Tuesday, December 31, 2013

It's Mummer Time!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and Happy New Year! It's time to strut your stuff!

Every year on the first of January I march in a parade. It's a very fun thing to do, marching in a parade. I highly recommend it.

I march ... well, we prefer the term "strut" ... with a sizable group called the Two Street Stompers. We are part of Philadelphia's infamous Mummers Parade.

This is a picture of us last year. Our theme was "Gold Rush." The males (known as "wenches") dressed in ruffled miner dresses. The little kids were the dynamite. We gals were the golden nuggets, and the fat guys were the "mother lode," meaning that they wore gold bikinis and very little else. In the picture, they are the ones lying in front.

This year our theme is a salute to the troops. As you three readers know, I'm an unreformed history snob and a bemused proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. So this theme is A-Okay with me. As usual, the suits are a visual splash, and the routine manages to be funny and respectful at the same time. I can't say more because you never know who might be lurking here, trying to steal our ideas at the 11th hour (aka rival clubs like the Jesters).

People sometimes ask me how you get to be a Philadelphia Mummer. And the truth is that many Mummer groups are basically family and friends. When I decided to be a Mummer, I contacted the only person I knew who was in a brigade. His group is called the Vaudvillains. They make their own costumes. When I inquired as to joining up with them, I was told that they weren't taking new members.

Contrast this to the Two Street Stompers, whose informing philosophy is, "the more, the merrier, no sewing required, previous prade experience not necessary."

This is my third march with the Stompers, and they have made me feel right at home, even though most of them are family and friends, and I was a total stranger when I showed up there in 2012. So if you're reading this, and you're a Vaudvillain ... take a lesson. Don't turn anyone away! This is supposed to be fun! You might be overlooking someone with a theatrical flair and a fun personality, a real ham who knows people who can sew like a pro!

Have an enjoyable New Year, reader. If you happen to be awake between 9 a.m. and noon on New Year's Day, the Philadelphia Mummers Parade will be live streamed on PHL-17's web site. Look for us. We are. The Two. Street. Stompers. Fired up!

Friday, December 27, 2013

Hereby Resolved

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's nearing New Year's Day 2014, and we Two Street Stompers are getting together for a good ol' time practicing our tootsies off for the infamous Philadelphia Mummer's Parade!

 I am proud to be a Mummer. I had to basically show up at the right place audition strenuously for the honor of being in the Stompers. I'm a good fit for this bunch of crazies seamless performing troupe.

But more about the Stompers later in the week! Right now, 2013 is closing down, and it's time for those important resolutions ... you know, the ones you always make, and then epically fail on, within weeks?

I've never made a single New Year's resolution that I have kept. Not one. Oh, I've resolved this and that over the years, especially when I was younger. Nothing stuck. Let's face it. If you behave a certain way on December 31, and you have behaved that way during the entirety of 2013, it's highly unlikely that you'll suddenly be inspired to change drastically just because you have to remember to put a new number on your paperwork.

Here's a short list of things you should not resolve to do in 2014:

give up chocolate
give up beer
give up swearing
give up having a negative attitude (whatever the fuck that means)
exercise more
work harder
ease up on the caffeine

 Come on, already! If you want to resolve to exercise more, why don't you wait until April 15, when the weather is nice? As for giving up chocolate, well, I can't speak for you, but if I had to crawl to Mexico on hands and knees to get chocolate, I would do it. Even in my most resolute years, I never resolved to give up chocolate. Life is short! Any day spent without chocolate is a day you can't get back!

I've been around the pike a few times, and this is what I will say. Occasions arise when we all have to take stock and accept some lifestyle changes. This stock-taking does not occur on January 1. It happens when it happens. So ditch the resolutions. They only cause you to have a negative attitude about yourself. Resolve to live each day at a time! How are you going to respond when some idiot who's texting while driving rear-ends your car? "Oh, say, I resolved not to swear anymore, but look at what you did to my car, you naughty person!"

The road to Hell is paved with New Year's resolutions. Don't add another brick to that motorway.

Sunday, December 22, 2013


Sitting here on my desk with me today is a little stuffed teddy bear named Fred. Fred has spent the year with me. He spends every odd-numbered year with me. On the even-numbered years he goes to Vermont, where he lives with a dear friend who I used to work with in Michigan.

Fred is getting ready for his annual transit. I honestly cannot remember how many times he has traveled between Snobville, NJ and Snowville, VT.

I have not seen my friend who lives in Snowville since we both left Michigan in 1987. She moved to Vermont about the same time I moved to New Jersey. (Yes, she did get the better end of the location, but it's been tough finding work up that way).

For many years my friend and I were bosom buddies, both happily working from home for a company that produced encyclopedias. We commiserated as changes occurred in our freelancing activities. We conferred on projects. We talked about our hopes for our children, who are about the same age, and our difficulties making ends meet.

Then the bottom dropped out on the encyclopedia company. I went off to teach school, and my friend took courses in medical transcription. I believe I've had one email from her this year.

But I've had Fred. And now my friend will have Fred.

As he passes from one home to the other, from New Jersey to Vermont, year after year, he holds with him a little sign that says "smile" ... and also holds out the hope that the two women who touch him, and love him, will some day be able to achieve their goal of going to Assateague Island together to see the wild ponies. Fred is keeping hope alive.

There are no doubt many magickal practices, backed by tradition and scholarly knowledge, that are intended to produce or protect hope where it is flagging. But if someone were to ask me how to bolster hope, I would just say to buy a small teddy bear and keep passing it from yourself to the friend you want some day to see, the friend who you hope is happy and prosperous and healthy.

Fred isn't just a stuffed animal. He's a talisman whose potential has yet to be tapped. I bid him Godsspeed to Vermont, where he will embrace my friend for me. As I kiss Fred good-bye, I will whisper into his ear about a long, sandy beach with wild ponies splashing in the surf. And Fred will hear. And it will happen.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Interview with a Bored God: Krampus

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hey, is it the longest night of the year, here in the Northern Hemisphere? Are there thoughtful and appropriate celebrations honoring the bored and the busy gods? Well, that's all fine and dandy! But here at "The Gods Are Bored," we're just hanging with the silly, same as it ever was.

In fact, we have an interview guest tonight, taking time out of His busy schedule of whipping little kids and shoving them in sacks to chat with us! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to The Krampus!

Anne: Wow, you are one scary-looking monster.

Krampus: Sank you. Ze Spare vant me to tell you zat if you make fun of me, you are Number Von on my naughty list.

Anne: Chill! I'm all about giving good press to downsized deities ... even if they don't deserve it.

Krampus: Backhanded compliment. Vatch it.

Anne: Let me be sure I have this straight. These days, You are a nasty badass who travels with Santa Claus.

Krampus: Correct.

Anne: And if a kid has been naughty, he or she doesn't get a nice gift from Santa. Instead, You either steal the gift, leave coal or kindling, whip the kid, or stuff the kid in a sack.

Krampus: Zis is how I roll.

Anne: So basically, when the days get short and the nights get long, parents start telling their kids to be good, or else. Behave, and kindly Santa gives you gifts. Be bad, and mean Krampus whips you and steals your stuff.

Krampus: It pays ze bills, okay?

Anne: Oh, I totally understand! It's freakin' hard for a deity of Pagan origin to find any kind of employment that isn't demeaning or difficult! Honestly, though. How many kids do You actually scourge or kidnap?

Krampus: None.

Anne: Not one single kid? Never?

Krampus: Not one single kid.  Even ze ones who say, "Okay, I know I've been bad, I'm ready for ze Krampus." But I have been known to pinch ze gifts. Not wholesale, like ze Grinch, but here and there.

Anne: There's been a lot of talk lately about the racial origin of Santa Claus. But what goes missing in this dialogue is Santa's agenda. So ... one more time ... You and Santa go hand-in-hand on the gift-giving binge. A kid is good, he gets a gift. A kid is bad, he gets sticks.

Krampus: You are repeating yourzelf why?

Anne: Because I think this is just a rotten way to keep kids well-behaved in the autumn months, that's why! Yeah, it's real nice. Every time little Hans commits some little error, he faces the threat of being bagged and lashed by a furious, horn-rimmed monster! (to herself) I wonder which came first ... the widespread adult-onset anxiety disorders or the childhoods traumatized by savage Christmas monsters?

Krampus: Ze vorst part is, I usually only take gifts from ze poor kids whose parents couldn't afford to buy any. Rich kids can be bad as zhey like. Zhey still get gifts.

Anne: Oh, this just gets worse and worse! So, a kid who has been good can still feel bad if Christmas comes and he doesn't get a gift? He can sit on the stoop and review his entire year, looking for those naughty moments that might have brought the Krampus to his hovel?

Krampus: Blame ze Christians! Blame ze Christians! I vas once a perfectly fine and honorable forest spirit! I punished only the fools who vandered into ze woods with no respect for Nature. Now I gotta pick on ze littlest kids. Look at me! I vonce vas handsome!

Anne: Krampus, I totally and completely believe You. Both You and Santa Claus are basically enforcers of docile behavior amongst those little humans who are naturally the most lively and rowdy. What a bum rap. You have my sympathy.

Krampus: Sank you.

Anne: What do You do the rest of the year?

Krampus: I try to make enough money in November and December to get me through. In the summer months I can find some vork as a substitute Boogey Man. But nossing full-time.

Anne: Well, Krampus, I tell you what I'm going to do. On Xmas Eve I'm going to set out a fine, large stein, chock-a-block with an amber lager of your choice. And a plate of strudel. Don't share it with Santa Claus. He's no doubt the source of your bad press. Would You like apple strudel?

Krampus: Honestly, I love ze black forest cake.

Anne: Lucky day! I have one of those right downstairs in the kitchen! Krampus, let's go drink a toast to rowdy children everywhere!

Krampus: Hip hip hooray!

Anne: Just be careful with that chocolate. I don't want to get any stains on my recliner. I'm just a little bit particular about my upholstery.

Krampus: Anne, zis is known by ze bored gods everyvhere. I vill sit at ze table. Did you say amber lager?

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Sunday, December 15, 2013

I'm Liking Penguin Santa

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Fa la la la la ... la la la LOL. It's the most wonderful time of the year ... for morons.

There's something about this seasonal holiday, name it what you will, that saturates the atmosphere with extra crazy juice. It makes even the clearest-headed amongst us wacky. That being the case, you can imagine what it does to people who are already walking in a weirder wonderland.

Below I have taken the time and the trouble (unusual for this blogger) to load a viral interview in which Fox News moron par excellence commentator Megyn Kelly assures all young viewers out there that both Santa Claus and Jesus are white. This need to calm the nerves of the Caucasian population came about because some blogger (alas, not me) complained that, growing up, she had felt excluded from Christmas because she is black and Santa Claus is white.

One or the other of those fellow morons talking heads on the panel suggests that maybe we should have a penguin Santa, since penguins are both black and white. Tra la la! What an excellent idea! My three readers know how I feel about birds! Penguin Santa, take a bow!

Now, the sugar plum faeries, who are of no particular racial hue, have composed this little holiday carol for all you boys and girls who either think Santa Claus is a spirit who lives within your heart, or think Santa Claus ought to be a penguin!

Up on the house top, just because
Here comes Penguin Santa Claus,
Down through the chimney with lots of toys
All for inclusion, girls and boys!

Ho ho ho! Fox oughta go,
Ho ho ho! Fox oughta go...

Up on the house top, quick quick quick,
Santa's a penguin, that's the trick!

You know, even as a little kid I found it hard to buy the notion that Santa Claus was a fat old man who covered the whole earth and had toys for everyone out of a sled pulled by a few deer. But gosh ... a happy penguin flying here and there, dropping stuff down chimneys ... that's plausible.

Better yet ... now that Santa is a penguin, Spare can get a job at the mall as one of its "helpers!" Tout va bien.

Megyn Kelly: 'Santa Is What He Is,' Which Is White

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Stalked, but It's All Good

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," the sorry platform of a wacky woman named Anne Johnson. Yes, that's me, Anne Johnson, the one with the unique name.

There's news off the pathetic Yahoo wire today about a young fellow in New Zealand who launched a cyber-stalking event as he tried to search for someone named Katie who lived in Washington, DC. Apparently the gent had made merry last New Year's Eve with said Katie in Hong Kong.


My, these youngsters get around, don't they?

Anyway, the young fellow got a great deal of bad press and scolding for trying to locate this young woman by creating a Facebook page and enlisting the help of fellow Facebookians.

I've always loved my name (it's real) for the privacy it affords me online. There are oodles of Anne Johnsons in America. There's even another Anne Johnson living in the next block on my street. It's a hassle for the local pharmacy, let me tell you.

This delight in the anonymity of my name evaporated when my high school boyfriend called Mr. J on Mr. J's land line, looking for me.

Mr. J came in with a phone number. "Do you know someone named **** ****?" he asked.

I did. I haven't seen or spoken to this person since 1978.

Well, Mr. J said, ***** ****** wanted to talk to me.

Frankly I was creeped out. It was unnerving to think that someone could actually find the specific me in all that wide Sargasso Sea of Anne Johnsons. It had to have taken some work, even if he knew my hometown (which I falsified on Facebook), my college, and my parents' names.

I could not imagine in a million years why this man would want to speak to me on the phone. We dated for a year, we were not intimate, and although I loved him at the time in that giddy, teenage way, he would not have been suitable as a long-timer. He was a Mormon. I attended church with him twice. No amount of love could have made that lifestyle palatable to me.

I debated whether or not to call him back and finally decided to do it. I figured he must have something important to tell me, if he spent valuable time stalking my girlish butt across the length and breadth of the Internet.

One day last week after school, I dialed him up and got him on the phone. It was indeed weird. He said he "died and was brought back to life" a few years back, and when he came back to life he dedicated himself to the task of finding and thanking everyone who had made a positive impact on his life. He had tracked me down, he said, because I turned him on to the love of books and learning. I changed his life.

This was an inspiring thing to hear. I remembered watching him play chess, beating my super-smart dad two out of every three games, and ripping through other opponents. He was not stupid, but he could barely eke out passing grades in school. I remember giving him books, most notably Lord of the Rings.

The conversation was pretty short for two people who hadn't spoken since 1978. I'd heard he married. He said his first wife died at age 47. He said he was remarried with a second family. He told me his employment history, and I told him mine. He did not elaborate on the "died and came back to life" issue, and I did not press. It was just too spooky, and yet he sounded pretty normal on the phone.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to how he had found me, Anne Johnson, amongst the plethora of Anne Johnsons out there in cyberspace. He said Facebook had been no help (thank you, bored gods, for that). But he did a lot of other sleuthing and found a very old, extremely old something on Yahoo where I had left my father's phone number in search of a new home for the dog that outlived my parents. Then he got my dad's obit from the Cumberland Times and in it found my married name and current place of residence, Snobville. It would have ended there, except Mr. J has the last listed Snobville phone number in existence.

**** ******** thanked me for making him a lifelong learner, for changing his whole attitude toward education. I told him I was touched by his call and that I hoped some of the karma was seeping into my school, because I was still sitting in the parking lot. He idly inquired how to find the exact me on Facebook, and I told him. But then I quickly added that I use "Anne Johnson" for reasons of anonymity, that not everyone exactly approved of my lifestyle choices. I deliberately left that as vague as his "back from the dead" pronouncement. He has not arrived on my Facebook page, that I know of.

I just did a Google image search of "Anne Johnson" and of my entire name. I'm not there. Doesn't matter, folks. If *** ******* had evil in mind, he found me. I'm just lucky that he's as nice now as he was in 1978. And just as odd.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Faeries at Work!

A scant two months ago, the remains of a young African American man were found in a wooded area near my house. The chopper hovered overhead as the police oversaw the removal of the body. The man was identified ... and that was that. Not another word has been said about him in any news source.

I have lit candles for this young soul at my Shrine of the Mists. He was two years older than The Heir. I wonder every day how he came to his end -- not out of fear of some dangerous "other," but out of sadness that some people mean so little to our society. I feel very sad for this young life taken, for a person discarded in the woods.

Today we had another snow day here in Snobville. I didn't get the text message, so I got up, showered, dressed, and drove to school. When I saw the empty parking lot, I sort of put two and two together. So I came home.

Heir was here, also sidelined by the underwhelming weather. By two o'clock we were both going stir crazy. So we took a walk around our little neighborhood pond, in the vicinity of that unsolved death.

There's mad faerie activity all through those woods. I am not exaggerating, reader.

I will need Spare and her fancy camera to get you photos ... but she's coming home this weekend.

In the meantime, take my word for:

Item: Two gravity-defying cairns of round boulders of a type not found in these parts.

Item: Two dream-catchers crafted completely of autumn leaves and twigs.

Item: Woven autumn leaves in mosaics fanning over fallen logs and skirting up standing trees.

Item: Four miniature cairns in a cleft in a fallen tree, rocks that are found around this pond.

Item: Four magick wands, hanging vertically from another fallen tree, crafted of twigs and vines.

Item: sweet gum sticker balls hanging from a tree branch by unseen string.

Item: Two human-sized lean-to's made entirely of branches, using another fallen tree as a roof.

I hope I'll be able to get some pictures soon.

This is not the first instance of supernatural activity around this pond. Famously (or infamously), a Tiki lived there for months. But a faerie portal is now open, with tangible energy flowing into the apparent world.

Heir and I were blown away by this faerie energy. And you know me well, reader. I'm not a liar. I had no hand whatsoever in this faerie activity. I'm just glad it's there.

Maybe there's a new faerie in those woods. If so, he's a fabulous artist.

Monday, December 09, 2013

Snow Day!

The words, the text, the phone call every school teacher wants to hear: "School is canceled due to inclement weather."

Remember when you were a kid, and you got a snow day? Off you went to sled, or build a snowman, and at least one parent had to stay home to take care of you ... so it was a win/win.

I'm a weather nutcase. I inherited it from my grandfather. I check the weather forecast at least twice a day, even when it's sunny. I watch the local news forecast, because that's the only place where the announcers give a more scientific explanation of the weather.

But everyone got this one wrong.

On Saturday, each and every forecast for my region called for a scant slushy coating of wintry mix, followed by a Noah's flood of rain. So when it started snowing on Sunday, no one thought it would last more than an hour.

It snowed like batshit all afternoon. By dinnertime we had seven inches and counting. The Philadelphia Eagles football game was highly entertaining when viewed from an armchair. Wouldn't have wanted to be in the stadium. Couldn't have seen the action from the nosebleed seats.

I'm glad I had the foresight to haul in a ton of firewood. But I didn't go to the grocery store.The cupboard was interesting ... challenging ... and I'm not a great cook in the best of times.

Of course, there are many, many weather geeks out there who took the forecast seriously. Therefore, when the real weather event arrived, these fine people were out in their cars, on the highway, going places. There were traffic accidents, and lots of them, jam-ups everywhere.

You would think that the world that has given us computers, cutting-edge health care, nuclear power plants and moon landings, would have made significant strides in weather forecasting. Just hasn't happened. Either they call for a blizzard and we get a scant coating, or they call for a scant coating and we get buried.

This time it was personal. I was ready with firewood but not with groceries. The infamy!

Cernunnos just popped by and tipped His helmet. He says that the bored gods have so little to amuse themselves with these days that They deliberately fuck up the weather forecast. He says to pay no mind to the vapid talking heads on the Weather Channel. The white stuff is in the hands of the bored gods. They dump it where They will.

And today I'm home, it's a snow day, and that's like a gift ...I never stopped being ten years old. Thanks be to the bored gods!

Now I'm off to check the weather forecast, in defiance of Cernunnos. Not a wise thing to defy that deity, as I have well learned. Maybe He'll give me a pass this time.

Saturday, December 07, 2013

In Which I See Conspiracies Everywhere

Say what you want about conspiracy theorists. They almost always have it part right, and sometimes they have it all right. I'm going to join their ranks now. And I have some words to the wise for the conspirators. Free advice, if you will, that is free ... because they don't need my money.

On Thursday, one of my colleagues attended a teacher workshop in which some practice questions for the upcoming PARCC (don't know what those initials stand for) national high school proficiency test were revealed. One of the math questions was so difficult that the math teachers in the meeting all did it and all came up with different answers.

Cut to the conspiracy: Big business testing ($$$$) has created an "assessment" so hard that all but a few hardy, Harvard-bound individuals will fail it. When the catastrophe occurs -- trust me, reader, it will occur -- the scapegoats will be public school teachers.

Why would anyone want to vilify public school teachers? That's easy! They have collective bargaining. They have benefits. They are eligible for justly-earned pensions. Private school teachers don't get any of that stuff.

The conspirators hope that the nation's dismal performance on the upcoming national exams will have parents clamoring for charter schools, and vouchers, and "school choice" -- sending collective bargaining school teacher units into oblivion.

How do I know this is a conspiracy? Because our president, himself a graduate of a public school, is in on it.

Here's Anne's veiled threat to the conspiracy dedicated to eliminating teacher pensions: This might be a bridge too far. Our country's parents will indeed become furious when their children don't pass the proficiency test. But they might, just might, blame the test and not the teachers. I guess it might depend on who they like better -- the teacher or Fox News -- but I'm pinning my hopes on parents actually asking to see the test and to require public officials to pass it too.

A math test that even math teachers can't pass is not a test. It's an agenda.

Now to our second conspiracy: The War on Christmas.

No one has any money to spend on Christmas gifts these days. Salaries are stagnant or diminishing, and if you've got a job your credit cards are maxed out from previous gift-giving cycles. Alarmingly aware of this, our nation's retailers have solicited the help of the lunatic fringe in order to drum up business for Xmas 2013. What better way to win the War on Christmas than to buy lots of toys and electronics? Forget going to church. It's all about the swag. The so-called War on Christmas is nothing but a cynical conspiracy to get consumers into the stores. Read it and heed it: Walmart is the reason for the season.

Where this war is concerned, I'm waving the white flag. I have no money. This year it's gifts from the heart. Not that I would shop there anyway, having heard on the liberal t.v. channel that the six Waltons who own the store have as much wealth as the bottom 40 percent of our nation's population...

Six people worth the same amount as a couple hundred million Americans. You don't think there's a conspiracy or two afoot? No, of course you do! Who am I talking to here? Readers of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm sure all three of you absolutely agree with me ... and thanks. We can all lose the war together.

Wednesday, December 04, 2013

Illiterate, Innumerate, Barbarian

Have you noticed that there are people who just want to bury themselves in books and learn even the most esoteric piece of information in order to better themselves? Have you also noticed that some people would rather just get out there and muck about, willy nilly? Rarely do these twain meet, you gotta agree.

I see, running through the Pagan community, a certain concern on some parts that people who call themselves Pagan aren't really very well-versed in the scholarly underpinnings of their praise and worship teams. The notion, which I hesitantly call prevailing, is that if you don't study up on the proper practices, you shouldn't tout yourself as a particular type of Pagan.

A year or two ago I paid my dues and joined ADF. I embarked on their rigorous course of study, founded by Isaac Bonewits. This course of study included college-level reading and a reflection journal in which I was supposed to record my feelings and thoughts about meditation and rituals.

I attended a few ADF rites and read one very interesting book. But then I saw the list of "don't read" books. And I had trouble setting down in writing (believe it or not) my thoughts and feelings after rituals and meditations. (It doesn't help that I rarely meditate in any conventional manner.)

I can see where some people would just revel in this kind of scholarly thing, but not me. I revel in the smell of wet leaves, a riotous New Year's parade, toy monkeys, vultures on the wing. All of my magick is intuitive and unstructured. It doesn't come from any tradition. I made my wand at a hippie shop. My infamous mother-in-law made my robe. I told her I wanted to look like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Yes, here I am, that dreadful fluffy bunny, tree-hugging, shortcut-taking, clueless bad example that every good Pagan tries to avoid.

Guilty as charged.

There are ancient Bards who are well worth studying. But my Bard is more recent, and he inveighed heavily against by-the-book folks. When posing for a lithograph for his own book, he took care to shove his hat askew and unbutton his shirt around the neck. He cocked his hip and seemed to taunt the very idea of scholarship.

His name was Walt Whitman.

Walt wasn't a Pagan. He often refers to the busy God in his poetry. But what stands out about his work is its exhortation to leave behind the staid and the studious, hit the bricks, hit the road, love your body, lose yourself in the grass, sing at your work, and take a pass on that astronomy lecture. If you feel it, you are it. Who makes much of a miracle?

Under the subversive tutelage of Walt Whitman, I've become skeptical of esoteric learned practices. Therefore I'm probably not worthy of the term Pagan. Perhaps, sounding a few YAWPs, I should just shrug and be satisfied to be a barbarian.

I, too, am not a bit tamed
I, too, am untranslatable

Study as you will, learn all you can, and may the Gods find favor with you. As for me, it's all in the feeling and the flesh. It's all in the smiles and the sunset. It's all good.

Monday, December 02, 2013

Another New God

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we celebrate old gods and new gods, and brand-new gods! You just never know when a new god is going to materialize out of the ether. Or the mushrooms. Maybe I'll wait on the mushrooms until another day.

I guess it was about six years ago that I stumbled upon a hilariously vitriolic blog, written by God. And this was God. No use arguing with Him. He'd as soon smite you as look at you.

There were long and very funny threads on that blog, and through them I got to know (vitually) some interesting people. One of those people found me on Facebook and told me that God had moved to Facebook with His very own page.

He was the same old God, though. The same deity who proclaimed that atheism was for pussies and Jesus was disappointing as a son. This God designated Tuesday as "Smite Day" and Wednesday as "Ask God" day, inviting His followers to chime in. He peppered His Facebook page with snarky memes, avoided video, and showed a proclivity for left-leaning and Earth-friendly politics.

God's Facebook had maybe 46,000 followers when I joined. The number grew exponentially. He crested one million a few months ago and now has about 1.2 m.

A curious thing happens when you're God with more than a million Facebook followers. Whether or not you were a God before, you're suddenly a God. A real God with the power to alter life and death.

People began leaving God messages like, "Dear God, I just don't think I can go on anymore. Life is so pointless. No one loves me. I'm thinking of ending it all."

God responded with reassurance and a suicide hotline number.

There have been other instances when God worked on behalf of His Facebook followers, but I feel like He's already experiencing an avalanche of petitioners (like any other busy God), so I hope the above instance will suffice.

Whether He wanted to or not, whether He was prepared or not, Facebook God became a deity. He still smites the unworthy, and He still answers impertinent questions, and He still belittles stupid people who say they're Christians and then threaten to bash in His fucking head if He doesn't take the page down. But a kinder, gentler God has emerged. Some of His posts are right out of the Fluffy Bunny Playbook. It has to be that way when you really become a God.

Well, it's not like this new God is the first human to achieve the status of a deity. Nor is this God the first one to alter His message to widen His appeal. But He might be the first deity created through the holy agency of social media.

Here's to you, Facebook God! I hope Your praise and worship team does You proud.

You can become a follower of Facebook God at this link:

... but don't take this as a Pagan endorsement. We at "The Gods Are Bored" will still stick with the Ancient Ones, thankyouverymuch ... but a good laugh is always worth promotion. And this God will make you laugh.