Thursday, June 30, 2005

Who Sez All TV Stars Are Spoiled Jerks?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are experiencing technical difficulties with our computer equipment today. Ah yes, the one year warranty just went up on the good ol' Hewlett Packard monitor, and it's blacking out like it had too much Jack Daniels and not enough onion rings.

We would like to take this opportunity, if the monitor will allow, to acquaint our growing readership with the charming Miss Brini Maxwell, whose "Brini Maxwell Show" appears every Thursday night at 9:30 p.m. on The Style Network.

You mega-church ladies in particular would really love Brini. She is the last bastion of good taste on the airwaves. Oh, so very lovely, well-groomed, and knowledgeable on all those important home-enhancing issues! When Martha Stewart goes to sleep, she dreams about being Brini Maxwell. Because it's like comparing brussels sprouts (Martha) to Belgian chocolate (Brini).

Anyway, we at "The Gods Are Bored" would like to thank Miss Maxwell for the lovely autographed picture she sent here in honor of the 16th birthday of The Heir, our eldest daughter. What t.v. star sends out personally autographed glossy photos anymore? The Heir is absolutely giddy with happiness.

May the gentry of Sidhe bless and keep Brini Maxwell, now and forever more! Now, why didn't you think of that?


Saturday, June 25, 2005


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fairy-approved since 2004!

We did a little research on BlogSpot and found that this humble site is the only blog in this host where you can turn for handy answers on The Inquisition.

So, who cares anyway about The Inquisition? Hasn't that been gone a long, long time?

Judge for yourself.


* Victims were arrested, often with entire family, suddenly and without warning.

*Victims were imprisoned without being charged with a crime and were not allowed access to a lawyer.

*Victims were presumed guilty and were tortured to "confess" their guilt. The tortures could be physical, sexual, psychological. They could be conducted on family members as other family members watched.

*The tortures produced two outcomes: Either the victim died or "confessed."

*Victims were encouraged to name other "criminals" who might also be "guilty" of the same "crimes" or "sins."

*After confessing under torture, the victim was not allowed to recant the confession for any reason. Recanting confessions led to immediate death, usually by being burnt alive.

*Victims could be held in prison for unlimited amounts of time, with no recourse to legal help at any time.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" recognize that this sort of detainment and punishment never happens anymore, anywhere in the world. A period of Enlightenment, beginning in the early 18th century and culminating in such documents as our own U.S. Constitution, put an end to the insidious workings of The Inquisition.

If you believe that, we have several lovely bridges for sale -- shall we send you a brochure?

Well, then. We at "The Gods Are Bored" can proudly point to the fact that, as Americans, we believe in freedom and would never conduct our nation's affairs using such antiquated and draconian tools.

If you believe that, we have several sure-fire ways of predicting lottery numbers that hit -- shall we send you a brochure?

Well, then. At least the Holy Catholic Church would never again resort to such measures to root out heretics and strengthen the faith.

If you believe that, we here at "The Gods Are Bored" have formulated a tiny pill that tastes like a Sugar Baby, and if you eat one every day you'll lose 50 pounds in 12 weeks -- shall we send you a brochure?

If you read history, you see The Inquisition around every corner, just re-labeled with pretty new brand names to fit the times.


*The Final Solution (Hitler, 1930s)
*The Purge (Stalin, 1940s)
*The House Un-American Activities Committee (McCarthy, 1950s)
*The Patriot Act (Bush, 2000s)
*The War on Terror (Bush, 2000s)


*Sorry. Like bird flu, the Inquisition casts a wide net. You could be next.


*Cooperate and understand that you have no chance of survival.


*If you're a dues-paying member of either of those entities, you'd better go back and read this whole post a second time.


*Because there are too many of us crowded onto a very small rock, and it's an effective way of decreasing the surplus population. Kind of like bird flu, but much more selective.


*We understand.

From Anne
A lovely, kindly, law-abiding, tax-paying D.A.R. member who tithes regularly to the United Methodist Church

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Solstice Greetings from the Bored Gods

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on Solstice!

Abandon all hype, ye who enter here.

(Wow. That's a good one. May recycle it.)

Solstice preparations are under way, and all gods, bored and active, are warmly welcomed! We here at "The Gods Are Bored" subscribe to the theory that heaven is like a grocery store. No one food has all the nutrients you need, just as no one god can fill every single human being's spiritual hunger, all over the globe, from the dawn of humankind to the present day.

Look around you at the abundance! Oranges, apples, bananas, kiwi fruit, brussels sprouts (okay, I heard that. You don't have to look at the brussels sprouts). Goat milk. My, I am fond of goat milk.

The gods are the stuff in the grocery store that is good for you, that nourishes your body. The natural products that soothe and stimulate.

The other stuff in the grocery store, the trans-fat and sugar-laden, chemical laced, artificially flavored and colored poisons in the bright, pretty boxes -- well, those are the dogma that blind good people to the realities of everyday magic!

Keep the gods, ditch the dogma.

Or look at it this way. You're in Boston, and you've got to get to Tampa. Is there only one road that can take you there? Do you have to hop on I-95 with all the tourists and the Bob's Big Boy rest stops? Or could you amble along a network of byways, take a little longer, see some inspiring sights, and get to Tampa all the same?

Ditch the dogma. There are so many ways to get to Tampa. Some lead through Albuquerque.

In the sacred names of Robin, Marion, Orphee, and Bridgit the Bright, and all the fun folk of Sidhe, I greet and bless you!

Take the long way home. Plenty of daylight today.

PS - to visit my home, scroll down to June 20.

Monday, June 20, 2005

A Picture of Home

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we feverishly await Solstice! The fairies are rocking on at warp speed, working wonders!

Thanks to a guy named Guy, this sacred space now includes one of my favorite pictures, a drawing of the old home sod by my awesomely talented Uncle Foggy Johnson! Scroll down and mark June 20, 2005 if you regularly visit my blog and want a little down-home cheer!

Uncle Foggy (Foggy is his real name) still lives on the family farm. He drew the picture a good 50 years ago probably, when he moved to the big city for awhile to work. The city slickers must have teased him about his accent or something, but I'll bet they drew in their breath and decided not to dis him anymore after they saw his artistic impression of the old home place.

You walk up and down hills like that, you're gonna live to be 80, which is what Uncle Foggy is and more. I am honored to be his entree onto the World Wide Web!

The Real Simple Life Posted by Hello

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Just the Facts about Rednecks

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Grab a paddle. We're gonna take a canoe ride down a Class Five river in the heart of Appalachia!

We've got everything we need. Plenty of food, plenty of beer, matches in plastic bags, and sleeping sacks bound up in trash bags. We're gonna rough it.

Dump the stuff in the canoe, shove off, down we go into the white water.

Our stupid city slicker asses sink like stones after about 3000 yards.

Every redneck knows why. Because we didn't shroud the canoes, and the first little slaps of whitewater swamped our canoes and sank 'em like stones.

That wouldn't make for a very interesting novel, now would it? But there's a novel (and a movie) called "Deliverance," in which certain city slickers set off in canoes and have perilous adventures in wild Appalachia, never having taken the trouble to shroud their canoes.

We rednecks say: "Deliver us from Deliverance!" We are so goddamn sick and tired of being portrayed as ignorant butt-bangers who date our siblings and crap off our back porches.

I'm a goat judge by trade, and that makes me familiar with a lot of rednecks. And frankly, if my car broke down on a mountain road, I sure as hell would rather see a redneck coming in the distance than a Professor Emeritus of Economics from Oxford University.

Rednecks know how to fix things. They know how to get up in the morning, fill a thermos, and do a day's work for honest pay. They know how to treat dogs, women, and grandparents kindly. They know how to relax at the end of the day, with a beer or two and maybe a smoke. Some of them go to church, some don't, but fully 90 percent of them won't cheat you and won't fight you unless you start it.

I know gay rednecks, I know girl rednecks, I know black rednecks, I know rednecks that can tell the difference between a woman crashing down a mountainside through thick brush and a deer doing the same. I've never met a redneck who wouldn't stop in the dark of night to help someone change a tire. And no, Flannery darlin', they don't cut your throat after putting the spare on.

Jeff Foxworthy has made himself famous telling jokes that begin: "You know you're a redneck if..." Have you ever noticed how witty those jokes are? Someone had to be pretty smart to think them up. And this is what makes me the craziest in all of this. Who came up with the bright idea that rednecks are stupid?

My grandpa was a redneck. He grew up in a house with no plumbing and never wore shoes except in the coldest winter months. Guess what, Mr. Oxford? My grandpa invented a drill that could put five holes side by side in the end of a human hair.

All of this is Anne's way of saying that James Dickey never took a goddamn canoe ride in his life, and when King Arthur returns at Armageddon to fight for his people (that's us rednecks), the Four Horsemen are gonna turn tail and run like rabbits.

Rednecks don't talk about things. They got a job to do, they get it done. Mark my word, Osama. And you, too, Dobson. When y'all crash and burn, it'll be a redneck that mops up and moves on.


Come set a spell. Take your shoes off. Stay as long as you like.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Terri and the Fairies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we think all medical progress is not exactly progressive.

Oh, sure, it's great to live to be 102 healthy years old, out puttering in the garden. But is this planet really better off, now that we can extend the lives of suffering people, so they can suffer longer and better?

Like everyone else in America, I've been following the Terri Schiavo case with interest (and great anxiety). As a druid, I believe that her soul fled her body the day she collapsed, and what was left was a soulless shell that was still able to breathe. It happens sometimes.

Trouble with this Christian God-oriented culture, it has a very conflicted opinion about life and death. How can the worst penalty we give the hardest criminals be the death penalty, and then we send in a priest for a final confession? We're freeing a soul to fly away from prison, straight to heaven! Tell me that makes sense. On the other side of the coin, some poor woman is allowed to lie there 15 years, completely gone mentally, and she's kept alive at all costs? What are they afraid of, that her soul wouldn't go to heaven because she couldn't confess her sins?

I don't know, but I think we ought to let go and let Mother Nature decide these things. And I'm not speaking from the point of view of someone who's never been in the Schiavo boat. There's a member of my husband's family in almost the same position even as I write, and having known her as a loving, dynamic, attractive, friendly person who was aware that she had a life-threatening brain defect, I can say for certain that she would not have wanted to be where she is now, which is in a hospital bed completely immobile for 15 years.

Read it here, read it now. No one knows me better than my husband. If something happens to me, he's in charge. With all the gods I know, I'm not a bit afraid of death -- but sink me if I want to be consuming food and water with no consciousness that I'm doing it.

I've got no prejudice against disabled people, and I'm aware that doctors cannot diagnose the presence or absence of a soul. (Heck, there are healthy people walking around who have no soul. Plenty of them. Many in positions of power.) But in the absence of someone saying, "Do everything you can, I want to continue to live," why not let Mother Nature make the call?

To do otherwise shows a lack of faith in the hereafter.


Thursday, June 16, 2005

Of Spouses and Fairies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," the site that unites! Think your religion is the only "TRUE" religion? Pardon me for saying this, but that makes you a moron. If the earth is so full of wonderful abundance, why isn't heaven as well?

For those of you just joining us, howdy! I'm Anne, a West Virginia wannabe living way too close to my neighbors and to a big Northeastern metropolis. About the only good thing I can say about being close to a huge city is that most of the other people crowded into this space vote blue. And that puts me in a comfort zone, except when they're all running their leaf-blowers at the same time (and I'm trying to cast a circle).

Hey, neighbor? USE A @#$@#@#@$ RAKE!

Truly, when I see a man holding a leaf blower, I immediately assume he can't get no satisfaction. Viagra oughta use those things in their commercials.


I've been married 21 years to the same man. Please hold your applause until I conclude my remarks.

The key to a happy marriage is contained in four words. Here they are:

"Yes, dear. You're right."

Don't believe me? Read on:

Husband: George Bush is a moron.

Anne: Yes, dear, you're right.

Husband: That Frist is trying to create a police state.

Anne: Yes, dear, you're right.

Husband: Dick Cheney is looking out for the mega-rich and doing a good job of it, at the ordinary guy's expense.

Anne: Yes, dear, you're right.

Husband: Unions ought to be strengthened in this country.

Anne: Yes, dear, you're right.

Husband: Oh, by the way, some guys are coming tomorrow morning to strip the wallpaper in your home office.

Anne (realizing that she's scheduled a full and frantic day of reading and amending 265 pages single-spaced of 2005 goat-judging protocols, to take place in her home office where she can't hear leaf blowers): AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH..... Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... Yes, dear, you're right. (gnash teeth)

Now you can applaud.

I hear every woman in America. Especially the Far-Right Christian women, who find this philosophy encoded into their Holy Book. Hey, you moron Chippies! If you'll read this blog you'll see that I chose a good man to begin with, one who owns a rake and knows how to use it!

So, the patient reader asks. Where do fairies figure into this? Well, about a half hour ago, I was allowed back into my office. The nice wallpaper strippers had set my computer back up. It's rockin' on, with goat judging protocols carefully saved and backed up.

But that's not where the fairies enter the picture.

Under 50-odd years of multiple layers of wallpaper is the original 80-year-old wall in my charming home office. Now you druids will appreciate this. Guess what's on this wall?


It CAN and WILL be restored to its full glory, in honor of the bored gods and all they stand for!

Imagine. I've been sitting in this office since 1987, never knowing that these charming oak leaves danced above my head. Know what I think? I think the fairies saved a terrific surprise for me on what they knew would be a long and difficult day.

That's how fairies are. And I pity you by-the-book Christians, because you'll never know how special everyday magic can be.

My husband rakes, and the fairies rock.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Straight Talk about Fairies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you believe in fairies? If so, you're righteous and enlightened! If not, who do you blame when you can't find your reading glasses?

Summer solstice is almost upon us, and that is the time when fairies are most active. So for the next few days we'll talk about them with all due respect and the honor they deserve.

Where to start? How about at the middle, or two-thirds the way toward the end? Fairies would like that. They don't go by the book. They delight in riddles, puns, and puzzle settings. You give any fairy a Rubik's Cube, and he'll sit there for three days mulling it over without ever scratching his wings. Share a wordplay joke with a fairy, and you'll have a great day! She'll see to it.

One pet peeve I have that the fairies share with me is the idea that we're PAGAN. If you look up "pagan" in the dictionary, it says "backwards" or "uneducated." WRONG WRONG WRONG! It's like that other word I hate, unless it's being shared by someone of like persuasion: hillbilly. The word "hillbilly" implies stupidity and backwardness. The word "pagan," used so freely by the Christian missionaries who have tried and failed to wipe out fairies, has a slightly sinister sound to it. Hence its use by bad-assed motorcycle gangs.

Fairies are not backward or stupid. They can be very sinister when disrespected. But on their worst day they won't strap you to a stake and burn you alive. If ANYTHING is pagan, it's that sort of behavior.

How have fairies survived and thrived through more than 1500 years of active suppression by the religious authorities of the Christian church? By being very witty and knowing all the right people! Fairies have friends in high places. Don't believe me? Ever heard of a dude named Walt Disney?

Fairy Experiment: Go to the school nearest to you. Take a portrait of Jesus Christ and a portrait of Peter Pan. Ask the first 7-year-old you meet to identify both portraits. The kid might know both, but if he or she can't identify one, it's gonna be Jesus 90 percent of the time.

So Dobson says, "Oh, this is just heinous! Peter Pan is not a religious figure, he's a myth. He's a fairy tale." And two minutes after he utters some rubbish like that, Dobson's going to take a big swig of coffee and blister his tongue.

Peter Pan is The Green Man, dressed up and ready to fly through a dark, repressive time, looking for the smart and lively among us, the folks who "question all the answers." The fairies are his friends, his subjects, his followers.

Fairy Experiment: Go to the shopping mall. Count the number of t-shirts you see with Jesus on them. Count the number with Tinker Bell on them. Compare the price. You're gonna pay a lot more for a Tinker Bell. Fairies need the money worse than Jesus does. And the publicity. They're tired of being cute little lawn ornaments and collectibles. They want respect!

Respectfully submitted,
Looking forward to a bright day when she becomes

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

When You Don't Need Dr. Laura

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your one-stop shopping mart for all the best and brightest gods! In the name of Horus, I greet you. Horus says ... ummm ... does anyone out there know ancient Egyptian?

Am I the only American who thinks that if you raise your children "Dr. Laura" style you're going to wind up with adults who think the world owes them a living and should hang on their every word? When she or her callers say "I'm the mother of my child," it makes me want to puke. Because, "Mother," if that's all you are, what the hell are you gonna be when that precious little honey grows up, moves away to Sri Lanka, and finds a full-time job?

Oh, I forgot. Lil' Honey won't ever leave home. Why should she when Mama does everything for her and hangs on her every word?

But there are times when motherhood is a no-brainer. You don't need Dr. Laura, or even your family pediatrician -- or even the local vet -- for some decisions.

Like this one: A former pop star who now looks like that skeleton character in "Nightmare before Christmas" invites your little boy to join him in bed for a pajama party.

Hmmmm. Maybe I'd better call Dr. Laura and see if she thinks that's okay.

Oh, for the right sound effect! This will have to do:


Think of that horn the firemen blast when a car won't get out of the way.

It doesn't matter one bit to me what the King of Pop did with the little boys he slept with. What matters to me, what bothers me, is that there are parents out there who, in exchange for worldly goods, permit their children to be subjected to this behavior. Would you believe the scary guy down the street if he said he only wanted the "pure love" of sleeping with your kid? Of course not. So why trust the scary guy who's been on t.v. and who owns the big house with an amusement park in the backyard?

We'll let the bored gods decide whether or not the King of Pop misbehaved. Because he can't hide from their prying eyes. But in my humble, goat-judge opinion, the guilty party is any parent who knowingly puts a child into that man's hands. Any parent. Including the women who gave birth to the King of Pop's children.

Seriously, Mama. Once you saw your infant dangled over a balcony, would you let him live with Daddy?


Horus found the translation button on the computer! So here is his blessing for the day: "May you live in a time when no mean god kills off all your first-born in one fell swoop."

Thank you, Horus. Stop by anytime.

Monday, June 13, 2005


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" You can trust what you read here. Why would we lie to you?

I read a big city newspaper every day. You know the type. So liberal that it pastes big pictures of Iraqi civilian casualties on the front page every day. So liberal that it devotes whole columns to cheery news of union victories in labor strikes. So liberal that it uses hemp paper instead of pulp from ground-up trees.

You don't read that newspaper, Dobson? Neither does anyone else.

Seriously, yesterday I read an earnest editorial in my big city newspaper about how bloggers don't really have the political clout that everyone purports to them. The earnest editorial writer noted that no one really reads blogs. There's millions of blogs out there, and no one reading them.

Oh gee, I'm crushed.

Seriously. What genius comes to this conclusion, and then gets it published in a big city newspaper? The same big city newspaper that wouldn't run my 200 word sound byte on medical marijuana?

Of course no one reads blogs! People are too busy to read other peoples' blogs! Even those filthy rich capitalist @$#$@##$s at the top of the food chain don't read blogs. They're too busy collecting things, like first editions of The Gospel According to John.

I don't read other peoples' blogs. You know how long it takes me to write one of these cute, daring, thought-provoking entries? A looooooonnnnnng time. And I know how to type fast. I learned at Billy Bob Agricultural University.

It's like Ebay. When you search Ebay for the item you simply must have, like "buzzard earrings," do you look at the entry that says "MUST SEE THIS ONE! MUST SEE! GREATEST BUZZARD EARRINGS EVER!"

You, like me, pass that one by and go straight to the entry that says "vintage sterling silver buzzard vulture earrings Egypt"

People who get their blogs read have to be:
A. famous
B. a whiz with computers
C. shameless self-promoters
D. all of the above

For the rest of us, well. Here's a quick and easy forum to vent our spleens, to dissect the newest rules on goat-judging and the latest trends in goat cheese production, and to throw out straight talk about fairies.

If you're a druid, like me, you understand that the bored gods are used to being ignored. They've found creative ways around the problem, like using humble animators such as Walt Disney to promote their messages. And he's not even the first in line. The bored gods have always managed to stay afloat despite 1500 years of Christian repression, and they always will.

They don't need me.

And that's a relief, because I've got some big-time goat judging to do. It's the season.

If you're reading this, and you're not me, my goodness gracious. Post me your address and I'll send you a magic wand. A real one, mind you, not one of those Harry Potter Hollywood things.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Mission Statement/ Monkey Man

Hello, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored." Periodically we like to re-introduce ourselves to our wide and growing readership.

We are running this web site in honor of gods who once commanded respect but have since been downsized in revised head counts.

Our personal favorites are the Celtic deities - the Green Man and Queen Brighid the Bright, their attendant fairies, and the various other denizens of Sidhe, the Celtic heaven.

But we don't stop there. Believing in freedom of speech, we dedicate this open forum to the many and varied gods who deserve air time. Gods like Poseidon, Morpheus, Thor, Quetzalcotyl, Shiva, and even poor misunderstood chumps like Baal, who got a pink slip from a god named Yahweh (but only after all the internal memos were shredded).

Occasionally, when we aren't looking, a god who calls himself "Mr. Applegate" pops in and teaches us the value of hearing both sides of a story before passing judgment. Because there's always another viewpoint to every issue, unless of course you buy what you hear on conservative radio talk shows and "Fox News."

Our other agenda item here at "The Gods Are Bored" is some commentary on life in an affluent suburb of one of those big, pagan, heathen metropolises on the East Coast of the U.S.A. And since this commentary comes from a gal who grew up in Appalachia and makes her living as a goat judge, it's kind of like a foreigner's eyeball view of a whole new land. A new land with indoor plumbing, central air, and dishes that match.

So, please join us! Take a number and have a seat. Someone will help you shortly.

Today, one day late, we record two sightings of our local Monkey Man! It's always a joy to see the Monkey Man riding around on his old bicycle, with his well-worn stuffed monkey perched in the bike basket. Last week my younger daughter (I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare) ran into the Monkey Man in the CVS Pharmacy. It happened that The Spare had a camera with her, and her friend snapped a picture of The Spare and the Monkey Man together. The Monkey Man is grinning from ear to ear. His monkey peeks from behind The Spare's shoulder.

As a dedicated mom who has once or twice had the misfortune to be stuck in a room where "Dr. Laura" was being piped in, I can't tell you how relieved I am that our local Monkey Man was so willing to have his picture taken with a cute little girl. A dude who has something to hide just ain't gonna do that.

Anyway, last night I had just gotten the pictures developed, and I ran into the Monkey Man at the grocery store! What a coincidence! I hadn't seen him or his monkey in more than a month!

I showed him the photograph and told him my daughters are "Monkey Man fans." He laughed and said it made his day. His monkey laughed too.

And then the god Shiva sent a terrible thunderstorm that threatened to blow us all to sea. If you want to read about that, scroll down.


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We had quite a day here yesterday. A bored god named Shiva ran amok. Shiva was incensed by the news that the Supreme Court ruled that the feds could dive down and arrest cancer patients who use medical marijuana to fight those nasty chemo side effects.

Let's hand it to Shiva. He's over his rampage. He's quite calm this morning. He's crafted a plan that is absolutely brilliant in its simplicity.

Shiva spent the evening looking at the Internet. Found it fascinating. That's how he learned of the American government's Schedules for Controlled Substances.

Shiva joins me in wondering why cannabis is a Schedule I controlled substance, alongside vicious killers like heroin. He is also baffled that any moron over the age of 21 can go buy a quart of Jack Daniels and swill the whole thing in a sitting. (Ever see where that leads, readers?)

Anyway, Shiva thinks I should persuade the federal government to move cannabis from Schedule I to Schedule II. If cannabis is a Schedule II drug, it could be prescribed by DEA-certified doctors for certain specific ailments, and we're not talking about a bad case of poison ivy, if you know what I mean.

Just one itty bitty change to the federal narcotics law, and the whole need for states to craft medical marijuana legislation would be swept away. Montel Williams could get his medicine, and so could dear old Dobson if, by some cruel twist of fate, he winds up tethered to a chemo port.

This morning our other bored god friend, Morpheus, dropped in to put in his two cents' worth.

Morpheus is very concerned about the farmers in Afghanistan, who are flooding the world with cheap, pure heroin. Morpheus says too many youngsters are being lured to try heroin, and it's so dangerously addictive. Not to be trifled with. So it was actually Morpheus's idea to get the Afghan farmers to grow legal cannabis that could be shipped to America and made into filtered cigarettes in some tobacco factory sitting idle because all the jobs have gone overseas.

Montel wins. The laid-off factory worker in North Carolina wins. The Afghan farmer wins. State legislators win too - they should be worrying about roads.

Sorry, Shiva. Sorry, Morpheus. If no individual American can grow obscenely wealthy by selling legal cannabis, it ain't gonna happen.

Our current federal government is not about helping people get medicine, or even about common sense. It's all about making the rich richer and using scare tactics to keep the rest of us in servitude. And putting cannabis on Schedule II is one of those perfect scare tactic plans that the Far Right Chippies and their Big Brother fat cat manipulators would milk for every last drop of publicity.

First thing these creeps would say? "Look at that goat judge, Anne Johnson. She's just looking for an easy way to get a spliff, so she can get high every night and set a bad example for good Christians everywhere."

Bring it on, drug czar! I'll sit for a drug test here and now. I NEVER TOUCH POT. EVER.

I'm just thinking ahead, you see. Alzheimer's Disease romps through my family tree, and the latest research shows that cannabis eases anxiety in Alzheimer's patients better than benzodiazapines. SOMEDAY I might want cannabis AS MEDICINE.

And on that day, I won't be any more inclined to break the law than I am now.

All of this is just another reason for me to be
Anne, the liberal, pro-union goat judge from West By God Virginia

PS - Clarence Thomas is a true conservative! He had to dissent on the medical marijuana opinion. Hey, Rush. Put that in your ground-up OxyContin and snort it.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Sex, MEDICINE, and Rock n Roll

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and if you're just joining us, well, we have an incident going on.

Today the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that no one can use cannabis legally, even people who are wasting away from AIDS and cancer.

Most of you good folks out there won't ever have heard of the god Shiva. But Shiva gave cannabis to humankind. It says so in the Vedas, holy texts that are about as old as the oldest parts of the Bible.

Shiva is ... how shall we put it ... oh, so slightly miffed.

Wrong. Shiva's running amok, threatening this nation with the worst Atlantic hurricane season in 300 years! And I'd take this seriously, because I have it on good authority that Shiva's buddies with Poseidon.

We need some sanity here. And I mean FEDERAL sanity. We need to take cannabis off Schedule I, where it shares billing with heroin (a known killer, highly addictive) and LSD (a known killer, makes you mental), and at the very VERY LEAST, put it in Schedule II with morphine (a known killer, makes you stop breathing, highly addictive).

Marijuana is not highly addictive, and it does not make you stop breathing. Its leaves and stems can be used to make paper and fiber. If it was placed on the Schedule II list of controlled substances, then properly licensed, DEA-approved doctors could prescribe it for their patients.

And if this country can import 1.2 TONS of morphine every year legally, couldn't it import less than half that, or grow some legal cannabis? Why don't we put the Afghan farmers to work growing legal cannabis? (Right now they're providing cheap, pure heroin to the world.)

Everyone in favor of Schedule II status for cannabis, get up and rally!

(The silence is deafening.)

Everyone who doesn't want to see their $3.2 million shore home washed away by a most pissed off god named Shiva, get up and rally!

I am serious about this. I'm going to write my senator. Well, maybe not my senator. Maybe the Great One, Robert Byrd. We can put the cannabis processing plant in West Virginia, create some jobs. He'll be all for it.

Now I have to go. They're forecasting tornadoes for this area tonight.

Yep, you got it. Shiva's running amok.


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" But maybe you want to leave now, because there's an ancient god here having a truly impressive hissy fit.

The god's name is Shiva. Shiva is raining curses on the United States government, even as we speak. You see, Shiva gave humankind the cannabis plant for use in seeking spiritual enlightenment and the ease of ailments.

Shiva just heard that the United States Supreme Court ruled in favor of the despot Ashcroft and against two poor, sick women who had been using cannabis to ease painful conditions that did not respond to conventional painkilling medication (you know, the kind Rush Limbaugh takes).

Medical marijuana is now illegal in every state in America. That includes the ten states that had passed laws allowing limited use.

This turns fine people like talk show host Montel Williams into criminals. And I certainly hope that sick people everywhere will defy this decision through civil disobedience. Let's see what juries say about sending to jail people with painfully disabling multiple sclerosis. People going blind with painful glaucoma. People puking from chemotherapy. Let's put all these criminals where they belong! Behind bars!

Oh my goodness, I have to go. Shiva is wrecking my porch furniture and foretelling lingering, painful deaths for certain high-ranking members of our government! Calm down, Shiva. Please. See America for what it is: a place of de-evolution, Darwin in reverse, the worst of the gene pool rising to the top and taking control.

Shiva cannot be consoled. Poor god, to give humankind such a nice gift, only to have it wrenched from the hands of those who need it most.

It's not a good idea to piss off these bored gods. If y'all could see what Shiva's done to my flower bed in the space of an eyeblink, you'd know what I mean.

Friday, June 03, 2005

This is Just a Test. Skip it. Unless You're Guy

This is a test of the blogger's graphic skills. This is just a test. I'm going to try to load one of my favorite heroes onto the page.

See, it didn't work. I stink at computer skills. But just ask me to judge a goat, and I'm all over that critter.

Okay, it didn't work again. Guy, are you reading this? I want Milk & Cheese on my blog. Can you help?

Prom Night Jitters? Not me!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," a fun and friendly little space where we celebrate sex (good fun if proper family planning items are used), long for drugs (they're illegal, alas), and tolerate rock 'n' roll (bluegrass is better).

Today's a big day in Stepford. Everyone's talking about the Senior Prom, scheduled to begin tonight at 6:00 p.m.

As every parent knows, prom nights can give you a major case of the jitters. There's no escaping that nagging feeling that your well-maintained offspring may do something regrettable.

If you're one of those mega-church ladies, and we've talked about them before, you are just walking a groove into the floor. Biff, Jr. is going to the prom, and he's taking that achingly cute little blonde he met last summer at Bible Camp. Only trouble is, she's not from this state, and you've heard rumors that her parents are pro-union Democrats and that they grow cannabis behind the double-wide trailer. So how deep does that cute little blonde's faith go? You haven't had a chance to question her at length. Biff assures you that she's as straight-edged as he is, and that he's saving himself for marriage. But two weeks ago, while snooping relentlessly in his room, you found a picture of the blonde cutie, wearing a string bikini, under a loose floorboard in his bedroom.

Oh, the agony! The uncertainty! Will he remain faithful to his faith? Will he hear the call of God as that luscious little blonde temptress places her soft hand into his and gazes into his eyes? You can't be there to guide him. Will God do the job, or will Biff fall into sin?

This is the time when your prayer group comes in handy, except that two of them have daughters who've gotten pregnant out of wedlock. Something tells you they won't be able to offer you much solace.

So you walk the floor, and you pray. Please, God, lead him not into temptation!

(Am I the only one who's ever wondered about that line in the Lord's Prayer? Why would God lead us into temptation? Some sort of celestial Survivor challenge, I guess.)

Let's turn to another parental paradigm.

You're a Kept Woman, and we've talked about them before, too. You are also walking a groove in the floor. The reason? Well, you've stocked the vacation house with plenty of booze, and you think you know all the friends and their dates that Kieran, Jr. has invited to join him there after the prom. So they're all going to be safe in that vacation house, getting drunk and not driving, having sex with condoms and otherwise behaving responsibly. You've even stocked the refrigerator with Pillsbury cinnamon rolls that Kieran can make his friends for breakfast. Then why are you worried? Because you're breaking the @#$@#@ law, that's why! Kieran, Jr. is not 21, his friends are not 21, and their dates are not 21.

But you can't have them out drinking and driving. They're going to drink. You know it. You recall your own prom, when you were dating that hot, motorcycle-riding, trouble-making, dead sexy alpha male, the one you had the sense to throw over for Kieran Sr., who owns a real estate conglomerate.

So you walk the floor, but you don't believe in God, that's for morons.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! I'm laughing! My fairies are laughing! My floor is groove-less and my spirits high!

My freshman daughter is going to the Senior Prom ... with a girl.

(Please pardon us for a moment. The Church Mom and the Kept Woman both just fainted.)

Okay, it's like this. My awesomely intelligent and beautiful daughter, The Heir, made several good friends in the senior class at her school. Come prom time, these girls decided they didn't want to spend big bucks and a whole long evening with some dudes they didn't know, who might get fresh or at the very least stain the furniture. So they boldly decided to make the Senior Prom a "girls' night out." They invited The Heir to go along, and she does love to dress up. They're going in a limo. None of them drink. And I can't vouch for the rest of them, but The Heir is straight -- she's just looking forward to a fun evening.

So I'll put the prom night jitters on the shelf for a few years, and then my other daughter, The Spare, will come along and make me a basket case. But just for tonight, I know one prom princess who won't be drinking, won't be ... ummm ... you know, that other thing, and won't come home three days from now, high on magic mushrooms.

Enjoy your day, prom moms.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Meet Your Favorite Musician!

Welcome, welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What god doesn't like music? I'm thinking.

Nope, can't think of a one.

They especially like it when the songs are about them. And no, that doesn't make Mick Jagger a god, even though there's a song about him.

News comes to me of one of those huge, international mega-concerts where they try to raise money for African famine and otherwise get rampaging crowds of people to crush into a small space where there aren't enough toilets and there are too many policemen.

This one is called Live 8. It's gonna be held in Philadelphia, London, and Berlin on July 2. Promoters (read, Big Music, Inc.) estimate as many as a million people will attend the free concert in Philly alone.

I'm a goat judge, and that makes me a bit peculiar. I just like things on a smaller scale. For instance, if I like a musician, I always want to meet him (or her). Barring that, I like to be able to see the whites of the musician's eyes when he or she is singing to me in concert.

Oh, look out, you rock 'n' rollers! This is a problem, isn't it? I mean, how's a humble goat judge gonna get up close and personal with Dave Matthews? Or P. Diddy? Or Madonna? Try to see if those people have whites in their eyes, you're likely to be drop-kicked the length of a football field by some private security guard who trained with the Israeli Special Forces.

I wish all problems had such simple solutions.

Here's how it works.

You choose a kind of music that's beautiful, played frequently in lovely outdoor settings, and cost-effective for the consumer.

My music of choice is bluegrass. And for those of you who think bluegrass is stupid hillbilly music, please be advised that in a 2002 survey, the professors at Peabody Conservatory of Music, Baltimore, MD, voted bluegrass "the most difficult music to play in the world."

Move over, Ravi Shankar. Sitar's for sissies.

Back to my advice. Want to meet your favorite musician? Choose a musician who's local, struggling, who will appreciate it when you buy his or her CD and when you tell him or her that you like his or her style. (See why I hate inclusive language?)

Alison Krauss is the most famous bluegrass musician today. I've met her. I've seen the whites of her eyes. I attended a fiddle workshop with 24 other people in a tent, where she showed how she plays. And I don't play the fiddle. I just toddled in, sat down, and listened to her presentation.

So please excuse me if I do not attend Live 8, even though the bored gods endorse it as a worthy cause. There may be a bluegrass festival someplace nearby that weekend, and I have a good old blanket and a picnic basket. If I see a musician I haven't met, or one that I'd like to meet and greet, all I have to do is wait for the set to end.

Try doing that in Philly on July 2.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005


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