Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Remember, all gods are not equal. Sometimes it just doesn't do to settle for the bargain god. He might fall apart right when you need him. Seek a quality god (better yet, goddess), and you'll be covered in every emergency!
News brief: I'm honored to have been invited to join a site http://appalachiangreens.blogspot.com. See how good I am at linking? This will remove all hillbilly rants from "The Gods Are Bored" and place them where they belong.
Update: Church sis feels that anyone who takes teenaged daughters to see "Brokeback Mountain" should be hauled up in front of the newly Christianized Supreme Court. Watching stuff like that could make The Heir turn gay.
Listening to crap like this makes my hair turn gray.
Today's topic: This Is Your Mind on Substitute Teaching. No Questions.
This morning at 5:45 a.m., while preparing for another brutal day of substitute teaching, I had the following dialogue with myself.
Bear with me. This is not your typical navel-gazing blog.
God, look at that zit. I am way too old to have pimples. There's no amount of makeup that will cover this volcano! How old do you have to be before you don't get pimples anymore?
I guess I'll have zits on my face when I die. The undertaker will say, "Damn, there's nothing I can do to cover that! Close the casket!"
Well, that's just stupid, because I want to be scorched to ashes anyway. Won't see the zits then.
Unless I can get that Native American burial I've always dreamed of. Lying dead in the forest, food for the Thunderbirds.
But I'm not ready to die yet, and by the time I am, I won't be able to walk far enough into the forest to commit suicide without being found. In fact, the buzzards will help the authorities find me, and the buzzards will get cheated out of a meal.
That would stink.
Then again, if I hobbled into state forest land and shot myself, the authorities would assume the buzzards were just after a dead possum.
But I don't think I'd have the courage to shoot myself. And starving to death takes too long, and once again cheats the Thunderbirds.
So, opiates or barbituates. The good ol' Oregon method.
But what would that do to the buzzards? If they eat my opiate-saturated brain, will they too OD? Or will they just sit around like William S. Burroughs, wondering why possum doesn't affect them like that?
I mean, how many bites of me could each vulture take? You can sometimes draw as many as 100 to a cow carcass.
Oh, shit. There's no lemon for my tea! It's gonna be a bang-up day, I can see it coming.
And guess what? It was that, and worse.
The moral of this post: If you know an Anne Johnson, I'm sure you hope it's not me.
THE PIMPLE-FLECKED MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS