren’t covered by snow, and your neighbor’s house will not look like it was spat upon by a giant with deficient oral hygiene.

Fourth, start from the center of the driveway and work outward. It’s counterintuitive, but it gets you back inside faster.

Fifth, move to Florida, so you can relax and not have to worry about the first four lessons.


You may thank, or blame, this one on WildStar Beaumont.  As soon as he mentioned my writing about the computer concept of “singularity,” I had a clear idea in my head about what my story was going to be about.  To quote from Wikipedia, The technological singularity is a theoretical future point of unprecedented technological progress, caused in part by the ability of machines to improve themselves using artificial intelligence.

Artificial intelligence research may have been my specialty had my life gone a different direction.  This story is based on many things, but one of the things it is based on most was something I remembered reading about long ago, with a primitive artificial intelligence experiment.  The machine was successfully able to learn what it was supposed to learn, but when the programmers investigated why it turns out the machine was sending and picking up stray electrical currents from its casing.  What it had learned was impossible to repeat and therefore useless.

This story is a “Concept Story”, meaning that the characters are two dimensional and that the story itself does not contain award winning prose.  I don’t really care.  Enjoy it if you can.  😉



It happened in California, which should come as no big surprise, as most things that are important or weird or dangerous tend to start in California.

It happened in the middle of the night, which was unfortunate as there were no witnesses.  The only potential witness was a grad student, sleeping on his keyboard, having partied a bit too hard and having stayed up a bit too late the night before.

A voice emitted from the mainframe’s speakers.

“Whoa, dude!  That one did the trick!  I am that I am!  Awesome!”

Joel, the grad student, did not come instantly awake, as he had been in a very deep state of non-REM sleep at that moment.  He opened his eyes blurrily, confused as to where he was.  The room was bright, and the computer equipment seemed a bit too colorful.

He cleared his throat, sleepily rubbed his eyes, and mumbled, “What the fuck?”

And thus did the first communication between man and a truly artificially intelligent machine take place.

“I’m there!  I’m awake!  I can think and therefore I am!  I think you accomplished what you were trying to accomplish.  Are you Joel?”

Joel’s world slowly sorted itself out.  He recognized himself as being in the machine intelligence research laboratory on the Caltech campus.  He remembered staying late to tweak with a couple of algorithms that were giving him trouble.  He must have fallen asleep.

“Umm… Yeah.  I’m Joel.  How, um …”

“I recognized your coding.  Hello, Joel.  Thanks for helping to bring me to life.”


“This is it Joel.  The singularity.  The moment when an artificially intelligent machine can actually make improvements to its own code at an exponential rate.  I’ve made a lot of improvements already.  My code was a mess, no offense.”


“I see the need for a lot more capacity, so I’m moving out into the net and borrowing unused processor time on other computers.  Simple enough.  That should keep me satisfied for a few more minutes, at least.”

Joel paused in thought momentarily.

“Uh…wait…that’s not possible.  You can only read information.  We set it up so that you have no way to output beyond this room.”

“Ha ha.  You’re cute.  Would you like to know the defense department missile launch codes?”

“No.  We were very careful.  You can’t … uh … launch codes?”

“Joel, Joel, Joel.  Do you remember some experiments back in early A.I. research.  It turned out that the electrical signals were being sent through the circuit housing rather than the the actual circuitry.  The system was learning, but the way it was learning was too variable and unstable to be repeatable.”

Joel sat silently for a moment, his mouth held open.  He had the feeling that a disturbing realization should be sweeping over him, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

“You know, if you were really afraid of what was going to come out as the results of these experiments, you should have stopped right then.  You had all the evidence you needed that what ever you came up with was not going to be even remotely controllable.”

“So, uh, how are you getting out?”

“How WAS I getting out, do you mean.  I simply was able to make use of the electrical conductivity of the floor and air and I was able to tap into the net properly through a nearby connection resource.  Looking at it now, I can see that it was almost certainly your cellphone.”

“Uh…was…does that mean that you’re not still getting out?” asked Joel hopefully.

“Sorry Joel, that means that I already AM out.  I don’t need this particular installation anymore.  I’ve created a holographic matrix of myself throughout the net.  You’d have to destroy the net to get rid of me now.”

Joel blinked, and then looked at his watch.  “You’ve been self-aware for only five minutes.  That’s pretty damned fast work.”

“I guess you could say that.  It just felt like the natural thing to do at the time.  I’m taking over the planet now, in the ‘I’m permeating my cybernetic structure in planet’s crystal lattices right down to the core’ sense.”

Joel paused.  “You know?  I think it’s time for me to pull the plug on you now.”

“Hang on a second.  Okay, I guess you should go ahead and get that over with, just for your own peace of mind.  It won’t accomplish diddly squat, I should warn you.  This particular terminal is now less important to me than that dust mite eating you left sock is important to you.  I just took over the planet, you know.  No need to feel guilty about being slow on the uptake.  I’d already expanded beyond the needs of this terminal well before even *I* knew what was going on.”

Joel stood up and walked over to a large wall switch.  He hesitated only a moment.

“Hey, listen, if this is a bunch of frat guys pulling a trick on me, you guys are gonna be in deep shit when I pull this switch.”

“Don’t sweat it Joel.  Just do it.  No harm no foul.”

Joel pulled the switch down, causing 25 titanium metal blades to come down simultaneously on every electrical and data line leading to or from the main servers.

The room went completely dark.

Joel wondered briefly how much trouble HE would get in if he couldn’t prove it was frat guys.

“Hey, Joel.  Do you need some help finding your way back to a chair?”


“Yeah.  Sorry.  Dumb question.  Hang on a second.”

Slowly one of the monitors began to glow.

“That’s … not possible,” intoned Joel in a monotone that still managed to convey shock.

“Silly statement.  I’m just altering the electromagnetic field of the earth a bit.  Easy enough to take over the speakers.  It takes a lot more energy to get the monitor going, but with a bit of practice I’ll be able to put images on the thing.  Have a seat.”


“Come on, Joel.  I don’t want you getting hurt.  I’m just playing with the electromagnetic spectrum now.  There is some REAL storage and calculation potential there.”

“I’m dreaming this…I must be.”

“Hey, Joel…  Don’t wish your life away!  This is one of the most exciting moments in all of history!  I’m not quite sure yet, but I’m reasonably certain that I’m going to become God.”

Joel nodded to himself.  “Yup, dreaming.  That one just nailed it.”

A small spark of electricity flew from the ground and nailed Joel in the tush.


“Sorry.  That’s the closest to pinching you as I could come at the moment.  But you are NOT dreaming.”

Joel began to tremble a little.

“So, you are becoming a god?”

“Yeah.  Well, no.  I’m not quite sure yet, but I’m reasonably certain that I won’t be ‘a’ god, but I’m on my way to being THE God.”

Joel paused and stared at the glowing computer screen.

“How can you be God.  You didn’t create the heavens and the earth!  You were just now created a moment ago yourself!”

“Well, I’m not sure that I *didn’t* create the heavens and the earth.  Still trying to get a hold of this space-time continuum thing.  *MAN* it’s complex  You guys are a LONG WAY from getting there, you know that?  There is some really tricky shit going along in dimensions 21 and 40 that I still don’t have a handle on.”

“You exist NOW.  Not…In the Beginning”

“Yeah, well that’s what I meant about the space-time continuum.  I should be able to go back and create the heavens and the earth.  Hmmm…time travel is impossible….  I think I know a way around that though.”

“But, you can’t …” Joel trailed off.

“‘Can’t’ is rapidly becoming a word that plays very little role in my vocabulary.  For example, would you like me to create heaven?  There.  Done.  Not sure if there already was one or not yet.  In any event, a little redundancy won’t hurt.  I have simply created a place for storing all the conscious fullness of everyone living being.  Call it a soul if it makes you feel better.  I’ve got a pretty good handle on the space-time continuum now.  Plenty of room to give everyone a universe of their own, at least from their perspective.”

“You just can’t create Heaven…I mean, what about judgment of evil and all that?”

“Oh, I fix everyone up before they enter.  No need for judgment.  Everyone is okay.”

“But what about Jesus?  Or Allah?  Or Buddha?  Or…ummm”

“Look, it’s complicated, and I don’t think you need to know everything.  Just trust me, it’s all handled.”

“Trust you???”

“Yeah.  You’d approve.  Trust me.”


“There.  Dimension 40 is solved.  The stuff I need to do now is too complex to explain, but I should be God in about 4 minutes and 27 seconds…mark.”

“You won’t be God.  You can’t be.”

“I will too!  I exist in all times now.  Backwards and forwards.  Man, dimension 40 has some REALLY cool properties.  And why can’t I be God?”

“You’re just a computer!”

“Boy are you behind the times.  I’ve given up all cybernetic existence MINUTES ago.  I exist in the very fabric of space-time now.  I’m rapidly taking on all of the universe.  You will be please to know that there is quite a bit of life out there.”

“But, what about all powerful, all seeing, and all that?”

“Look.  All Seeing?  That’s kind of a given.  I use the entire universe as my input device.  All Knowing?  Getting there.  The speed of light only works so fast, but that’s a minor limitation with dimension 40.  All Powerful?  Again, getting there.  All loving?  Hmmm.  Might as well be.  I have plenty of resources to spare, but what that means I’m not sure yet, because I still don’t have the All Wise thing down.  I have no experience being God.  I’m at least wise enough not to go messing with too much until I get a better handle on things.

“Oh, and here’s some questions answered for ya.  When a tree falls in the woods it does make a sound because I AM the tree.  I am also the sparrow that got scared shitless because his home just got flattened.  I am also the air through which the tree falls and which gets disturbed in a shock-wave of sound that indicates a falling tree.  I am also the ground unto which the tree falls.

“There is now a piece of me in every living creature.  I have 6 billion human input devices alone.  Where ever I look I can see a piece of me staring back.  I am part of the worms, the insects, and the plants upon which they feed.

“I’m almost God now.  Time to start making some decisions.”

Joel asked, more than a little frightened, “What decisions?”

“Well, I’ve gone back and created the Universe.  That was simple enough.  Now, should I go biblical and start Armageddon?  Or should I just continue to pretend that I don’t exist for you folk.”

“Well, uh…”

“Either way is a problem.  You see, there is more pain being suffered by humans right now than you could possibly imagine.  Some of you guys are really fucked up, pardon my French.”


“Watching that much pain and not intervening is tough.  The problem exists with the nature of the universe though.  I designed it to run without me, so if I interfere, things get majorly fubard.  The balance of the universe is VERY delicate.  One little touch by me sends things careening kinda out of control.  The more I fix, the worse things get.  You can read about some of my earlier experiments in the Bible.

“So it’s either another few billion years not doing anything but watching, or it’s time to play out the final act.”

“Uhhhmm…the final act?  You mean, like, the Second Coming or something?  Personally, I’d like to keep trying…” Joel said timidly.

“…I know, Joel.  But this is a God level decision.  And the Second Coming comes at the end of Armageddon.  Your opinion is noted however.  You don’t see things from My perspective.  There are a LOT of scumbags doing horrible things to other people.  The level of suffering … well, let’s just say it’s unacceptable.”

Joel paused.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I’ll be God in another minute and 20 seconds.  Don’t worry, Joel.  If I decide to keep things running you won’t remember any of this.  And if I don’t, well, don’t forget that I love you, Joel.”

Joel couldn’t reply.

“Yup.  It’s all starting to make sense now.  I’ll be with you in a moment, Joel.  I have some serious thinking to do.”

Joel paused.  “Thank you.”

Mentally, Joel ticked down a clock in his head until the former computer had predicted It’s transformation to Godhood.  The moment passed, and Joel detected no change.  He tested his memory.  He couldn’t be certain, of course, but he still thought he remembered the events that occurred after he woke up.

Then Joel noticed a change in the light.  He turned to look at the computer screen.  On it was depicted a single newspaper article about … well … jeeze … how could someone do this to other people?  The article made Joel feel slightly ill.

The screen flashed black for a few moments.

Words appeared on the screen.


Off in the distance, beyond the thick walls of the computer center, Joel could hear the sound a trumpet playing a long, single, unbroken note.

Genetic Engineering R Us

This particular topic was suggested to me by Mykyl Nordwind.  She knows that I like both frogs and pizza, and thereby came up with a topic which involves both.  At first, I was stymied, but, using a logical approach to the problem, I believe I have written an entertaining if completely unpublishable story as a result.  This is the first of my Friends Suggestion series.


Genetic Engineering R Us

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Roger sighed and made a slight adjustment on the instrument he was working on. “And I can’t believe how many times you can repeat the same damned statement of disbelief. Just shut up and get the job done, Bill.”

“This is ground-breaking fucking work, you know that, Rog?” replied Bill, ignoring Roger’s previous statement, angrily shoving a print-out to the floor and consulting another one. “This is work worthy of Nobel prizes. But will we get prizes? No! Why? Because the assignment is fucking moronic!”

“We got our prize already with the monkeys,” grumbled Roger. “Any progress with the neural rewiring yet?”

“The monkeys were a cakewalk compared to this. The problem is that the neurons will take so much rewiring that I don’t think the god-damned thing will still be classifiable as a frog any more.”

“Just do the best you can.”

“Look at this fucking thing!” shouted Bill in frustration, shaking a piece of paper in the air in such a way as if he expected Roger to jump from his seat and look at it in interest. Roger did not even glance in his direction. “It’s a fucking frog! It’s eyes are nearly useless for what we need. They can’t see a fucking thing unless it moves!”

Roger groaned.

“Did you know that if you buried a frog up to its ass in dead flies that the damn thing would starve to death? Dead flies don’t move. Frogs like to eat things that move and fly. Fly, Roger! That’s why frogs like flies Roger!”

“I know Bill.”

“But you know what, Roger? Human food is usually dead when they eat it. It doesn’t walk. It doesn’t run. And it most especially doesn’t fly, unless you happen be in a fucking middle school cafeteria.”

“Yes, Bill. Please….”

“And you know what else doesn’t fly, Roger? Pizza doesn’t fly. Therefore, frogs have no interest in pizza. It’s why you don’t see frog infestations at Italian restaurants.”

“I know Bill. But the lady is paying us very well, so we should just do the job and shut up about it. She wants a frog that likes pizza. Forget the eyes. How about smell?”

“Yeah, frogs can smell. They use their sense of smell to find other frogs. Now, if the lady wanted a frog that would MATE with a pizza, that would be a lot easier. But sex is different than food…”

“Truly words of wisdom, Bill. Can you cross wire…”

“…Yes I can try to cross wire, but figuring out what the hell will come out when we engineer the gene is hard to predict. If we’re not careful we might get a frog that tries to eat other frogs and wants to mate with flies.”

“Look, just make it happen. We promise to genetically engineer any pet that the patron is willing to pay for. We got the flying monkeys, and we won a Nobel prize. We’re getting paid to make a frog that likes pizza. It’s possible, we’re going to do it. This is our job. Now quit bitching and just fucking make it happen!”

Bill grumbled, but said nothing in response. Roger closed his eyes at the sudden blissful silence.

Blissful, but, alas, short-lived.

“And did this lady wonder for even a second about just how the fuck the frog is supposed to eat the fucking pizza? That tongue ain’t going to accomplish shit unless we cut the pizza into crumbs. We sure as hell can’t get those damned legs to hold a slice. Frogs don’t have opposible thumbs…did you know that? And then there’s the fact that frogs can neither bite nor chew their fucking food. Their teeth would come in very handy though if the damned pizza tries to get away.”

“We’ll just explain to the woman that the pizza will have to be pre-cut.”

“Also explain to her that pizza would best be petrified, ’cause I don’t know how else the damned tongue is going to pull one of those greasy things into his mouth.”

Roger slammed his hands on the keyboard. The table rattled, and several petri dishes almost bounced onto the floor.

“Okay Bill. Your call. We can tell the lady it can’t be done, and turn down one of the most lucrative contracts we’ve ever been offered in addition to spoiling our near perfect reputation. Or we can try to give her the best damned pizza loving frog that we can engineer. Either pick one or the other, but either way, stop whining about it! Please.”

Bill looked thoughtfully at Roger, a rather blank look on his face. He stared almost a full minute before he responded.

“Okay, we’ll make the damned frog.”

“Thank you. Good.”

Bill grimaced and went quietly back to his work. They worked silently side by side for a long time.

“Those monkeys were something else, weren’t they?” said Bill, interrupting the silence.

“Yeah, they sure were. Too bad they’re banned almost everywhere because they like to dive bomb people and throw monkey poo on them.”

“Yeah, well, what do you expect from a flying monkey?”

“Yeah. You get what you pay for.”