Herein lies a post where I once again dissect, analyse, and let’s face it, mock the shit out of The Bible. If this doesn’t sound like your kind of post, then perhaps you should pop off to church instead… and don’t forget the blindfold and the earplugs!
So some friends and I went to the woods the other day, and decided that we were going to temporarily form an alt-rock indie band for some pretentious photography. We mostly just use tambourines. Anyway, this is our totally serious, legitimate photo shoot.
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Being the pedantic arse that I am, I’m going to ask a few (presumably unanswerable) questions about the Islamic heaven, historically referred to as ‘Jannah‘. We all know a few of the key elements of this paradise, 72 virgins, giant palaces for everyone, rivers of milk and honey, and so on, and as I read into the writings on the subject, there were a few things I found somewhat unusual. So, here we go…
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I have my opener worked out. I’d walk out onto the stage totally naked, just with my hands covering my crotch-area. I’d act really unsure and confused, and I’d stand there for a few seconds until everyone went quiet. Then, with a look of stupid realisation on my face, I’d say: “Ooohh… Picture the audience […]
So here’s something that caught my eye. For my American followers, this is the story of a young football (soccer) player named Fabrice Muamba, who had a heart attack on the pitch a few days ago, but is now recovering well. A friend of mine, Charlie, pointed something out to me after seeing this story, and it struck me as decidedly odd. So, Muamba claims that god helped him to get better after his heart attack… But surely this was after god gave a healthy, young, fit athlete a heart attack in the first place.
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I got home from work today to find my 22 year old girlfriend watching children’s TV show, Charlie and Lola, so being the easily amused dullard that I am; I, also 22, decided to watch it with her; and yes, of course I was bound to find something amidst the bright colours and soft voices that would irritate me into writing something to post here, for you all to see, and hopefully validate, my anger.
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I bet some of you haven’t even thought of your Top Five Awesome Science Facts of The Day, but help is at hand, because I’ve done the leg work for you, and your Awesome Science Facts are being brought straight to your screen. So, without further delay:
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Me: You know, instead of reading that book, you could actually help me do some work. Co-worker: I’m not technically reading. It’s a book of photos. Me: I know, I know. I just assumed that looking at a picture book would be the closest you’d ever get to reading, and I wanted to sound encouraging. […]
I’ve always been the youngest in my family, so I’ve never had to interact with kids all that much; but after four years living with my girlfriend and not far from her family, of whom she is the eldest in her generation, I’m forced to interact with young kids an awful lot.
Now here’s the thing. I’m occasionally roped into ‘helping out’ when it comes to entertaining them; and I’m fine with that, honestly, it’s cool. However, every now and then, this will evolve into more than looking at a drawing or throwing them up in the air, and I’ll perhaps be forced to play a board game with them… And therein lies the problem.
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I was strolling through town a couple of days ago, pretending I wasn’t late for work, when I came across an unusual sight. There was a young lady who looked no older than maybe twelve or thirteen. She had giant sunglasses and a backwards cap, a ‘top’ that was barely more than a bra (I think it’s called a ‘boob tube’ or something)’ and a pair of shorts that she had fashioned by cutting the legs of some jeans. Now the thing that struck me about the jean-shorts was that the desperate girl had cut them so short that her pocket linings were clearly hanging down her thighs.
This isn’t a rant about how twelve year olds shouldn’t be forced into the mindset of having to dress provocatively at their age; I’ve done that shtick before (see here), this is just about how badly I can’t reconcile what I consider to look acceptable, with what other people wear…
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