Hurricane Prayer

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Usually we laugh and sing here (off key of course). Today we reflect on the great god Poseidon's warning that turning up the heat in the Atlantic can cause bad karma for major landmasses.

A PRAYER FOR HURRICANE VICTIMS FROM THE DEEP SOUTH TO KENTUCKY AND BEYOND:

Ancient Ones, Gentry of Sidhe, help push back the great waters.

Those who in Avalon rest, welcome your children home.

So might it be.

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Who's On Guard?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Just this morning, I think most of the gods would rather be playing solitaire in their lonely heavens than struggling to find clean water and mosquito repellent in Mississippi.

I've got a rare blood type, so I let the Red Cross rip the ol' veins open fairly often. Yesterday, during a routine blood drive, the volunteers were talking about hurricane duty.

Oh my.

I said they could have an extra pint of blood, but they didn't take it.

Anyway, these big Atlantic hurricanes are ripping up the Southlands regularly now, and in a future post we'll talk about what hurricanes mean for hillbillies. But today's topic is a little more of the moment.

WHO'S ON GUARD?

(With apologies to Abbott and Costello)

WHO = the National Guard

WHAT = the Army Reserves

I DON'T KNOW = Dubya


Q: Who's helping the residents of Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi keep their houses safe from looters?

A: No, Who's in Iraq.

Q: I don't understand. Who's policing the highways so opportunistic thieves and thugs can't dash in and take advantage of ordinary Americans caught in harm's way?

A: No, sorry. Who's in Iraq.

Q: Well then, Who's in Mississippi?

A: No, Who's in Iraq.

Q: I don't get it. What's keeping criminals from taking advantage of hurricane damage to plunder and terrorize hurricane victims?

A: What's in Iraq too.

Q: What is in Iraq?

A: That's right.

Q: No, you don't understand. What exactly is in Iraq?

A: Yep.

Q: Wait. I don't get this at all. Who helps out with damage control when hurricanes strike?

A: Usually, but right now Who's in Iraq.

Q: Who's in Iraq?

A: Yep.

Q: I still don't understand. Who is in Iraq, and What's going on there?

A: That's completely correct.

Q: Well, then, who's helping the hurricane victims, and what can help them?

A: Sorry. Iraq.

Q: I don't know what you're talking about! I don't know!

A: White House.

ANNE BLAMES BLOOD LOSS FOR THIS NONSENSE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

How Many Hippo Hurricanes?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Too bad people can't be as bored as the gods. It's the old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."

Bad day in the Deep South. Begs a question:

How many more hippo hurricanes will it take before the handful of government lackeys, Texas and Saudi oil barons, and Intelligent Design scientists give up, cry uncle, and admit that global warming is a problem?

Can't blame the bored gods for this one, human race. See Poseidon's statement below, completely absolving him from any role in this or any Atlantic hurricane.

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

It's Not Poseidon's Fault

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Our search for scientific evidence and religious truth takes us down lively alleyways that haven't been traveled in a long time!

First, a personal thank you to my reader Athana, who suggests I take up Ebay as a replacement for my lost goat judge income. That occurred to me too! I've been combing my house for stuff to list. So far I've compiled the following exciting stockpile:

1. A hamster that bites.
2. The cat that traumatizes the hamster.
3. One copy, Sensible Goat Breeding and Maintenance.
4. An oversized Tigger stuffed animal that leaps out and trips me just like the one in the movies.
5. Beanie babies that have been played with until they're all scuffed up and dirty.
6. Back issues of the National Enquirer.
7. A well-worn t-shirt for the West Virginia Mountain Bike Classic.

A promising lot, don't you think?

Seriously, Athana, thanks for the advice. I do have some items that I hope will bring in enough to produce a little nest egg for Christmas.

Today I'm at the library again, typing furiously and watching for other customers who want this machine. I've been asked by a bored god to make a statement.

STATEMENT FROM POSEIDON

Hello, I am the formerly powerful god Poseidon. You may know me as Triton or Neptune. Or you may have read The Odyssey. If you've done that, you know I used to be taken seriously.

At one time I crafted up nasty storms to blow ships off course. But since I got downsized, I've been living quietly in Atlantis. My days consist of counting the bubbles that ooze from a volcanic vent.

You may have noticed that Atlantic hurricanes are increasing in number and intensity. If I was still in charge, you might even be offering sacrifices to me to get them to stop.

Guess what, clueless moderns? The hurricanes are your fault, not mine.

We're sweltering here in Atlantis, and it's not from the volcanic vents. The whole earth is steaming up. And that's gonna get you some serious action in the hurricane department.

Who would know oceanic storms better than myself?

How to prevent hurricanes, typhoons, and tsunamis? Can't be done. Couldn't be done in the days when people prayed to me.

Still, you moderns could turn the thermostat down a little by burning less of that nasty coal and oil. A cold ocean is a happy ocean, if you know what I mean.

One last thing while I have the floor. Why the heck did the early Christians destroy all my nice temples and the statues of me? It's tough enough to survive on unemployment. But to crush all that nice art work? Bad form.

Thank goodnes for Walt Disney. He did me up swell in "The Little Mermaid." I even had a sweet little crab like that for a companion, but recently he fell afoul of a crab trap and wound up cooked and clubbed in a dockside restaurant outside Baltimore.

Okay, to recap. Don't blame me for the hurricanes. They thrive on heat, and you moderns are feeding them to the point of bloat.

FROM
POSEIDON
(FORMER) GOD OF THE DEEP

Inspiration

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we don't let a sick computer keep us off the air! This is America, by golly, and computers are available in libraries! So what if you only get 30 minutes. We type fast!

Some of my many faithful readers must be wondering how I came up with the idea of allowing the bored gods to air their beefs (or is it beeves?).

This is how "The Gods Are Bored" began:

One night I couldn't sleep. I turned on C-Span hoping to catch a good Robert Byrd speech. Instead I got this lecture from some guy out in California. He was speaking at a very VERY liberal synagogue.

His topic was that God doesn't exist, and pretending He does only causes trouble in this world.

The guy used this example. He said: "Imagine picking up a dollar bill and seeing the phrase 'In Zeus We Trust' on it. Or imagine a t-shirt that said, 'What Would Hermes Do?' See how silly that sounds? People don't worship Zeus anymore. And some day they won't worship God either."

It was a compelling argument.

Except for one thing.

Why don't we worship Zeus anymore? Suppose Zeus exists, and his corporation has been the vicitm of a hostile takeover? Suppose he went from being the awesome god to which the magnificent Acropolis is dedicated, to being in early retirement, playing shuffleboard with Gilgamesh and Baal?

It's just hard for me to believe that no deities exist at all. You'd feel the same way if you had fairies hiding your glasses all the time.

Since this is a religious site, we don't need any hard science to prove that God exists. It's a given.

However, if God exists - meaning the God of the Bible, who also appears as the Allah in the Koran - then all gods exist.

It doesn't say anything in Judeo-Christian-Islamic writings about God killing off the other gods. It just says you should pick him to worship, because he's the one and only.

Okay, the Bible's god works for a whole lot of people. Fine and dandy. But some of us just can't buy the "one god" thingy, especially since that particular god is:

1. A man.
2. Somehow split into three parts, but still a whole.
3. A jealous, mass-murderer who fathered a son out of wedlock, allowed the son to be treated roughly, and who is still witholding pertinent information from said son.
4. A god who contradicts himself in his writings to the extent that anyone can justify almost any atrocity by quoting from his scriptures - especially but not exclusively the plunder of the earth and the murder of other human beings.

So Anne the goat judge created this site to give the bored gods a chance to rock on.

Just now I've been pretty harsh toward Yahweh, but truth be told some of the bored gods are worse even than him. Zeus doesn't exactly fare well in the harsh light of bold examination. But it just doesn't seem fair that every culture's gods and goddesses just went POOF!

Who knows? Perhaps in his boredom Zeus has done some soul-searching and decided maybe he shouldn't have taken the form of a swan and raped a pretty girl. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt.

I try not to play favorites in the god market. That's like living on a diet that consists of nothing but vanilla ice cream. So many gods and goddesses have so much to offer that it's like a flea market with fifty aisles!

Come walk with me and chat with the bored gods. September is "Save the Arctic Month."

We'll also browse through other favorite subjects, like The Madness of Rick Santorum, How George Bush Chooses Worthy Gold Star Moms, Rush Limbaugh and His Little Problem, The Norma Rae Revival, and of course ... fairies, fairies, fairies!

All posts are original to this humble goat judge who had the good sense to take secretarial courses in high school.

Could you type all this in 30 minutes?

IN ZEUS WE TRUST,

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Vast Cosmic Conspiracy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If it's technical, it's difficult. That's why we support the Ancient Ones. Can't get more elemental than earth, air, fire, and water.

We have been experiencing technical difficulties posting our awesome religiously-motivated texts here the last few days. Please be patient! We're sure some redneck who knows how to fix things will have us up and running again before you can say, "Save the Arctic Wildlife Refuge."

Peace,
ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Just When You Think You're Loony...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are your car keys missing again? Did someone hide the crossword puzzle? You've got fairies, my friend. Hey, would you rather have cooties?

Fairies are just looking for respect, and perhaps a joke or two now and then. They especially love spontaneous puns. Shower them with spontaneous puns and you'll never lose those car keys.

First, I want to thank my wide readership for the outpouring of sympathy, job offers, and downright grants since I posted the news of a scarcity of goat-judging opportunities. I'm so touched! But don't worry about me. I just realized there's no Tarot Card reader in my little town! Opportunity knocks!

I've also been thinking. I know this sounds silly. But maybe I could be a writer. Seems like they have the good life, all right. Just sitting around banging on a computer all day. Does anyone out there know any writers?

Which brings me to the subject of today's little essay.

Every now and then, a quirk of DNA or a poorly-completed job of parental nurturing unleashes on the world a certifiable lunatic.

Mind you, I've got a soft spot for true lunatics. My mom had bipolar disorder in the pre-lithium days, and I can remember being dressed up for dinner because Queen Elizabeth was coming to see us.

Mom's problems pale, however, against the wild, weird life of Hunter S. Thompson.

Have any of you heard of this guy? He took every kind of drug on the planet (without reading the prescription inserts) and committed every kind of mayhem that leaves you one inch shy of the docket, and then he wrote all about it for bestselling books.

Hunter S. Thompson would be a good "Exhibit A" in Pastor Dobson's Hall of Shame. Alas, Thompson was straight, or he'd be the perfect demon for the Dobson corps. As it is, he ranks right up there.

Awhile back, for reasons unknown, Thompson shot himself through the head while his grandchildren romped in the other room. Now there's a fond old memory of grandpa to recall way down the line!

Thompson's will commanded that he be cremated and his remains shot out of a cannon.

Seriously, could I make this up?

Apparently the celebrated cannonball of Thompson ashes recently sailed into the sky, viewed by an appreciative audience that included Johnny Depp and Sean Penn. I didn't get an invitation. If I had, I think I would have gone ... just to see Johnny Depp.

This is just my opinion, but having your ashes shot out of a cannon is not the most terrific send-off. When are we going to see a really great funeral? I mean one where the deceased is placed on a barge, floated out into a river, and then the barge set on fire by archers on shore, shooting flaming arrows?

Keep your cannons, and especially your Absolute Zero freezers, so you can be thawed out and go rocking on when medical science improves. But the barge and the flaming arrows, now that's a great goodbye. Not only that, but it's the favored send-off of the bored gods. You'd be sure to have a superb turnout of fairies for that one!

So Hunter Thompson died as he lived, a small thinker with a finite imagination, no religion of any sort, not the kind of bloke you'd want to cart home to meet the folks at a family reunion.

His post-human cannonball appearance does make you think, though. Like, I'm no spring chicken. Maybe I'd better get the old will out and review the specs.

Now, where do I find a barge?

REST IN PIECES, HUNTER S. THOMPSON

From ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Hey! I just found my car keys!

What's a Goat Judge to Do?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you're just joining us for the first time, howdy! This blog is dedicated to all the gods and goddesses out there who have come to work one day and found their stuff in a box and their cubicle occupied by missionaries from some other religion.

It's no easier for gods and goddesses to face this life-altering moment than it is for people, so we invite them to air their concerns here. It can get lively.

Today's topic is more personal, however. And I will try not to whine, because self pity just doesn't make anything better.

My goat-judging days are over.

Have you ever heard of a Web cam? I'll bet a good many of my wide and faithful readership know how to run one.

Works like this: Someone films something, zippo it goes into the Internet, and someone in, say, Morocco can watch the action as it unfolds.

Bet you can guess where this is leading. The international conglomerate that bought the corporation that bought out my original employer, Goats R Us, has figured out how to beam Web cam footage to goat judges in Morocco. The Moroccan goat judges are not only some of the world's most knowledgeable goat people, they'll also work for less than a third what American goat judges are paid.

The conglomerate, Amalgamated Goat, Inc., just instituted their new policy at the Missouri State Fair. They Web-cammed the goat judging to Morocco, where the judges evaluated the entries and made their decisions, ripped them into an email with a built-in translator, and bingo.

Two days later, pink slips got mailed to every goat judge east of the Mississippi. The goat judges in the West are running scared too.

We goat judges are already known for our high suicide rate and the many other stress-related syndromes associated with our profession. This will be tough on a lot of tough people.

So now I have to find a whole new line of work. Don't tell me to go to vet school. I've already inquired, and despite my stellar record from Billy Bob Agricultural University (BBAU, home of the Fighting Buzzards), I would have to shell out about $100,000 to get a vet license. Even for farm animals. Imagine!

Readers, this is hard for me. I love goats. I mean, I really love the little cloven-hooved milk-makers. I love watching earnest little farm girls drag stubborn goats around a ring, trembling lest their recalcitrant nanny refuses to move. I love eating all the pies entered in contests. I love watching young rednecks in love ride ferris wheels. I love cotton candy, dart games, honeybee displays, baby chicks hatching in incubators, and prize rabbits.

Goat judging is my life and my livelihood. Worse than that, I've got two kids to feed, and the husband's salary as a wrecking ball operator will only stretch so far.

Anyone have any ideas, work-wise? I've already prayed to the Thunderbirds and offered them a sacrifice. I've also taken my issues to the Celtic deities, especially Queen Brighid the Bright.

There must be some line of work a goat judge can do that'll keep her around dusty barns and polite 4-H youngsters. It's too soon to give up hope.

ANNE, THE UNEMPLOYED MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

PS - The Thunderbird sacrifice did not involve killing any animal, as the sacraments used had already been killed for human consumption. I could have pulled in a road kill, but I drive an economy car and so must be concerned about nasty odors from the trunk.

Morpheus to Rush: Dream On...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," a fanciful sightseeing tour through the known pantheon. Are you a celestial tourist, open-minded and tolerant? Then buckle your seatbelt, put your chair in the upright position, and turn off all electronic devices. We're right on schedule, and the pilot is sober!

Hello, folks. My name is Morpheus, and I am a bored god. Alas, I am so unappreciated these days. The ancient Greeks and Romans worshipped me as the giver of dreams. In statue and artwork form I frequently appeared slumbering amidst a bed of poppies.

You know about poppies, don't you? Look what they did to poor Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz! Poppies are those pretty flowers witches use to put people to sleep. Actually, it's the sap that does the trick. And you don't need a witch to get some, just a dope dealer or a dishonest doctor or a phantom pharmacist.

If you just blunder into poppy use without my guidance, you're gonna wind up floundering in guano. Sorry, but the ancient Greeks knew that, and you so-called moderns don't.

Yes, I, Morpheus, gave opium poppies to humans. The gift came with an instruction booklet that was lost during the Dark Ages and has never surfaced again. Hey, that's not my fault. I got laid off and wasn't allowed even to clean out my desk and take the remaining poppies with me.

You may be wondering why I'm here today. Perhaps to discuss Eminem's chances at kicking sleep aids? Wrong, sorry.

I'm here because I happened to catch about five minutes of Rush Limbaugh on the radio airwaves the other day. It was the first time in about 2,000 years that I was glad I have no control over opiate use among you moderns.

Rush is a good Christian man, which explains his difficulties with opiate derivatives. No guidance from ancient Greek deities to light the way through the OxyContin haze. He's had to rough it on his own, with the sorry assistance of the idiot medical community of your time.

In short, Rush is suffering like a dog every day. His jones will never go away.

Perhaps that's why he's so horrible.

I, Morpheus, could not believe my ears when I heard Rush bad-mouth a grieving mother whose son has been killed in war. He actually called the woman belittling names and berated her for holding an opinion counter to his own.

Not since the Visigoths sacked Rome have I seen such wanton disregard for the suffering of a mother, deprived of her son who was cut down in his prime. The Visigoths liked to make light of the suffering of mothers. Barbaric, that's what it is.

I've had many occasions to regret the loss to humanity of my publication, Morpheus's Guide to the Poppy and Its Pitfalls. But when I heard Rush, a person who has dipped freely into my products, spouting such hate and rage, I had a change of heart.

America, I decided, is a nation of the Visigoths, by the Visigoths, and for the Visigoths. You should rename your country Visigothia.

I'd like to offer one tidbit of solace to the few of you out there who don't belittle suffering moms whether they support a war or oppose it.

Rush will never be free of his opiate cravings. They will haunt him now and forever, and particularly if he gets a painful, wasting illness. He would know that if he'd read Morpheus's Guide to the Poppy and Its Pitfalls, but when was the last time you saw that in the bookstore?

I got pink-slipped in favor of school prayer, and I've watched generations of junkies pray fruitlessly to be free of their joneses. Rush is one of them. He may be clean as a whistle now, but he wants poppy. He'll always want poppy.

Will I ever lift a well-chiseled Greek finger to help him? Dream on.

MORPHEUS, GOD OF DREAMS

A Brief Adieu

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" On behalf of Queen Brighid the Bright, we wish you peace and happiness abundantly!

Make a wand, bathe in a sacred spring, change your paradigm! Walk a mile with this goddess, you may see the world in a whole new light.

Gentle readers, I journey tomorrow to the lovely state of Maryland to judge goats at county fairs. I've asked Queen Brighid to charm this computer so that slackers like Mr. Applegate can't sneak in and post nonsense.

I'll miss you all. And please don't tell Senator Santorum that I'm a working mother. He'll think less of me.

All hail Queen Brighid, Mother Nature! Now here's a Mother who's never worked outside the home. Her home is everywhere.

What she once was, she will be again. Mark your calendar today.

Blessed be,

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Applegate Clears up Another Biblical Conundrum

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you've just stumbled into this blog, check to make sure your shoes are tied properly. We don't want anyone getting hurt!

My name is ... well, it's complicated. If you had to end every document with a moniker like Mephistopheles, you'd be in search of simplicity too. So just call me "Mr. Applegate." Sounds so all-American, like a slice of shoo-fly pie.

In previous posts, I've been trying to explain to you clueless Darwinian evolutionists that you're all wrong. This wonderful world you live in (and I live under) was created by Intelligent Design!

Heck, have you ever tried to put together a piece of furniture from Ikea? Imagine putting together an entire universe! Tab "A" simply has to fit into Slot "B." Otherwise you might get a little glitch, like bubonic plague.

Okay, so you Christians out there are puzzled. There are so many dinosaur fossils! What's the deal with them? God created dinosaurs, right? Then how come we don't have dinosaurs running around today, eating your favorite pet puppy?

It was a simple matter of logistics, my friends.

God (my boss) told Noah to build an Ark and take two of each animal on board to ride out a gigantic flood.

And Noah respectfully, with much genuflection and goat sacrifice, answered back: "Um, Great One, no boat will float with a pair of Tyrannosaurus Rexes, Stegodons, Brachiosaurs, and Hadrosaurs in the hold. And we're just getting started. My son Ham has catalogued more than 2,000 species of dinosaur alone."

No answer from Above.

So Noah thought about it some more. He did another major sacrifice of goats and said, "Well, maybe I could fit the dinos if I left off the insects. But that shouldn't be my decision. I leave it up to you, Great One."

In a thunderous basso profundo, the answer came back: "TAKE THE INSECTS!"

Well! Thank heaven for that! How would the crops be pollinated without bees? And the stunningly beautiful butterflies! Oh, how we would miss them!

Noah didn't question the Wisdom from Above, even though he wondered how he could keep the termites from gnawing a hole in the Ark.

So Noah took all the insects. The malaria mosquitoes. The leeches. The distant ancestor of the hornet that stung you yesterday. Lyme ticks. Ringworms and tapeworms. (These had to be taken internally, if you know what I mean.) Army ants. Well, an army of two at any rate.

Weevils, locusts, Japanese beetles, gypsy moths, wood boring beetles, tse tse flies, dog fleas. There was room on the Ark for all these Intelligently Designed creations.

Alas for poor T. Rex, he was just too big. And so was Mrs. Rex.

On came the flood, drowning all the dinosaurs and leaving them in cunningly crafted rock deposits that appear to be millions and millions and millions of years old, when really they're only about 4,270 years old. Now that's Intelligent Design at its zenith. Because Yahweh wants all you Darwinians to trip up over this stuff, so you wind up with moi.

Gosh, if I keep helping out like this, you won't have to send your kids to science class at all. And think of all the quality time you'll have to spend together if Junior doesn't have to take biology!

Yours in the trenches,

MR. APPLEGATE

PS - Anne left a post today too. I snuck in while she was in the shower.

It Takes a Family to Ruin a Good Vacation

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you're just joining us for the first time, please take a number and have a seat. A god will be with you shortly.

August is vacation time for most people. Not for me. I'm a goat judge. Day after tomorrow I embark on a week-long odyssey through Maryland, where I'll be judging goats at county fairs.

Some people like to vacation in the Great Outdoors (what's left of it), and they use these little backpacking tents for sleeping. Ever spent the night in one? They are the most uncomfortable little devils. Not to mention the claustrophobia factor. And the lack of air conditioning.

George W. Bush is not spending his month-long vacation in one of these tents. He's at his posh ranch, golfing and dining with his closest pals in sumptuous, air conditioned comfort. Today, August 12, I understand he is going to a Republican fund-raising dinner at a neighboring resort called the Broken Spoke Ranch.

The Broken Spoke Ranch. Would I make that up?

Unfortunately, our Fearless Leader has a little problem at the vigilantly-patrolled perimeter of his vacation property.

A group of mothers who lost their children in the Iraqi War have set up a tent camp to try to wring from Fearless Leader his faultless rationale for sending their offspring to war in a desert far, far away. Remember, a good number of these strapping youngsters thought they'd be doing National Guard duty. And if you're as old as I am, you've been through a few hurricanes, a few floods on the Mississippi, a few riots. Occasions when the National Guard had to ... well ... guard the nation.

Anyway, who could possibly imagine that a bunch of godless, liberal working mothers who should be in the Caymans closing corporate deals over rum drinks would actually mourn the loss of their children enough to tent camp in the Texas heat? Do these cynical, liberal feminist mothers love their children that much?

Note to Dubya and his crony Rick Santorum: Moms love their kids.

Moms hate burying their children more than anything in the world.

If a mom has to bury her healthy, vibrant youngster, she usually wants the satisfaction of knowing one of two things:

1. That her youngster died in pursuit of a noble cause.

2. That the person who killed her youngster will receive the swift hand of judgment.

It's the first of the two items above that has mothers like Cindy Sheehan tent-bound in the Texas heat. Like so many of us, Mom Sheehan is trying to figure out how this nation went from looking for one guy, Osama Bin Laden, to mounting a full-fledged military invasion of a country that had no ties to Bin Laden and posed no threat to our national security.

And as of this post, Osama Bin Laden's still holding fund raising dinners of his own.

Our Fearless Leader gave a little impromptu press conference yesterday, after judging that all but his most rabid Far Right supporters would be appalled to see grieving moms tent camping in the hot Texas dust.

F.L. did not meet with the moms. That would be a sign of weakness. Remember, Herbert Hoover (another great Republican) never visited any tent cities either.

F.L. did say, however, that we have to press on with this bidness in Iraq, because "the enemy" has to be subdued.

Seems to me like we have more enemies in Iraq than we did a year ago. What are they doing, cloning each other? Or perhaps the citizens of Iraq are just getting tired of an occupation that has reduced towns to rubble, killed and injured civilians (including children - oh, there's that Mom thing again).

The Goddess Brighid the Bright salutes brave mothers like Cindy Sheehan who dare to question the decisions of the power elite. And in this at least, Mom Sheehan can derive a bit of satisfaction.

We know who killed young Casey Sheehan. It was the Commander and Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States, who ordered Pvt. Sheehan into a costly, unprovoked, and unproductive military engagement. So at least we have the perp.

I doubt if even Yahweh will protect his dewey-eyed Texas follower on that Great Day of Judgment. "Stupid mistake" will not be an adequate defense.

Judging the goats of government, I remain,

ANNE

Cynical? Moi?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Send us your gods, they won't be ignored!

Gentle reader, do I come across as cynical to you? Do I seem to have a bad attitude about my job prospects, my government, my inability to end the week with a surplus in the checking account?

All of the above might make some people cynical. But that's not why I'm cynical.

According to Rick Santorum, the (junior) senator from Pennsylvania, I'm cynical because I'm a working mother who disagrees with his new book, It Takes a Family.

Apparently, anyone who has objections to the junior senator's book is cynical.

Gosh, I guess that makes me Ebenezer Scrooge.

ANNE ISSUES SOME BAH, HUMBUGS!

1. Sending copious numbers of National Guardsmen and Army Reservists to the sands of Iraq, thereby depleting the numbers who would respond to an emergency in our country, such as those presented by big hurricanes and planes flying into skyscrapers.

BAH, HUMBUG!

2. Sending copious numbers of National Guardsmen and Army Reservists into battle abroad, scaring off possible recruits who would protect this nation in the future against emergencies such as big hurricanes and planes flying into skyscrapers.

BAH, HUMBUG!

3. Allowing the rulers of multinational corporations to become explosively, excessively rich while destroying labor unions and shipping manufacturing jobs to Third World countries.

BAH, HUMBUG!

4. Damaging the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in search of oil, a resource that will absolutely run out anyway within 100 years.

BAH, HUMBUG!

5. Cutting timber in national forests to build new homes, more homes than there are people in need of shelter.

BAH, HUMBUG!

6. Expensive commercials for medicine that costs so much that ordinary citizens can't afford to buy it.

BAH, HUMBUG!

7. Demanding that women with children get off welfare and go into the workforce, and then saying that all children should have a stay-at-home mother.

BAH, HUMBUG!

8. Bringing democracy to Islamic Middle Eastern nations while curtailing rights to privacy at home.

BAH, HUMBUG!

9. Fighting a War against Terrorism abroad instead of beefing up border security and taking closer scrutiny of those wishing to emigrate.

BAH, HUMBUG!

10. Teaching "scientific evidence" that is in truth unprovable, because it is based on religious views.

BAH, HUMBUG!

ANNE'S BIGGEST HUMBUG IS RESERVED FOR........

The notion that Americans will voluntarily help the poor, support medical research, police themselves routinely, and think beyond their personal desires toward a concept of wider community.

There you have it, Senator Rick. I am a cynic as charged. I think I'll go bite the head off a live chicken and stalk menacingly up and down Main Street, grimacing at the little kids who pass me by.

WITH GNASHING OF TEETH AND BARELY SUPPRESSED GROWLS

ANNE

THE CYNIC OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Save My Mountains!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Here's an urgent request for my legions of readers out there!

A developer wants to build 4,000 homes in a mountainous county that would become the ultimate ex-urb for Baltimore and Washington, DC. The land where these houses would go is now forest, sparsely populated by genuine hillbillies and lots and lots of wildlife.

If you read this, will you please send this link along to all your friends, no matter where they live, and ask them to oppose the "Terrapin Run" development?

Can't we leave a few mountains alone?

Here's the link. What you need to do is participate in the poll (watch the crafty wording), and OPPOSE the "Terrapin Run" development.

I like the name of the development, because it sure will send the terrapins running. In that at least it's accurate.

http://www.times-news.com

ANNE
THE (WEEPING) MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Message from a Bored God

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we remember gods and goddesses who've been let go in revised head counts.

This is the goddess Sedna. She is sacred to the Inuit people. As you can imagine, she has few concerns these days beyond the health of the Arctic.

Sedna tells us that she has a temper, and that she will not take lightly the continued melting of her homeland due to global warming. She will also be alarmingly miffed if a bunch of beer-swilling contractors arrive to punch holes in her permafrost, in search of black gold (a.k.a. Texas tea).

Politicians, take note. It's one thing to tick off a bunch of environmentalists who wear hemp clothing and drink organic green tea. It's quite another to get on the bad side of a bored god. Your next ski trip may turn into a ... well ... a trip.

This blog will be traveling to Washington, DC on September 20, 2005 to participate in a march on behalf of the Arctic Wildlife Refuge. I don't even ski, but I know a powerful goddess when I see one, and if she's bored and restive, I wouldn't cross her for all the oil under the entire Great Arctic North.

Don't say you weren't warned!

ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Bored Gods on the Arctic Wildlife Refuge

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Who wants to dig up oil in the Arctic, pipe it to Biff so he can run his SUV back and forth from his ex-urb to his job?

On behalf of the bored gods, I remind everyone that Lebanon was once a forest and is now a desert. Don't believe me? Read the Bible.

A vote for windmills is a vote for polar bears. Oil is a non-renewable resource.

THE ABOVE STATEMENT PHRASED SO DUBYA CAN UNDERSTAND IT:

Oil will run out.

Wind will never run out.

America has much wind.

Use wind to make power.

Tell your friends they are rich enough.

Failure to heed this messsage from the bored gods will inflict further bad karma on Amerika.

Heed the bored gods!

"They create a desert and call it progress."

And that comes straight from the druids.

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Dukes of Hazardous

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" You might not love our gods, but we love yours!

I thought this was a good day to re-acquaint my legion of readers with the good old picture of home, drawn by my uncle Foggy. Foggy Johnson is his real name. That's him on the right. He's an independent contractor specializing in micro-brewery.

I loaded up this picture again in honor of the theatrical opening of "The Dukes of Hazzard," another shameless Hollywood attempt to wring humor from hillbillies. Sorry, Hollywood, you'll never get it right. Hillbilly humor is entirely insider's jokes. And they are funny. But you got to be a hillbilly to get them. The rest of the people out there are clueless.

Hillbilly humor is based in the moment. It's usually a one-liner in observation of someone doing something. Like, a hillbilly will see a tourist bellying up to a bear for a photo opportunity, and the hillbilly will turn to his companions and say, "There's someone with a first-rate health plan."

Hillbilly humor often turns put-downs on their heads. Uncle Foggy got his name because someone was teasing him. The person said Uncle Foggy was so tall it must always be foggy around his head. Instead of being insulted, Uncle Foggy just adopted the name. I am truly serious when I say you can mail him a letter that says "Foggy Johnson" and his zip code, and he'll get it.

You know what the funniest insider joke is in Appalachia? That we're smarter than the rest of y'all. Look at where we live. And look at where you live. I rest my case.

As for "The Dukes of Hazardous," well, the t.v. show stank, and it wrecked a whole lot of good, useful cars. I'll bet the movie does the same. Jessica Simpson a hillbilly? Get real. You take one look at that girl, you see a mama and two grandmas can't cook worth a damn.

And speaking of cooking, I've got a bushel of home-grown tomatoes downstairs that need to be canned. Like certain movies.

Drop by and set awhile.
Listen to the whipporwill.
Feel that sunset breeze.
Yep, I would like another piece of blueberry pie. Thank you.
"Dukes of Hazzard?" Haven't seen it.

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Mr. Applegate on Intelligent Design

Welcome, welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I promised my faithful readers a picture of what I really look like. Here's Norman Rockwell's pencil sketch. Thank you, Norman. Now get along with you, back to that dark room where demons gore you with pitchforks all day!

Just kidding. My name may be Satan, Azrael, Lucifer (forgot that one last time), Beelzebub, the Devil, Mr. Scratch, or Mephistopheles (what a mouthful!), but I'm really a softy at heart.

As Mr. Mark Twain noted, what do you know about me anyway? All you have to go on is the evidence for the prosecution.

So nice of Anne to go for a rest cure and leave her computer unguarded, so I can educate you fine people on the ins and outs of being The Great Satan.

First, as you recall, I prefer the name "Mr. Applegate." It's user-friendly, easy to spell, and catchy.

Some of you might be wondering how I survived that recent Performance Evaluation (July posts). Good news! We had the Lake of Fire going full force, and I didn't even break a sweat.

The Big Guy, my boss, sent the Archangel Gabriel to evaluate me. And if Gabe's pinpoint pupils hadn't given him away, the fact that he spent 4 hours in private, earnest conversation with William S. Burroughs sure did the trick.

A quick memo to the boss, a random drug test at the home office, and Applegate is off the hook. I even got a pay raise and an official commendation!

But today I want to talk about a subject that's burning holes in newspapers and keeping radio commentators blabbing all across America.

The topic is: INTELLIGENT DESIGN

And it's bad news for all you Darwinians. There is indeed an Intelligent Designer of the universe. I've never met him, but I've heard of him.

His name, as close as I can get to an English translation, is Thing #1.

Thing #1 is headmaster of the Great Intergalactic God Academy (GIGA). Needless to say, he's an outstanding scholar, the admiration of the entire universe. He has presided over the training and accreditation of all the best gods. Let me just tell you, I absolutely yearn for GIGA accreditation. It's a permanent ambition.

Thing #1 designed the universe. Actually he's designed several of them, but he's still working on the entropy glitch. He really though he had it beat this time, but alas, the center does not seem to be holding. And you know what that means. Things will fall apart.

None of this affects Thing #1's standing in the god community, because it takes a mighty keen mind to design a universe. If you compare the human mind to Thing #1's mind, it's like the difference between a crumb that flicks off a hamburger bun vs. all the hamburgers ever sold by McDonald's. Including Super Sizes.

I know, I know. This is deeply disappointing to all the geologists, paleontologists, anthropologists, biologists, zoologists, entymologists, and even dentists out there. (A lot of dentists follow human evolution in their spare time.)

Also, I wish I could offer you hope, Human Race, that your place in the Intelligent Design is secure and progressive. Unfortunately, I hear from the goddess Brighid the Bright that her many letters to GIGA have failed to bring any meaningful change to the basic momentum of this planet. I know for a fact that she's sent three stridently-worded telegrams on the peril posed by the accumulating magma under Yellowstone National Park.

It's frustrating, because she's sent twice as many communiques on the subject of Sumatra and the plate tectonics in that region. And didn't we go and have a tsunami there less than a year ago?

Well, folks, the staff at GIGA are just busy. That's why Intelligent Design doesn't seem very intelligent when you belly up to it and get personal.

If a GIGA-accredited professor ever does review our case here on earth, he or she is likely to deem the human race Insufficiently Evolved for Major Planetary Adjustment. Yellowstone will blow, and if there are people still left, they'll have to cram on those faulty Space Shuttles and high-tail it for Mars.

I hope this clears up any doubt about the existence of Intelligent Design in the mechanics of the universe.

If I can be of any further assistance on this or any other matter, drop me a line care of this site. Please. PLEASE don't slaughter baby animals in pentagrams or conduct any of those idiotic Black Sabbaths. They're inspired by the Evidence for the Prosecution. Not by sweet lil' old me.

SEE YA WHEN I SEE YA,
Mr. Applegate

It Takes a (Santorum) Family

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We've got a god for your every need. If you don't see the god you want, just ask! We have more in the store-room. And just remember - new stuff just isn't made like older models, so if you're looking for a vintage god, you're making a wise choice.

The clock has turned to August, and all we self-centered liberal feminist mothers know what that means. The tots are getting restive, the nannies are going back to college, and we self-centered liberal feminist moms just want to close big corporate deals and jet off to a conference in Aruba, where we drink rum punch and have extramarital affairs.

But we can't. The kids are at home, instead of in the godless, liberal public school getting a sub-standard education, heavy on the anti-Christian brainwashing.

Quick, Senator Sanatorium: What do you get when you take a 96 degree day, add humidity, disruptive home improvements, and two young teens stuck in each other's company with nothing to do?

Oh my, of course! You put them to their home-schooling, get them up to speed on their Theory of Intelligent Design! You lead them lovingly into the kitchen and guide them as they bake cookies from scratch! You get out the button box and let them string together a necklace!

Wow. That senator and his wife must be buying the stairway to heaven.

Do I have to be a godless communist feminist bra-burning kitten-killer to not want to spend every waking moment with my children? Because I do love them, but just lately they are making me want to play "Runaway Bride."

I guess Mrs. Sanatorium never has this problem. She has six children and home-schools them all with expensive cyber-programs from the Great State of Pennsylvania. (The Sanatoriums live in Virginia.) I'll bet every last little Sanatorium Jr. is two grade levels ahead academically, emotionally sound, Biblically disciplined, and well prepared for Dad's run for president.

My kids, conversely, are impatient, emotionally unpredictable, nearly nocturnal, completely convinced that I am an idiot, and embarrassed to be in the same county as me.

Wow. Sounds like a normal pair of siblings. Did I mention that they try to outdo each other in full-contact warfare?

Why does it make me an evil, liberal, feminist, godless, kitten-killer if I don't want to be around these two hormonal teens? Do I have to feel guilty if I'd rather curl up with a book for an hour than drive the teens to the mall and walk around looking at all the extravagant corporate products, fabricated by foreign labor, lavishly laid out to maximize cravings?

I tell you what, Senator Sanatorium. I'm not Mama Walton. I think women should work to support at least themselves. And I'm not some brood mare, either. Six children is an absurd drain on the earth's precious resources! Bad enough to produce an Heir and a Spare.

Maybe all this family togetherness works for the senator. But one wonders. Having spent some time in Washington, DC in August, my mind boggles at the thought of six little Sanatoriums cooped up in the fancy suburban home. But perhaps they're on the road with Dad, pushing the good ol' bestseller and lining up support for next year's campaign. One happy family in a series of hotel rooms in such sunny locales as Johnstown, Altoona, Bethlehem, Montrose, Uniontown, Breezewood, and Chambersburg.

They'd never go to Intercourse, of course. Nothing about that place in the home-schooling curriculum.

I'm not going to turn my awesome site here into a daily gripe about child-rearing. But in August it's hard to concentrate on fun stuff like United Nations appointments and Roman Catholic Supreme Court nominees.

For sure we'll be back into that stuff when good ol' September rolls around, and the godless sub-standard public school reopens.

In the meantime, pass the Valium.

ANNE
U.S. CHAMPION IDIOT MOTHER
RUNNER-UP, MOST EMBARRASSING MOTHER OF THE YEAR
(Got beaten by Angelina Jolie.)

Words Words Words

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where as you can see our taste in gods is absolutely impeccable.

Please do not use this image for your personal financial gain. The artist will not be happy, and the god will be affronted and blast you with bad karma.

We have here a picture, and quite a fetching one at that, of a god that every little girl in America has heard of. But before we reveal her name, we have to look at the whole concept of names.

Are you old enough to remember a time when African Americans were referred to as "colored people?" I'm that old, and to boot I grew up in Appalachia.

Today it would be insulting to call African Americans "colored people." But they don't mind being called "people of color."

The difference lies in how elegant the latter sounds. "Colored people" sounds like some kind of alien race with chartreuse skin and three or four eyeballs. Whereas "people of color" accents the "people" part of the equation, and you get the picture that you're not dealing with Martians.

Here's another switcheroo: Mother of God vs. Godmother.

What's the difference?

A Catholic would tell you that the Mother of God is the B.V.M. (Blessed Virgin Mary), and a Godmother is someone who stands up and pledges to help care for a baby.

Pretty clear. Cut and dry. Not all confusing like that "colored people" business.

But wait a minute. The gorgeous god depicted above is the Fairy Godmother. Adding that word "fairy" puts a whole celestial spin on Godmother. All of a sudden it's not your sister or best friend standing up to protect your delicate infant, it's a goddess. With an accent on the "fairy" part.

The Fairy Godmother is a bored god. She's not as bored as Zeus or Thor, because she's so prominently featured in fairy tales. However, she does wish that more people would recognize her as she really looks (see above) and not as some doddering old lady created by Walt Disney.

If you're in a tight spot, and you need a Fairy Godmother, this gorgeous goddess will come to your aid. Just remember that old adage: Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

I didn't wish for the Fairy Godmother. I think she wished for me. First, as part of the spouse's Great Summer Renovation Phase III, I painted the bedroom walls a lovely shade of lavender. And then - what are the odds - in a "quality time" moment I took my daughters, the Heir and the Spare, on a shopping trip, and a merchant actually sized me up and went into a storeroom for a print of the above picture! Seriously, you cannot imagine how good it looks against the lavendar background.

Mother of God, God Mother, I don't care what you call her. She is awesome and worthy of reverence. You can attach Jesus if you want to, she doesn't care. She's a universal mother, even of mystical creatures who are hiding in her wake, keeping free of Man the Destroyer.

All hail the Fairy Godmother!

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Anne Reviews "Harry Potter and the Medical Marijuana"

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Surely you've seen this hefty volume for sale at the local Barnes & Noble. And I was just kidding in the blog title about the medical marijuana. The real title is ... okay, you can read it right here!

Today this book was reviewed in the New York Times, a classic liberal rant sheet with big words. As with most book reviews in the New York Times, you can't tell if the reviewer liked it or didn't, although it appears she managed to push through to the end.

I, too, finished "Harry and the Half-Blood" over the weekend. And I think it should be banned by all druids everywhere. To think that the only duty of fairies in this enchanted world is to provide light at a Christmas party! I am seriously offended. This author lives in Scotland, for crying out loud. She probably has fairies hiding in her writing desk, wringing their hands and wondering what she's really all about.

But it just goes to show you how hidden the World of Sidhe is from modern humans, at least until they get ready to bounce over there permanently. Oh yeah, and for those who dabble in hallucinogenic substances. (I don't.)

After six volumes, it is crystal clear to me that J. K. Rowling doesn't dabble in hallucinogenic substances, and that she's only out to write a ripping yarn for the kiddies, based closely on English private schools and the British temperament in general.

It is interesting to note, however, that in six volumes the subject of attending Chapel has not come up once, nor has any mention of a wizarding religion. Death seems to be of the existentialist sort, with no afterlife to speak of. I counted two offhanded mentions of churches in the 652 pages, and my memory is not clear enough to recall whether those churches were in their world or ours.

I'm not going to ruin the plot for my legions of fans who don't read as fast as I do. (Okay, ta da! Harry lives.) I'm just here to tell you the one place where the author gets it absolutely right. And that has nothing to do with wizards or witches or magic or magical creatures. On those subjects her expertise is dim at best.

She does know professors, though.

I attended college, and I can tell you that every professor I had either hinted or outright declared that he (note non-inclusive language) knew all kinds of great things that were too advanced for us entry-level goat students.

Just recently I was foolhardy enough to sign up for an adult education course, and the professor who taught that was even more smug than most. He just looked down his patrician nose at us and from the first sentence declared us incapable of reaching his lofty career achievements, no matter how hard we tried. The course title in the catalogue was "Advanced Flea Detection," but the professor quickly (after receiving our tuition) advised us that it would really be "Advancing Flea Detection," since we adult students were not fully prepared for true, in-depth, no-holds-barred, super-specific flea detection.

I could have used that $225.00 tuition payment to buy something useful, like a second-hand Hatteras hammock or awnings for the double-wide.

But I digress. Let's take a close look at two notable Hogwarts professors and the student that everyone, down to the lowliest elf, knows is The Chosen One.

Well, there's Dumbledore. I've wanted to shout at him from Page 1, Volume 1. Clearly he's privvy to all sorts of secrets, all sorts of advanced magic, all sorts of mystical languages and high-level meetings. But he chooses to put The Chosen One on the slow track, doling out information at a rate that even our sitting president would find less than taxing.

Excuse me, DUMBledore, you're working with The Chosen One here. Don't you think you should be teaching him more, faster, better? Your average Native American shaman would be mortified at the pace you set. I mean, by damn. The boy's almost seventeen, and you have whole languages you use that you haven't even taught him!

Then again, we all know that Harry will eventually go up against He Who Cannot Be Named. Another student taught by Dumbledore. Who probably has similar gaps in his education.

Moving on to another professor. Now let's talk about Snape.

Okay, Snape's my favorite, because my college, Billy Bob Agricultural University (BBAU) was absolutely packed to the rafters with teachers just like him. So arrogant. So insecure. So jealous. So quick to pick you apart when you do something wrong, so slow to reward you when you do something right. So afraid you're going to excel and wind up stealing his job. (Well, maybe that doesn't describe Snape, but it does cover most every professor in America who doesn't have tenure.)

I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit this. I think Alan Rickman is hot stuff, and he plays Snape in all the "Harry Potter" movies. Therefore I love a Snape-filled volume, and Vol. 6 is bound to set me panting when it gets into celluloid.

This is a long blog, but bear with me. Have you ever been a student? Have you ever been frustrated by overbearing, pompous, secretive, less-than-illuminating professors? You have? Then imagine being Harry Potter and knowing that your sweet little life depends on killing a powerful enemy, based on what these losers are teaching you!

Ms. Rowling, why has your hero never stated, with firm conviction: "You Hogwarts blokes aren't educating me fast enough. Call in Professor Leary, and let's get to the bottom of this Voldemort nonsense!"

I guess then Ms. Rowling wouldn't have seven bestsellers. Or the castle in Scotland. Or the peerage. Or be richer than her queen.

But if I was Harry Potter, I'd have rebelled long before this. I'd have taken the fairies out of the light fixture and said, "Hey, help me out here." And they would have taken the whole business to the right people for the job at hand.

But who am I to talk about fiction? I'm a goat judge, not a writer.

If I could be a writer, I'd write an epic adventure about real alchemists and real warriors, set in, oh ... say ... Europe of 1300. They would be dabbling with potions that are highly illegal today, experimenting with gunpowder (secretly imported from faraway China) and fighting for their lives against the dual powers of the Catholic Church and the king of France.

And the hero would not be a clueless bloke named Harry Potter, but an awesome advocate for freedom named Pierre de Bologna.

Um, did I mention that I'm a redneck goat judge? Just want that to be here at the end of this meandering book report.

RECAPPING BOOK REPORT SO GEORGE BUSH DOESN'T HAVE TO READ VOL. 6 HARRY POTTER:

Harry is a boy.

See Harry run from bad men.

Good men help Harry.

A girl is smart.

Harry lives.

MAY THE FAIRIES BE INCLINED IN YOUR FAVOR,
Anne, humble goat judge
Slightly bitter about her education and job prospects

Dr. Annie's Guide to Practical Parenting

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" You've found the awesome web site that asks you to pick a god, any god - hide it in the deck - shuffle thoroughly - is this your god? Great choice!

Check the date and time of this blog. I'll help you. It's about 8:15, Eastern Daylight Time on a Friday night. On this day and hour thoughts turn to Bacchus, god of distilled spirits.

In short, pass the twist. Shake, don't stir. Here's mud in your eye. It's Happy Hour!

But wait! I'm the Mother of My Children! The precious tykes, Heir and Spare, might need some home-schooling or a Bible verse or two. Ah, hmmm. My, this is a nice martini. So very dry....

Time to call for a good nanny? Yeah, right. I've been married almost 21 years. I'm not idiot enough to let some babe come in here and coo over my teenagers. Look at Jude Law, for crying out loud.

Do you ever find yourself in this quandary? Well, here's a great solution to all your parenting problems.

It's called a television.

Right now, my offspring, the Heir and the Spare, are curled up together (as opposed to their usual predilection to maim one another), watching a brand new episode of some show called "Degrassi."

What is "Degrassi" about? I don't have a clue. They won't let me in the room while it's running. I therefore assume it's not Billy Graham or "Hour of Power."

But hey. The frost is beading on the martini pitcher, and I'm not some mother 100 years ago, doling out opium (technically, Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup).

So, with all due apologies to Dr. Laura and that junior (league) senator from Pennsylvania, I offer the following sensible parenting advice:

You gave them life, let them run with it.

Another martini? Yes, thank you very much.

(AUDIBLE GASPS FROM THE FOCUS ON THE FAMILY CROWD)

Aw, you bunch of over-zealous lion tamers, stuff it! Don't come to me and say kids grow up warped if they don't have effective parenting. I know what I'm talking about. My mom had bipolar disorder before there was any medicine for it. She was nuttier than a Sunday danish, worse than an ineffective parent because she was a menace to family and society.

And just look at me. I'm gainfully employed (most of the time), no arrest record, long-lasting marriage (see above), and my children have beaten the Medieval curve for longevity.

If I survived Psycho Mom, I think my kids have half a chance of surviving "Degrassi" and attending public school while I work.

All hail Lord Bacchus, pass another round. Personally I'd rather have a spliff, but they're illegal. And I'm bullish on my clean arrest record, it's a matter of personal pride. Aren't many rednecks of my age don't even have one little DUI.

A TOAST ... to Eddie.
No, I mean, a toast to Dr. Laura and Senator Rick. A toast to salacious television. A toast to a bright future of home-schooled Christians running everything!

Ummmm. Is there any more gin in that bottle?

ANNE
DOING A BETTER JOB THAN HER MOM
(BUT THEN SO WOULD A CHIMP)

Mission Statement

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"

We hold these truths to be self-evident.

Just as the human race is varied, so is the grand, vast world of deities, sprites, celestial beings, and non-human doers of dastardly deeds.

The afterlife is like Florida. Some folks drive down crowded I-95 and head for Disney World. They're welcome to it. Others meander down the byways and wind up on Sanibel Island or in the Everglades. Hail, Osceola! Others choose Miami Beach. Key West. Naples. Sarasota. An unnamed orange grove. A mangrove swamp with ghost orchids. Tallahassee. (Is that in Florida, and did we spell it right?)

It is fundamentally wrong to feel that one's religion is the only true religion, and to espouse that view in any forum, public or private.

It is fundamentally wrong to craft public policy or to create a temporal state based on any religious dogma or set of religiously-motivated laws.

It is incumbent upon all people, religious and non-religious, to harm no one and to keep the furniture clean.

It is unwise to disrespect ancient deities of any culture. Some day your deity might be equally disrespected or relegated to the realm of "myth."

Some deities re-invent themselves in order to remain active during times of dogma and persecution:

"It's not nice to fool Mother Nature."
"Clap if you believe in fairies."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Some religions resist even the most aggressive attempts to undermine them. Ayahuasca, anyone?

Some gods are bored because they have no followers. If you pray to these gods, they will answer you quickly because they have so little to do.

Join us at "The Gods Are Bored!" Disney World is wonderful, but it's not for every taste.

PEACE,
Anne Johnson
Really! My name is Anne Johnson. Some people call me A.J.

Labor Pains

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" You've found a righteous web site run by a Blue Redneck, dedicated to the proposition that religion should be like the food table at a family reunion and politics ought to be conducted with some degree of intellectual competence.

Today's topic: Better dead than Red.

Nowhere has the Red Right had more success than in undermining organized labor. Puppet shills of the corporate elite like Bill (he-man) O'Reilly, Rush (the junkie) Limbaugh, and Sean (the taxi driver) Hannity have harkened to the signers of their paychecks and demeaned unions as the stomping grounds of mafia goons and lazy slackers who want checks and benefits for drinking coffee and eating donuts.

The Three Stooges mentioned above would be very happy to see a return to the Triangle Shirt Factory days, when a 14-hour shift earned enough to live in a fifth-floor walkup tenement with no heat or water. That would actually be good for America, because then we wouldn't have to send the jobs overseas to Sri Lanka or Guatemala. And by golly, the "work harder for less" philosophy is a winner for Wal-Mart, now isn't it?

Don't you just love those Wal-Mart commercials where they crow about what a wonderful place it is to work? It isn't even a wonderful place to shop, let alone work! Everything you buy there, you feel like you're putting money into some fat cat's pockets at the expense of every worker on the globe.

I don't shop there, by the way.

But back to my point. Unions exist to give ordinary working people a chance to earn respectable wages and realistic benefits so they can live comfortably. Not lavishly. Not lazily. Comfortably. People would like to feel, when they get out of bed in the morning and put on the working clothes, that their jobs are secure, that they'll be paid enough to live on, and that they'll be cared for when they're sick.

Unions have taken it on the chin over the past twenty years (thanks, Rush). Membership is declining. Clout is at an all-time low. It's time for a change, and if the venerable AFL-CIO can't change, then we need some new thinkers in charge.

Therefore, we here at "The Gods Are Bored" endorse the recent split in organized labor, and we are rooting for the mavericks who see membership recruitment as the most important goal. Yes indeedy, there are jobs that cannot leave the ol' US of A, and those workers deserve union protection!

Here's a cute little slogan from a t-shirt I bought at a thrift store.

United We Bargain
Divided We Beg

How do your employment prospects look?

Sign that union card.

ANNE, FREELANCER WHO BEGS

A Bipolar Confronts Her Computer

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I suppose the gods are also computer illiterate (excluding Satan, of course ... see below). Pray as I might to the Ancient Ones to keep my computer equipment humming along like a pleasant little beehive, the @#$S#@$# equipment just will not cooperate.

So let us just do the sane thing and attribute Anne's recent scarcity of blogs to "technical difficulties" and "goat judging duties."

Otherwise we might see a vast cosmic conspiracy to keep the real truth about the wonderful Goddess Brighid the Bright from reaching all the poor searching souls out there who want a religion that makes a tiny bit of sense.

The public libraries in this great nation only give you 30 minutes of computer time if someone else is waiting. You wouldn't think 15 people would be waiting to use the computer in the Alpena, Michigan public library, but guess what? There you are.

I'm trying not to see 30 pairs of eyes staring at me, all fundamentalist, Rick Santorum lovers who want bombs, not bambis.

Please keep checking on me. I can't go too long without a computer, so sooner or later I'll pull out the old checkbook and call the guy with glasses who smells like Marlboros and get him to sort out which god is sabotaging my internet. The smart money says Yahweh.

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Applegate's Performance Evaluation

OFFICIAL PERFORMANCE EVALUATION, KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
YEAR OF OUR LORD 2005

Evaluation Conductor: Archangel Gabriel
Job Title: Head Angel, Kingdom of Heaven

Subject of Evaluation: Archangel Azrael
Job Title: Head Angel, Hell

1. Does the subject show a willingness to obey orders, even when they do not reconcile with his/her personal convictions?

I am frankly suspicious of Azrael's allegiances, although he seems sufficiently humble and is certainly attending to his duties. While I see no indication that orders are being disobeyed, I rather think they are being obeyed grudgingly, minimally, and with little enthusiasm or team spirit.

2. Does the subject present a proper personal appearance?

Again, there was something just slightly lacking in Azrael's wardrobe. He appeared to be hastily adorned, and when asked to demonstrate how his wings worked, he seemed awkward with them. Please note that his appearance is entirely altered from his last P.A., during which he wore a costume that looked like it had been used in a Wagner opera. His appearance during this evaluation was an improvement over the last visit, but distinctly non-traditional and - should I say it - veering toward the counter-cultural.

3. Evaluate the subject's treatment of the worst offenders sent to him/her.

Sufficient.

4. Evaluate the subject's treatment of good Christians who happened to worship with the wrong sect.

Sufficient. Evaluator notes a great deal of bitterness in this segment of Hell's population. Azrael deems this bitterness a part of the punishment and tends to deal less harshly with the various elements of this population. Suggest further monitoring of punishment levels with an eye toward greater torture. Azrael agrees to any amendments so long as they come through official channels.

5. Evaluate the subject's treatment of non-Christians and those who died prior to the arrival of Jesus Christ on earth.

Insufficient. Azrael is not nearly harsh enough on these populations. Placing Buddhists in huge traffic jams from which they cannot escape is not, in this evaluator's opinion, torture at all. The giant insects that are supposed to be used on some of these populations are instead sleeping in nests that look as if they haven't been disturbed since the last evaluation. Strongly recommend more close monitoring of torture of non-Christian populations in Hell.

6. Is the subject fully cognizant of the corporate strategies, long term planning issues, and market goals, as they pertain to his/her division?

Questioned at length on this subject, Azrael seemed to be completely versed in the corporate philosophies. However, his comfort level vis a vis heaquarters' policies is questionable at best, and verging on mutiny at worst. Recommend further questioning at the home office, possibly including indoctrination seminars. A random sampling of individuals under Azrael's control reveals a thinly veiled affection rather than the requisite contempt, fear and loathing.

7. If it were up to you, would you give this subject a raise in salary and benefits?

At this time, I feel more questioning is needed to discern Azrael's level of devotion to the team.

8. Are the personnel under the subject's supervision performing their tasks suitably?

It appears that Azrael has no underlings and runs Hell all by himself. This too raises suspicions for me, as the division is so large, and growing larger every day - impossible for anyone, even an archangel, to manage without a flow chart. Recommend further examination of policies and procedures.

9. Any further comments or observations on the subject, his/her performance, attitude, ability, or suitability for promotion?

Very frankly, if I may - Azrael seems to be "going through the motions" without any real enthusiasm or conviction regarding his work. If his credentials were less impeccable (meaning his prior professional experience), I would probably recommend relocation and a demotion. At the very least, he needs more oversight and less autonomy, as he seems to be abusing that autonomy (see above re giant insects).

I would be remiss, however, if I did not add that Azrael expresses genuine affection and allegiance to certain members of the corporate team. He seemed deeply disappointed that the Holy Spirit did not conduct this evaluation and asked repeatedly about His health and happiness.

In sum, if I may speak bluntly, I think we ought to keep a closer eye on Azrael, especially in these days of computers. I don't think he is doing enough to corrupt the unconverted, and he is certainly not torturing the pre-Christian and non-Christian population adequately.

Respectfully submitted,
Archangel Gabriel
20 July 2005

A Really Quick Quiz

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"

Quiz: Who is this fine fellow?

Don't have the foggiest? I understand.

This is the Green Man. He is a bored god. He has to fly under the radar to get noticed at all. The Yahweh people tried to pink slip him, failed. They tried to call him Satan. Sorry, that post is full. (And what a whiner filled it, too!) Then they tried attrition. Just don't talk about him, and he'll go away. Sort of like the way you treat the ugly kid with braces in Middle School.

Ahem. The Green Man didn't go away. He's still creeping around, pushing up like a weed through a crack in the asphalt. His message? Don't dominate the earth, live as a team player!

Today a big crew of cement masons are out in front of my house, pouring a new sidewalk. The foreman is a good-looking young man, no older than 21. He was walking around shirtless (mmmmm MMMMMMM!), and lo and behold, he has a huge Green Man tattoo on his flat, well-muscled abs.

I said to him, "Do you know what that is?"

And he said, "Naah. I just liked the design."

Hey, Yahweh people: Hear that? This is how bored gods fly under the radar!

So I took off one of my Green Man earrings (wear them almost every day), showed it to the beardless youth, and explained his personal adornment. I then predicted that said youth would have a long and happy life, because he was sporting the right god in his tattoo.

This story would have a really happy ending if the dude had thrown down his trowel and said, "I'm not laying one more inch of cement on this poor, overworked planet." But that would be too good to be true, and not a great state of affairs for all the people who walk by my house. Suffice it to say that I did a little missionary work today that clearly qualifies as the sin Mr. Applegate asked for in his previous post.

I hope this helps the devil get a good performance evaluation.

You go, Green Man!

ANNE, THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Applegate Clears up a Tiny Issue

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" When last I could locate Anne, she was sitting in the warm spillway at Berkeley Springs, West Virginia with a grin so goofy her children didn't want to be seen with her. Majorly embarrassing for the old teenagers, to have Mom babbling about fairies and sacred springs and stuff to anyone passing by. And then, when the teens were just about to go to the courthouse and get their surnames changed, along came a fiddle player, and next thing they knew, Mom was clogging in the water, barefoot, to "Sally Goodin." Even the crayfish ran for cover.

In my last post, I was asking all you sinners out there to help me get together a good outfit for a performance evaluation by the boss. If you missed the costume I chose, scroll down to the previous entry. The boss will be here day after tomorrow, and we've got everything spit-shined to the max. We've stoked up the Lake of Fire (usually I only turn it on in the winter months), heated the brimstone to a cheery crimson, and recruited twenty generations of bitter Methodists to leap in and burn, burn, burn when the time is right.

If you're just joining us, I'm pleased to meet you. Call me "Mr. Applegate." Well ... umm ... for the next day or so, you'd best call me Satan, or Mephistopheles, or Beelzebub, or Azrael (forgot that one last time), or just plainly The Devil. As in the guy who makes you do all the bad things you do. Like you have no control over your stupid aggressive driving, it's all my fault.

And then when you do something right for a change, like dropping a ten-spot in the Breast Cancer Awareness fund-raiser box, you give my boss, The Big Guy, all the credit for that. Oh sure, it's never Satan's idea to help find a cure for bird flu or AIDS or anything. Satan would rather you spent that money on chocolate, dirty magazines, or drugs.

I'm getting as bitter as those Methodists.

And I don't have time for bitterness just now. Have to make sure everyone's suffering, putting on a good entertainment for the boss.

Anyway, in my last post, I mentioned creating a New Jersey Turnpike down here in the satellite office, and filling it bumper-to-bumper with cars driven by all the greedy, Type-A rape-and-pillagers (in ancient times, sackers of villages - in modern times, raiders of pension funds). It was also my idea to fill the passenger seats of the cars with Buddhists. Because, of course, Buddhists wouldn't give two hoots about sitting in a traffic jam for a thousand years. It's sitting, isn't it?

Lest I offend you living Buddhists out there, please be advised that Buddhists are not on the payroll at my plant. They volunteer their time, because the Big Guy likes to think that they all wind up here because they didn't worship him. Of course they don't wind up here, not even the bad ones. They're just an obliging lot. And quiet. Once I used Krishnas, and they made too much noise. I was glad to see them go back to their happy hunting ground.

Okay, are we clear on that? Big boss coming to visit, Buddhists helping out on a volunteer basis, Methodists mad because they aren't "God's chosen people," only too happy to create the illusion of eternal agony for a day or two.

When all the smoke has cleared (pardon the pun), I'll post a picture of what I really look like. Suffice it to say that a Jersey Devil I am not. Nor do I have horns or a tail. I did have wings, but I had to pawn them during a period of unemployment. I'm saving up to retrieve them, so that when my contract expires in 10,000 A.D. I can fly off into a Black Hole and mend my tarnished reputation.

Wish me luck. I have a feeling the boss has been watching the American way of doing business and will be in a mood to wrench give-backs from me. He'll want my personal days, I'm sure of it.

MR. APPLEGATE

PS - If you're thinking of doing something sinful, please wait until Wednesday.

Applegate Needs Advice

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Quick. I need some advice. What do you think of this outfit? And I'm in a rush today, so a yes or no will suffice.

Memo comes in that the Big Guy will be arriving for a performance evaluation sometime next week.

Of course I look nothing like this for real. Would anyone hire a god that looks like this? But the Big Guy gives good raises if you cooperate with his Plan for Salvation of Mankind, and I'll need a fat savings account to live down this posting when the contract expires in 3,995 years (counting the days).

I think I'll do a whole New Jersey theme. Trot out a Turnpike, bumper to bumper, fumes seeping into the air, with Bob's Big Boy signs every thirty yards and smokestacks belching. I'll put Type A corporate men in the driver's seats of every car and fill the other seats with Buddhists. (For some reason the Big Guy especially has it in for Buddhists.)

All this will make Hitler happy, because he'll get a day off the real punishment I've dealt him, which is to be alone in a room with 10,000 different translations of the Torah, which he has to render in German, one by one. He'll be only too happy to hitchhike in the humidity. But he'll act put upon, because he wants us all to forgive him and give him another chance. Yeah, right. Not on my watch.

But back to the burning (pardon the pun) question. Is the above outfit sufficiently evil, frightening, and otherwise appalling? I like the teeth and eyes, but the wings could be bigger. What do you think?

Gosh, these performance evaluations just put everything into a tizzy. And, please. The fact that I won't be renewing my contract is a secret just between us, okay? Big Guy gets wind of that, I won't get another raise and will probably be socked with as many give-backs as an American labor union.

MR. APPLEGATE

Harry Potter ... Nonfiction

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we can hardly wait until midnight! Yes, surprise surprise, the bored gods are huge Harry Potter fans! Hey, J. K. Rowling would have to be brain dead not to realize she's writing about the Ancient Ones, who disappeared onto Platform 9 3/4 when the rotten crop of current humans sailed into the British Isles.

Why is Harry banned by the scariest factions of the Christian Right? Because deep down we all know that wizards aren't fictitious, that magic happens, and that if you want something done right, you have to wave a wand over it.

Does anyone know where the nearest Barnes & Noble is? My current location is the Washtenaw County Fair, Ypsilanti, Michigan. I have three more rounds of goat-judging today and don't have time to go in search of a bookstore.

Never mind. A helpful 4-H kid just told me there's a Borders in Ann Arbor. Even if she isn't right about that, her goat is first-rate.

ANNE WANTS TO TEACH AT HOGWARTS
ARE THERE ANY OPENINGS?

Native American Gods Stage a Comeback

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Aren't these the most outstanding gods you've ever seen? We think so.

These are California condors. They were worshipped by the Native Americans, who called them "Thunderbirds."

Not surprisingly, Thunderbirds fell on hard times in the twentieth century and almost found themselves extinct. You know the drill. Progress of man and all that. (Note the non-inclusive language.)

But good news, all you buzzard-worshippers! The state of California must have confidence that the Thunderbird population is on the rise! Poised gracefully on the "tails" side of the new California issue quarter is none other than a Thunderbird! OOOOOO-weeeee! Some bored Native American gods are rejoicing!

And I join them in their happiness. Who can doubt the mystical powers of vultures? In this the Native Americans make us look like religious toddlers.

Vultures soar great distances with minimum energy output.

They can live to be 100 or more years old. Think how wise they get.

They keep the country clean.

They rarely harm any living thing and vastly prefer their meals to be dead or nearly so.

They are loving, attentive parents who spend a long time raising chicks.

You can do a lot worse than to worship a Thunderbird. Or even the more modest turkey vulture, my personal favorite in the crowded bird totem field. I can't think of a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon than to be soaking in the healing waters of Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, watching the turkey vultures soaring over the ridge tops. Kinda makes St. Peter's Square seem ... well ... square.

If you find yourself with a handful of pocket change, and one of the quarters is the new issue featuring California, think of me. I've offered my daughters, the Heir and the Spare, fifty cents for every California quarter they find. Sorry, can't tender that offer to my wide legion of fans here. Besides, you need your money, don't you? If not, drop it in the poor box.

One last thing. If you worship Thunderbirds, there's not a lot of competition for the best seat in the choir loft. It's called "giving your business to the bored gods."

Peace,
ANNE, WHO LOVES BUZZARDS

CAUGHT HIM RED-HANDED

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Okay fans, let's vote. Do you think "Mr. Applegate" is bored?

Then why is he sneaking around on my blog?

I caught him at it just now, at the public library in Plymouth, Indiana. I stopped by to check on my email on my way to the next county fair. And there he sat, on this site, yakking away.

Cheeky.

You know what he was writing about? He was thanking Osama Bin Laden and George Bush for taking so much subcontracting, and blaming all their actions on his boss!

He's gonna get me sent over to Cuba. I told him as much. I'm not afraid of him, but he can't just go around disrespecting the sitting president on my watch. Not this president, anyway. I'm already afraid to check books out of the library!

Anyway, while I'm here, I'll pass along some fun Chippie news (remember, "Chippies" are Christian hippies). In today's Gary, Indiana Daily Tattler, there was an article about how some mega-church pastors are encouraging their followers to think big and grow rich. After all, being rich just shows how much God is blessing you, right? Or so this challenging, Scripture-based philosophy goes.

Wow. I'm re-thinking my whole allegiance to Queen Brighid the Bright. Maybe I oughta go back to Yahweh, get my fair share. All those abundant blessings. Like the McMansion. The Ford Expedition. The backyard pool. And let's not forget the good neighborhood, far away from all those poor, uneducated, violent, mixed race drug pushers in the next county.

Thank you, God, that I'm not like that drug pusher over there. He's lying in the street, all bloodied up from a drive-by shooting. I'll just walk right around him.

Alas, alas for you, clueless Chippies! Hypocrites to a man!

Oh, for the love of fruitflies. "Mr. Applegate" just whispered in my ear. He says to leave the Chippies to him, he likes to watch their faces as they arrive in his lair. They feel so betrayed.

What a pathetic bunch they all are. Let's call on some bored gods and see if they can't entertain us better!
ANNE SAYS LET THE DEVIL FIND ANOTHER WAY TO PUBLISH HIS SELF-PITY

Satan Weighs in on Terror

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored." If you're just joining us, this site is dedicated to all the gods and goddesses who have been let go in "revised head counts" since the so-called "modern era" got underway.

My contract is secure, unfortunately. I signed on for 10,000 years with one of the gods who isn't bored. That's my boss, The Big Guy.

Yes folks, I'm back! Anne turns her back, goes off goat-judging, and I sneak into her space. You can call me Satan if you must (hate it), or Lucifer (hate it), or Mephistopheles (can't spell it), or Beelzebub (he's a bored god, and he hates to see his name abused). Myself, I prefer Mr. Applegate. It's so user-friendly.

If you haven't seen my previous posts, here's my resume in a nutshell. I was working freelance in a galaxy far, far away, and my entire praise and worship population got killed when an asteroid hit their planet. They only needed one god to run their heaven, so I had to hit the road. I was desperate for work (as most freelancers are) when I heard about this post. The fact that it was full-time with bennies appealed. But I should have read the fine print on the contract and taken a better look at the species I'd be godding for. One week into the gig, I'm sent to head the satellite office, and my name is mud.

If you've worked corporate, you know how it is. If something goes right, The Big Guy gets all the credit. If something goes wrong, It's all my fault.

Case in point: Have you ever seen a football player score a huge touchdown, kneel reverently and point toward Hell? I get no respect.

Today I want to tell you why I'm sorry I'm stuck here for another 3,995 years.

To put it bluntly, I arrived about 5 million years too soon. Your species (you human beings, I mean) has not sufficiently evolved. Worse, I think the general universal consensus is that you have a 90 percent chance of destroying yourselves and your beautiful planet before you do evolve sufficiently.

"War of the Worlds?" Give me a break. Every species that is intelligent enough to come and study you quickly puts a big XXXXXXXXX through your name on the Official List of Planets and Intelligent Beings Worth Getting to Know (LPIBWGK). And off they go, shaking their heads and saying, "Oh well, decent planet, bloody horrible intelligent species."

On the last planet where I worked, there were four, yes four intelligent species all living together in harmony. Here's your earthly analogy. You and your closest friends are out power-boating, and all of a sudden a dolphin rears up out of the water and says, "Excuse me, I hope you don't mind, but you're polluting my daughter's baby shower." And just like that, you cut your engine and drift slowly back to shore.

That was my old posting. Everyone was so polite.

The first rule of inter-galactic communication is this: No species is deemed worthy of contact if it kills its own kind.

Human race? XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Your primitive primate brains are big on inventing things and small on evolving rational uses for your technology. And there's nothing more pathetic than an intelligent species with deadly weapons of mass destruction and a "Them vs. Us" brain stem.

But what really puts you at the bottom of the LPIBGWK is that so much of what you do is "religiously motivated." Who do you think you're fooling with that one? No one, not even The Big Guy's second-in-command, was ever killed from religious motives. It's all politics. All of it. Always has been, at least since I signed on.

One group says: "America is the Great Satan." And goes off to kill.

Another group says: "God Bless America." And goes off to kill.

And you think the rest of the universe finds that intelligent?

Human race, as I see it, you have a long way to go and not enough patience to get there. Bad combination.

See (almost) all of you soon,
MR. APPLEGATE

Rick Santorum, Clueless Chippie

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" This week we're on the road, judging goats at county fairs through the heartland of America.

One of the best things about being a goat judge is that you get to try all the delicious jams and pies and pickled pigs' feet that are put up for judging in the home economics categories. And we here at "The Gods Are Bored" salute all the hard-working women (and men) who perfect these delicious blue-ribbon recipes!

But wait. Shouldn't these women who are spending all their time in the kitchen, perfecting pickled pigs' feet for the fair contests actually be devoting all their time to their children? What can possibly be more riveting than spending all your time, every last precious second, with your offspring? Thinking about making that phone call to Cousin Mabel to see how she did in her cervical cancer surgery? Forget it! Baby Biff needs for you to squeeze that rattle in his face 35 more times! If you don't, he'll grow up warped, like all the kids of those morally bankrupt liberal working women!

Usually, we here at "The Gods Are Bored" do not review books that we haven't read or base our comments on random quotes. But if the entirety of Senator Rick Santorum's new book is as monstrously idiotic as the quotes that ran in today's JOHNSTOWN COURIER POST, we are not gonna place that sucka high on the summer reading list.

Those of you just joining us need to know that we call people who cater to the Christian Right "Chippies," because they are Christians who make as much noise, and every bit as much sense, as the Flower Children of the 1960s. Rick Santorum is a Chippie par excellence.

According to the junior senator from Pennsylvania, women who work outside the home are godless liberals who put their self-indulgence way ahead of the needs of their tender tots. Said tots grow up unloved and unwanted in day care centers, sort of latter-day Oliver Twists, while Mommy flies to Aruba to take meetings and drink daiquiries.

Rick, you couldn't find your butt with two hands.

First of all, it was that champion bleeding heart liberal, Mother Jones, who convinced the nation that children shouldn't be working 14 hours a day, six days a week, in dangerous factories. (Now we've sent those jobs to the children of Sri Lanka.) And it is the "feed the rich" policies of corporate conservatives that have forced so many women into the labor force where they work, underpaid and under-insured, in non-union jobs.

Second point. And I hope the other working moms out there will back me up on this. Who out there is working because they'd rather work than be with their kids? Hot damn, I LOVE goat judging, but I don't do it because it's more fulfilling than motherhood. I need the bloody income to keep a roof over my kids' heads! I've got two beautiful daughters, the Heir and the Spare. They eat. They get sick and need a doctor. They get sicker and need a specialist. Pass the goats, please, and make the paycheck out to Anne Johnson.

Third point. And I hope the dwindling middle class will back me up on this. Is it even possible today to maintain a middle class lifestyle without two incomes? Anyplace besides rural Pennsylvania, I mean? Well, I guess it is if Daddy belongs to the corporate elite and rakes in the big bucks as Eastern District Supervisor for Wal-Mart.

And what about poor mothers? Aren't they the ones being chased into the workplace so they won't drain our tax dollars dry on welfare? What happens to those kids, Rick? Okay, I'll tell you. They're the REAL Oliver Twists among us. How do you propose to make their lives better?

Fourth point. I need no backup on this one. As a woman, I feel it is very important to set an example of self-sufficiency for my two daughters, the Heir and the Spare. They must see how important it is to be able to pay your bills, to work side by side with a spouse, or even to support yourself on what you earn. The alternative is to play "Vanity Fair" with them and try to find them well-heeled husbands who will see to their needs so they can stay home and raise little Biff Buffington IV, Esq.

On to another Rick Rant. People shouldn't live together before they are married.

Excuse me, Rick, is it any of your business what other couples decide to do with their lives? When did CONSERVATIVES become so all-fired curious about what people do behind closed doors? It makes no difference to me what YOU choose to do about your marital status. Why do you care about me? Not that it matters, but I lived with my husband before we got married, and we'll soon be celebrating our 21st wedding anniversary. We've beaten the "divorce curve" three times! But, last time I looked, this is America, where people should be free to live as they please, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.

On to my favorite Rick Rant. "Partisan politics" made his home-schooled children's lives a nightmare.

Geez, if I lived in Pennsylvania, I'd be going door-to-door begging people not to vote for this guy.

Rick, who lives in Virginia with his stay-at-home wife and home-schooled children, was charging the citizens of Pennsylvania for the elite cyberschooling his children were receiving. Sort of a "Rick Deserves The Best" Super-Voucher. Can't say as I blame the "partisan" citizens of Pennsylvania for complaining about that. After all, their kids have to go to the godless, liberal public schools, which Ricky describes as total failures.

Who forgot to muzzle this mutt?

Hey, Pennsylvania, you can do better. There must be a village idiot somewhere in the state who could be convinced to oppose this clueless Chippie.

ANNE WISHES THE UNIONS WERE AS BIG AS RICK SAYS THEY ARE

We the People

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Every god loves a party. Jesus famously bailed out a big party by turning water into wine. What a lovely way to start a career as a god!

Wherever you are, and whoever you're with, we at "The Gods Are Bored" wish you a Happy 4th of July! Just remember, FREEDOM means being able to say what you think, to worship the way you please (or not at all), and to conduct your private life however you see fit, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.

All you 4-H-ers out there, you'd better not take a day off from that goat grooming, if you want a blue ribbon from me. 'Tis the season to judge goats, both the ones at the county fairs and the ones running the government!

Best wishes to all - I'm late for a party!
ANNE, THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS