Baseball Blogging

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where it's one ... two ... three strikes you're out at the old ball game!

You never know what you're gonna get on your plate at "The Gods Are Bored." This time it's a heapin' helpin' of Baltimore Orioles Baseball!

See this gorgeous, adorable, sexy young cutie? This is Cal Ripken Jr. as I want him to be enshrined in my consciousness. Throughout my entire girlhood, well into my young womanhood, I was a hardcore Baltimore Orioles baseball fan. My whole family loved the Orioles. By the time this fabulous hottie strode onto the field, I'd already been bleeding Orioles orange for more than 16 years.

It happens, though, that I became an Orioles fan when the players were big men and I was a little girl. Funny how this happens, but I caught up in age with the players on the Baltimore Orioles. And just as I did that, they signed a spectacular hunk named Cal Ripken, Jr.

Oh, you should have seen him play! He was graceful, he was quick. He played finesse positions with the physique of an outfielder. And he never missed a game. If you bought a reasonably-priced box seat ticket, expecting to see him on the field, by damn he was on that field. You could set your watch by it. And every year, year after year, he suited up in Orioles orange. No trades, no scandals. No stinkin' Yankee pinstripes.

Cal Ripken Jr. floated my boat.

So, who is this man who just gave a speech as he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame? Can that possibly be Cal Ripken?

No wonder my f****** knees hurt all the time.

You'll see more in this space about descending into geezerhood, but goddamn, I just got back from a night out at the sports bar, and they were showing Hall of Fame footage on the big screens. There wasn't enough vodka in the joint to soften the blow of seeing Cal Ripken retired, bald, and round.

For the three of my readers who are under the age of 1,000: My sympathies to you. You will never, EVER see a player like Cal Ripken in your entire lifetime. Go ahead, test his urine as often as you like, you won't find bull testosterone in it.

Don't even get me started on Brooks Robinson. If he was running heaven, I'd still be a Methodist.

FROM ANNE

IN CAL AND BROOKS WE TRUST, AMEN.

Harry Potter Smackdown

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today the heroic Harry Potter meets his real destiny!

Go get a Vanilla Bean Frappachino from Starbucks, Voldemort. Anne is on the scene. And she doesn't need a damn wand and a bunch of Star Wars-quality henchmen. Yo, Potter's goin down, dawg.

Let me preface this much-needed rational assessment of Harry Potter by saying that I have enjoyed all of the books (now reading Vol. 7) and I have adored putting money into the pocket of J.K. Rowling, whose struggling artist story really touched my heart. I'm glad Ms. Rowling is richer than the Queen of England, okay? This is not jealousy.

Stop reading HERE if you think Harry Potter is destined to be the "next Huckleberry Finn."

I heard Harry labeled thus by a dewey-eyed Meredith Viera in a segment shown on Countdown with Keith Friday night.

Hey, Meredith! Go clean my basement, you moron!

Anne Presents: Ten Children's Classic Characters Who So Completely Beat Harry That He Should Really Be Dead

Arranged in importance from least to greatest:

10. Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Okay, I picked Laura mostly because she too has a set of seven volumes. Don't think you know her if you watched that sappy T.V. show. Laura's true adventures with her pioneer family are better written than Potter, far, far better illustrated than Potter, and present a plucky character whose parents enable her by ... duhhhhhhh ... teaching her everything she needs to know in a plain, straightforward way. No American girl should rise to adulthood without reading the "Little House" series.

9. Tiny Tim.

Oooooooooohhhhh, a character with one dimension! No facets to that sweet little personality! Spare me. Tim will be shivering by the scant Cratchet fire for centuries to come. Show me where Ron and Hermione have more dimension!

8. Frodo.

When enjoyment of quality fantasy literature shifts back to an older teen audience, Frodo will outlast Harry. Better story, and at three long volumes much more approachable for the bookish kid of the future. Also, frankly, a far more compelling examination of magic, wizards, etc. etc. etc.

(I told you to stop reading if you weren't prepared for my sermon!)

7. The Little Mermaid.

Did you not love this rebellious darling in the Disney movie? Pretty songs, great brave lil' gal, right? You'll like her even better if you seek out the original Hans Christian Andersen tale, written in ... oh dearie me ... 1836. Find the link yourself, cuz as you might have detected, I'm past pissed today.

6. Peter Pan.

An author with a firm grasp of childhood and a deep respect for faeries. Case closed.

5. Dorothy.

If ever oh ever a character there was, Dorothy of Oz is one because .... Let me count the ways. OHHHHHH! I'm melting, I'm melting, oh what a world, what a world! To the ten readers who are still with me: Did you know this immense and immortal children's classic was written as a political tract? No matter. Dorothy v. Harry? Shoes crush wand.

4. Tom Sawyer.

Krikey, Harry, your competition is getting tougher all the time! You might blunder past Laura Ingalls, but get real. Try scooping humor and magic by the fistfuls from a dirty little Missouri town. Tom don't need no stinkin wand. He's got a fertile brain! In a superstitious backwater community! Who needs an Invisibility Cloak when they've got a nice, stiff dead cat?

3. Alice in Wonderland.

Try though I might, I just cannot imagine a doctoral candidate at Yale penning a thesis about Death Eaters. Alice works on every level, and subtly at that. I'm being tempted to quit writing and go spend the afternoon with her! Alice is what happens when a genius decides to entertain the cute little neighbor girl. She will not be moved. Ever.

2. Huckleberry Finn.

Sorry, Meredith. Harry Potter is not now, nor will he ever be, Huckleberry Finn. You are not now, nor will you ever be, Edward R. Murrow. Do you get the analogy?

And yes, fans! Even Huck doesn't win ANNE'S AWESOME POLL OF BEST EVER CLASSIC CHILDREN'S CHARACTER!

Are you ready for this?

1. King Arthur.

He starts out as a boy, remember? On your knees, Harry, and don't expect a place at the Round Table until you've been rockin' on for ... oh ... 1000 years minimum?

Those of you kind readers who aren't wishing to fix me with some hex or curse might have a few favorite classic characters of your own that I've missed. I just go a little bit George Carlin when dewey-eyed witless reporters start comparing second-rate Charlies (or, in this case, Harries) to really, truly, eternally, classically great literature.

Come on, Toto. It's time to go back to Kansas.

Water v. Water v. Water

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," thirsting for the big, broad, flexible outlook since 2005!

It's so hot outside I'm glad I'm not a Christian. But today seems like a good day to talk about water.

This is a contentious issue. Not on par with the president's performance, of course, but a good argument-starter nonetheless.

So, is it tap or bottle?

Some people say that ordinary tap water is great to drink. I see their point. It's subjected to strict sanitary standards, it's cheap, and it doesn't leave behind a stupid empty plastic container. However, having said that, I must add that the quality and taste of tap water differs substantially depending upon where you live. It's like air quality. Does everyone in America breathe the same air? Hack, cough cough! Yer askin somone who lives in Joisy?

If your tap water comes from underground aquifers, or you live in a region that lies atop sand (for example, Daytona Beach), you need never in your life buy a bottle of water. Better yet, buy one high end bottle of water and keep filling it from your tap. You'll be treated like a Republican without actually having to be one.

Steer clear of this stuff. It's tap water, the same tap water used in soft drinks. Yeah, it's safe and filtered, but gulp gulp, and you've got an empty plastic bottle.

Don't be fooled into thinking that all water is the same. Sadly, the best water in the world comes from Macedonia, Bosnia, Tasmania, and New Zealand. If you don't live near those places, go right ahead and boil up that water from the pond behind your house. It is better never to have tried Antipodes than to have tasted it and now have to be without it. Trust me. It tastes better than any other water. Really.

Finally, steer way clear of this stuff. It is bogus, bogus, bogus! If you want to taste it without shelling out $50 bucks a bottle, buy a portion of Stone Clear Springs water, chug it, and bling bling! (That's where Bling gets its water. The bottle must have been designed by Ann Coulter.)

Anne Johnson's last piece of free advice: That 8 glasses of water a day rot? OH PLEEEEZE! Drink when you're thirsty. Drink until you feel less thirsty. Stop drinking.

Aren't you glad you read this blog? Shouldn't everybody? Tee hee.

Beannachd leat,

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

The Intelligent Designer's New World Order

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," all you nonindigenous biological replants! Here's a steaming-hot plate of zebra mussels for you! What, you don't like them? They're small and tough? Get used to it. They're here to stay!

You can't blame the snake in the Garden of Eden for this one. Our Intelligent Designer knew that we were going to take a dive. It was all part of the plan, right? Because we had to spread out from that Garden and take our One God religion with us all over the world!

Off we go to make the whole planet one great, united rock! We grab up the seeds and stuff that have fed us wherever we began, pack them into the handy rucksack, and tote them with us. No cannabis or sugar in the Western Hemisphere? Hey, we'll transplant it! No pumpkins or cocaine in the Eastern Hemisphere? Hang on a second, we'll get you some! What's this animal? Why, a horse, of course! How now, a cow! And oh, say. Could we take a few of those pretty parrots over the sea for the queen and her chums? She can send us a few house sparrows in return. And you know what we really need in Australia? Bunnies!

Mercy mercy me. Things ain't what they used to be, no.

This charming creature is a Chinese mitten crab. From China. Duh. Scientists and commercial crabbers are now pulling these things out of the Chesapeake Bay, where they're competing with the indigenous blue crabs. Ah, no worries, though! There are now blue crabs in the Red Sea! Are you confused yet? Don't be! It's our Intelligently Designed Global Ecology!

Sadly, there's no going back to living off the land the way we find it to be, wherever we are. Can't shove those zebra mussels back into the ship ballast from whence they came. Can't box up the Aussie bunnies and FedEx 'em to Ukraine.

You know what we could do, though? We could thumb our noses at that Intelligent Designer and go find the gods and goddesses who really belong in our backyards. Just like the native wildlife, they've been shoved out to make way for a nonindigenous deity.

No matter what religion you profess, give some thought to clearing a little area in your living space, outside or inside. Research the ancient history of your surroundings. Invite into your life the deities who once guarded your little piece of ground. Make them a yearly offering of their native foodstuffs. They will appreciate it.

Think of it as a thousand points of light rising in rebellion against the Great Bad One-ness infecting our world.

FROM ANNE

Hail Manito!

Skinny Dipping in the Briny Deep

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we promise on our honor that this will be the last Chesapeake Bay adventure of the year!

Have you ever gone skinny dipping? I have. It's fun. Tee hee.

Having gone skinny dipping in the past prepares you to do it at any time. It's like riding a bike, you never forget how.

Last Friday morning the mighty Chesapeake was churning like a water park, whitecaps on the waves from a stiff northerly breeze. Family Johnson set out for a little walk along the shore line. All four of us, just as happy as ... well ... as two stressed out parents and a couple of nutty kids can be.

It was high tide, and the waves were crashing against the swimming pier fit to bust the boards right off it.

So, what possesses The Spare, my younger daughter? She climbs part way down the ladder on the swimming pier. Far enough that the furious waters snatch her flip flop and fling it seaward.

Family Johnson stands watching Spare's last usable footwear being tossed like Captain Ahab's boat. Papa Johnson is not amused. Every wave sends the bobbing shoe farther from shore.

Anne tells Papa Johnson and The Heir to walk on. They do, slowly. When they're out of earshot, it's Anne to the rescue!

Off with the garments, down into the briny deep! Tourists and fundie Christians watching? Phooey, who cares? It's impossible to find flip flops for sale after the Fourth of July. Spare needs that shoe.

Down the ladder Anne descends, shedding the final layer as she goes. Into the drink she ventures, jellyfish be damned. Shoe is grabbed, flung to Spare. Anne regains ladder, asks for certain garments, gets them, deftly returns them to her girlish figure.

Out of earshot, Mr. Johnson is predicting a speedy divorce. But he softens when Spare gives him a mockingbird feather as a peace offering.

Moral of the story: If you haven't yet learned to skinny dip, you'd better do it soon. You never know when you might need this essential skill.

More Battles with the Briny Deep

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we've lived through another vacation on the Chesapeake Bay! Whew! And I'd like to thank everyone for the nice comments about my battle with the horrible monster ... uhhhh ... truthfully, just a jellyfish. They sting, you know.

My Appalachian grandpa invented a drill that could nose out five holes side by side in a human hair (top, not side). No matter. He grew up a farm boy in Appalachia, and that means he was obsessed with the weather.

He passed that obsession along to me, thank goodness.

My daughter The Spare and I went for a kayak trip on the mighty Chesapeake. About a mile from where we stay there's a little strip of sand where, at low tide, the water's only about a foot deep. In other words, it's easy to spot jellyfish there. Which I was keen to do.

Spare and I were lounging in our foot-deep bath, maintaining a 360 degree view of our surroundings in case a jellyfish floated into our midst. (I was facing inland, where there's a radio tower popular to the local buzzards.)

I looked to the west, and there was no mistaking it. A frontal boundary appeared on the horizon, moving fast. It looked something like this.

The Heir just could not understand why I hustled her into the kayak so quickly she couldn't even get her shorts back on. I mean, I was nearly frantic, and above us was only blue skies.

We got started, paddling westward into the approaching storm. At first Spare thought I was nuts. Then a gust of serious wind and a little rain got her attention. Then we heard thunder.

"Dig in and paddle," I said.

Damn if she didn't ply that paddle with the strength of a sea monster. And The Spare is a slight lil' girl. She's well shy of 100 pounds.

To make a long story short, we beached back at our home port just as the wind gusts hit 40 and the thunder and lightning got serious.

I thank my hillbilly grandpa for watching the skies, because that frontal boundary was moving so fast, only a dedicated sky-watcher would have seen it coming. Hat tip too to the Spare for tucking in and rowing with all her might.

Tomorrow: More hillbilly resourcefulness in the land of tides.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

A Duel to the Death with the Kraken

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," deep in the heart of Maryland's Eastern Shore, i.e., One God Country! It's 95 in the shade, so hot that the region's legions of buzzards are sticking close to their radio towers.

Never bring faeries into One God Country.

Mine are pissed to the max. They're so angry they won't come out of the dresser drawer. They have cursed us with weather fit to fry an egg the entire week. But oh, that wasn't enough!

Yesterday, in a fit of heat-induced madness, I threw myself off a dock into the mighty Chesapeake. This was the moment my faeries were waiting for.

Pip pip! They summoned the largest jellyfish ever seen in the bay, a creature so monstrous that when it stung me they could still see its tentacles 10 miles away in Tilghman Island!

You should have seen that thing. It was thisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss long, with extra potent stingers. I actually lifted my arm out of the water and it roared as it gnawed away at the tender flesh.

In the background I could hear the snickers of Puck, Princess, and Aine, my resident faeries who just don't appreciate reading magazines about the evils of masturbation.

You know, it's bad enough that I'm from Appalachia and now have to live in New Jersey. Couldn't I at least take my vacations where the water doesn't run uphill? Because damn, those high tides bring in Krakens that gladly take orders from faeries and leave me swathed in Desityn, that stuff they put on diaper rash!

This Eastern Shore stuff is Mr. Johnson's idea. We're both from Maryland, but that's like saying we're both from America. I grew up a healthy spit from West Virginia, and he spent his happy summers on a doggone houseboat. The minute he sees a vast expanse of shimmering bay, his eyes go all moist and gooey. Then they throw a dozen steamed crabs in front of him, and he swoons with joy.

Moist and gooey. Kind of like a Kraken with the power to decimate even the strongest amongst us. And do you think Johnny Depp was around to help me? Oh no, of course not! Heir and Spare standing on dock saying, "Mommy Dearest, are you okay?"

Don't get this kind of crap in a swimmin hole.

FROM ANNE
HOMESICK IN ONE GOD COUNTRY

Can't Beat Dick

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waiting for our invitation to open a session of the U.S. Senate with a prayer to Chonganda!

Chonganda has a praise and worship team of ONE (that being me), but I'm an American, and I have the right to hear my deity get his day in Congress. Fair is fair, as long as we're praying in ... PRAYING IN THE SENATE????? For the love of fruit flies, when did they start doing that? Was the ink dry on the Establishment Clause?

Tomorrow the Johnson family leaves for its annual vacation, an ambitious trek to St. Michaels, Maryland (less than 3 hour drive). None of this jetting off to Namibia to see Griffon Vultures or anything like that for us! Oh no. We just lick our chops over breathing the same air as Dick Cheney, Donnie Rumsfeld, and the newest neighbor in search of quality waterfront ... Michael Jackson.

The Spare lobbied relentlessly for this vacation destination because there are two cute dudes living near the B&B where we stay. That would be the B&B with all of Bill O'Reilly's books in its reading room and the Washington Times in the breakfast nook. And the photo of Dubya in the kitchen. Bibles on every nightstand.

It gets worse. I thought the new Harry Potter came out today. Nope, it's next week, when I'll be back from vacation! I've already slurped up this year's Carl Hiaasen novel. So this throws me back on yet another dreary Dan Brown rip-off that I bought at the flea market today.

The good news is that there's so little to do in St. Michaels that I'll beg to spend an hour every day at the local library, blogging my lungs out. So tune in, because you'll want to know what flavor of pie I heave at Dickie or Mikey or Rummy if my kayak strays into their protected waters.

There's also bound to be a few copies of Christian Male (or whatever that magazine was called), lying scattered around the breakfast nook. Those things are cotton candy to "The Gods Are Bored" when it comes to blog topics. Brings a whole new meaning to "Can't Beat Dick," if you get my drift.

Imagine a vacation where the high point is reading stuff you hate so you can blog about it. Actually I am just weird enough to be cool with that.

My Second Press Briefing as Surgeon General

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're relishing our brand-new job as Surgeon General of the USA! That makes us the top dog when it comes to health issues in this great, grand Republican ... err ... Republic. (I always get those two mixed up.)

Oh, these pesky Democommunist senators! They're probing my past the way a proctologist plumbs for piles!

Okay, I'll admit it. In 1991 I was a Grand Poobah in the United Methodist Church. You know, a nice, middle-of-the-road kind of denomination that appeals to everyone and anyone. Even though they've dropped their "Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors" television commercials, the United Methodists are mostly welcoming to anyone who's straight and who doesn't believe in evolution. Of course it helps if you've got deep pockets and can help finance church expansions.

And yes, I did write a scientific paper called "The Nasty, Evil, Pestilential Diseases Homosexuals Get Because Their Sex Is Not Complementary." In the paper I wrote that straight sex is complementary, meaning normal, and gay sex is a quicksand of degeneracy that leads to deathly illnesses, rather in the manner that masturbation leads to blindness.

This paper was meant in part to bolster the United Methodist Church's position that gay people could come to their church if they sit in the back and provide all the flower arrangements. But forget about gay people being in the clergy. Ain't gonna happen. Who wants a pastor who's prone to every contagion on the planet?

Can you believe the stupid senators taking me to task on this? I told them I don't feel that way anymore. Why isn't that good enough for them?

I have totally changed my mind about masturbation. It doesn't lead to blindness. Except sometimes, especially amongst Mormons.

And as for that other little thing, the homo thing, well, I've changed my mind that homosexual relations can lead to bursitis, which is one of the illnesses I listed in my paper as being directly tied to an unnatural lifestyle. There is also no conclusive evidence at this time that homosexuality leads to athlete's foot.

So cut me a break, for the love of God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth! I'll be a great Surgeon General, a loyal soldier in the righteous team of Bush, Cheney, and the Skull and Bones!

Hey, I know all about skulls and bones. I'm Surgeon General!

Source: Philadelphia Inquirer, July 13, 2007.

My First Press Conference as Surgeon General

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What a spot of luck! I've been out of work for awhile, and it's been tough. But today, our Fearless Leader appointed me, yes moi, Surgeon General of the United States!

Good morning, Gods and Goddesses, and welcome to my first statement as Surgeon General of the United States. Today I would like to talk about the serious public health problem of rosacea. Rosacea is an inflammation of the skin, manifesting itself in red pimples that resemble acne...

Aphrodite: Excuse me, Madam Surgeon General. Can you please address the far more pressing problem of teenage pregnancy?

Anne: Ah, yes. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. And faithfulness in marriage makes you ... ineligible to be a U.S. Senator ... emmmm.... wait! Sorry! I mean, Sorry. All mention of human reproductive issues has been stricken from my talking points. Back to rosacea...

Chonganda: Rosacea affects a handful of middle aged white people. Can we discuss the 47 million Americans who have no health insurance?

Anne: Sorry again. I'm a Surgeon General, not an insurance executive. I only care that you are sick, not how you're going to get treatment for it. But, if I can digress from my prepared notes for a second, I would like to say that Michael Moore is a big, fat, really really really fat liar. All those statistics he used about America ranking last in all industrial countries in health care for its citizens were provided to him by Al Qaeda.

Gitche-Manitou: On behalf of Big Tobacc.... err .... the Sacred Cultivar That Has Never Ever Been Shown to Hurt People, Really and Truly, I am appalled at that torrent of falsehoods your predecessor released about second-hand smoke. I wish to have it stricken from the permanent record immediately.

Anne: Done! Have I mentioned yet what a wonderful leader George W. Bush is? I'm supposed to do so every 20 seconds.

Gitche-Manitou: And how can people enjoy an expensive meal without their dessert cigars? Return smoking to all public places at once!

Anne: Done, without question! This is the Bush/Cheney era, we don't need to explain ourselves! Back to rosacea. This administration plans an aggressive campaign to combat the scourge of rosacea...

Brighid: And what does this administration plan to do about Parkinson's Disease, Madam Surgeon General? Your own father died of it. Stem cell research...

Anne: Don't even say those words. The S-C-R words are not allowed. You have to get the S and the C from innocent unborn babies, and we don't kill babies here in God's own U.S.A.

Danu: If we don't kill babies, how come the United States has the worst infant mortality rating of any industrialized country?

Anne: What are you, another Michael Moore operative? I'm here to talk about important health issues, not silly statistics. Look at this long list of topics our great leader, George W. Bush, gave me to cover today: rosacea, pellagra, lazy eye, tennis elbow, irregularity, and dust mite allergies. I've got four pages on irregularity alone, each of them duly mentioning George W. Bush twice, as per mandate by the fine, upstanding people who work for him whose names I won't reveal.

Bacchus: I'm glad to hear that obesity-related illnesses aren't on that list.

Anne: Oh, dear God in Heaven, no! Over-eating is good for the economy! It's good for the farmers, it's good for the fast food franchises, it's good for peoples' mental health. Supersize me! Or maybe I should say, supersize Michael Moore! (Tee hee!)

Lord Voldemort: Personally I think we have found a wonderful new Surgeon General, a woman whose philosophy fits perfectly into the New World Order being instituted by the fine and illustrious Dick Cheney ... err ... George W. Bush ... and his excellent helpers.

Anne: Thank you, Mr. Voldemort, Sir. I'll see you tomorrow at Camp David. Now. I've had enough of this fractious question-posing. You gods and goddesses (with the exception of Bacchus and Gitche-Manitou) are disturbing the peace. The officers moving into place will arrest you now, so that I can go on talking about rosacea without being disturbed any more. That's "more" as in "yes, I'll have some more Freedom fries," not "Moore," as in Michael Moore. Where was I? Oh yes. Rosacea is an inflammation of the skin, manifesting itself in red pimples that resemble acne...

Source: Philadelphia Inquirer, July 11, 2007.

Why I Am Not Divine


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're having trouble with our headline machine. If anyone knows how to fix it so we can title these things again, please advise.


There are any number of religions out there, and not a few atheists, who think each of us has a spark of divinity within. Do you feel god and/or goddess impulses flowing around inside of you?


Conversely, there are many pantheons that are brimming to the plimsol line with gods and/or goddesses with human traits. Pulling one out of the hat here, I get "I am a jealous God." A jealous God? Aren't gods supposed to be above and beyond jealousy?


We at "The Gods Are Bored" decided to take a poll. First we present ourselves as Exhibit A, and the bored gods/goddesses as Exhibit B. Let's see what we have in common:


EXHIBIT A: ANNE



Athlete's foot? YES

Flatulence? YES

Depression? YES

Suspicion? YES

Bad Hair Days? YES

Inflamed Gums? YES

Constantly Living with the Good of Humankind at Heart? NO

Fairly Nice, but Not Perfect YES

Good Parent? NOT CONSISTENTLY

Jealous? NO (pretend to be sometimes to make Mr. Johnson feel good.)



Okay, that's Anne. Now I pose the same questions to a random sampling of bored gods and goddesses from multiple pantheons across the globe. (They were thrilled to be asked to fill out a questionnaire. It was a welcome break from finding needles in the amber waves of grain.)



Athlete's Foot? NO

Flatulence? NO

Depression? NO

Suspicion? NO

Bad Hair Days? NO

Inflamed Gums? NO

Constantly Living with the Good of Humankind at Heart? YES

Fairly Nice, but Not Perfect? NO

Good Parent? YES

Jealous? NO


Time did not permit us to conduct a statistically significant survey, so the only conclusion we can draw from this little experiment is that Anne is human and the bored gods don't experience flatulence or inflamed gums.

Sunday Cat Blogging

It's hell being a foster kitten mother. You've gotta be made of steel. That's why it pisses me off so much when ignorant moron fundies accuse Pagans of slaughtering kittens.

See these three? I nursed them through roundworms and kitten digestive disorders. I bottle fed them and rubbed their cute little ears until they did their cute little kitten purrs. They got a little bigger, I let them run and wrestle around my feet. I let them climb my leg and sleep in my lap.

I took them back to the animal shelter on Memorial Day weekend. They're still there.

To all who would insist that my religion sanctions cat murder, I say, go adopt those kittens and bring them up in a nice Christian home!

Fabulous Dry T-Shirt Contest!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Struggling to keep labor unions alive and healthy in America since the days of Ronnie "bust 'em" Reagan!

Mr. Johnson brought a brand-new t-shirt home from his union meeting last night.

Details:

Gorgeous deep purple color

First line: THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE

Second line: Negotiable (bright red, cursive)

Third line: UNION (blue)

Fourth line: YES (stars n stripes)

Size: XL

This shirt can be yours, yes, yours! (It's too big for my girlish figure.)

All you have to do is:

1. Leave a comment

2. Send me an email (address in profile)

On Sunday I'll put all the names in a hat and draw one. In time for Labor Day, you could have the most bitchin, righteous union shirt on your block!

Oh, I forgot: The bottom of the shirt says

TNG-CWA LOCAL 38010 PHILADELPHIA, PA

This added line will get you safely through any neighborhood in Philly. Any neighborhood in Philly. Any neighborhood in Philly.

And free beer if you wander into the right bar.

ENTER NOW! YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE!

Image: Union workers, Labor Day, Philadelphia, 2006

Should've Skipped Straight to the Family Barbecue

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sniveling cowards since ... emm ... since ... emmm ... oh hell, since Eisenhower was president!

My daughters The Heir and The Spare are in a national organization called Children of the American Revolution. C.A.R. for short. Like 99.9 percent of all the youngsters in C.A.R., they absolutely hate it. Yet The Spare persists because she wants to be able to put it on her college applications as community service.

Here in our bucolic New Jersey borough, we have a mom somewhat younger than me who is a stage mother for C.A.R. Her daughter, The Heir's age, is the state president. So, wanting to put on a nice show for the daughter, Stage Mom engineered a modest Fourth of July float, recruited a few kids from the neighborhood to wave flags, sat her daughter in a different vehicle (posh convertible) with an equally posh D.A.R. member, and a very posh banner identifying the two of them as poobahs, and off we went to the local Fourth of July parade!

Recall, folks, that if you're in a parade, you don't get to see it. You sit on your float for 45 minutes until it's your turn to float down Main Street. Which can get a tad boring for a bevvy of 5-year-olds.

I'll give it to The Spare. She spent three days making signs for the kids to carry. C.A.R. Stage Mom didn't like them, but we used them anyway. (Adults carried them.) The signs all had to do with an incident that happened in the bucolic borough in 1777. You know, the usual heroic bloodshed and all that rot.

Except someone had written something on the back of each of The Spare's signs. Just a little light something in thin ballpoint pen.

The back of the signs said:

IMPEACH

WHERE'S OSAMA?

PARDON MY FRIENDS

OUT OF IRAQ NOW

Gee, I wonder who pimped those signs?

Okay, I'm a closet Freeway Blogger without the guts and the savvy to do interstate highways. Told you I'm a craven coward.

So we march in the parade. Spare is pouting as only a 13-year-old can because she hurt her foot and Stage Mom (rightly) would not let her march barefoot. Spare had to sit in the float with the tots. Heir is lugging a sign with a significant lack of enthusiasm, especially given that the only other young woman her age in the group is sitting in a convertible, perfectly coiffed, waving like Miss America.

We get to the end of the parade route, and I'm toddling around collecting The Spare's signs before anyone can spy the subliminal messages. Lo and behold, Stage Mom shouts: "Oh, give me those! We can use them at the state picnic!"

I won't be able to herd The Heir and The Spare to the state picnic with a cattle prod, but I'll betcha those signs don't make it there either. I know Stage Mom's politics.

FROM ANNE

Will this Mercury Retrograde ever end?

Blogging Against Theocracy: Who Let the Moths Out?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" One abomination, under Gawd, indigestible, with Libby free and justice in thrall!

I don't know about you, but I think our American flag is sort of like the picture of Dorian Gray. If it could show its true colors, it might look something like this:

Someone unleashed the Four Gypsy Moths of the Apocalypse. And they are: Greed, Corruption, Injustice, and Hypocrisy.

America. We create a wasteland and call it progress.

Blog Against Theocracy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," separating church and state with a crowbar if necessary!

We proudly join the July 1-4 Blog Against Theocracy, and we encourage our readers to do the same.

Our founding fathers were mostly Christians, but they were enlightened enough to see a day when this nation would include people of many different faiths and many different sects. And so, in the very first Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, they included the following words:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

Okay, boys and girls, let's say it again, and maybe we'll know it by memory.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

Sweet land of liberty. So mote it be.

FROM ANNE

EXERCISING DRUIDRY AS PER CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS

Thalia Took: Artist to the Bored Gods

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," restoring dignity and grandeur to pantheons far and wide! This One God thing has gone far enough, don't you think?

Awhile back I did a well-received interview with Manannan Mac Lir, a Celtic bored god who really took a barb from the One God people. I used this terrific picture:

Twice, I think, I've interviewed Sedna, bored goddess of the Inuit people. I used this picture:

Both are the creation of an artist named Thalia Took.

Thalia's done way more for the bored gods than I have. Her site is spectacular. The best part is, you can get god/goddess t-shirts from her!

So, link on over to Thalia's awesome site and prepare for an eye feast.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELY SPRINGS