Incite -- (v) 1: give an incentive; 2: provoke or stir up; "incite a riot"; 3: urge on; cause to act
Sunday, May 23, 2004

Conversations with the Almighty, Vol I.
Written by: Beck

Are you sure about this, Almighty? I mean, I have to imagine you've got relatively thin skin, what with all I've heard about hellfire and damnation and whatnot. You're sure? No hard feelings?

All right, sure, you may owe me one after this past evening, but still, you're the almighty and all.

OK, so you're saying I'm going to lose my audience if I don't have anything pertinent to say. Frankly, I've got a wagonload of pertinent things. They're just not all that unique. Rather mundane if you want to be perfectly honest. True, it IS a weekend, and no one, from the Instapundit on down, has anything especially, well, special, to say. I guess I SHOULD feel free to use up everyone else's allotment of commas. I never thought of things that way. I really haven't.

Sorry, was that too obvious a Salinger impersonation? Yeah, I suppose I shouldn't go there, what with how I can't stand Caufield, no matter how many times I re-read him. Greatest literary character whatever, I still can't stand the fuck. Whiner. But I see your point. If I can enjoy Humbert without strictly endorsing him, I can cauterize Caufield without criticizing him. Or some such.

Some substance for those who can't, er, hold their horses. Yeah, baby, yeah.

Rachel Lucas, who is brilliant, points me to an extraordinarily amusing article about how the anti-second amendment lobby is populated by morons. And losing. I suppose that's the real key. Them losing. 'Cuz I really friggin' hate them, pardon my French. Further, it turns out that the French are even more fucking dumb than I thought. What's that? Yeah, God, I realize I should devote more effort to that story. And Merde in France deserves some credit for pointing the story out. But I hate Michael Moore so fucking much, I can't bring myself to devote any additional commentary to him, to say nothing of the French. I'm sure you'll understand, God. I mean... Geez. Look how fucking fat he is. And stupid. Don't forget the stupid bit. Not that you would, big G.

There are far better things to read out there, we fully recognize that in our person/tense/subject/object/genre migrating narrative. BUT, we also recognize that we're owed something after all that effort we put out tonight. I mean, we didn't make asses of ourselves at any point, we're pretty sure, and we could have hooked up with her, honest we could've, but... wait, am I derailing? I hate it when I derail. Happens all the freaking time. It frequently results in over use of words like "derail", not to mention phrases like "Jesus H. Tits." We learned that one from Speculator. This first person plural shit, however, we picked up on our own.

Alright, you've made it this far, and you've had far beyond fair warning. I've even gone so far as to edit out all the typos involving hitting number keys. What in hell more do you want?

The real question on all of your minds, (according to the Meyers-Briggs folks, this shit is right up my alley), is, "Why is this bastard using so many commas?" The answer, naturally, is that I've finally succumbed to the wiles of the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy. (Yes, I typed that URL in at random, and it turns out, quite naturally, that they're both A) recruiting, and B) employ the omnipotent folks at Blogads). Yes, I realize that Almighty. Blogads are the Devil. Yeah. Gotcha. Girls too. M'Kay. You ready to move on for Christ's sake? Oh right. Sorry 'bout that one.

But you know what really scares me? The fact that most Americans are nowhere near sufficiently prepared for Zombie attacks. Think about it--when your chain saw of choice runs out of fuel, where in hell are you going to go? I mean, I already have several alternate sources of chainsaw fuel AND engine lubricant worked out. That doesn't do anything to protect the likes of you, or say, Michael Moore. Michael Moore is going to be at the mercy of dozens of hungry chainsaw wielding survivalists. Think about it. It ain't gonna be pretty, I tell you what.

Hell, I've lost the thread of things again, haven't I? I seem to recall this being a conversation with some higher power or other. And said higher power has nothing to do with Arizona Iced Tea, so this clearly can't be a derailment of holy origin.

Why was it, again, that I felt the need to complicate matters for myself Almighty? Oh yeah, she was fat. Granted, she was on board until... what's that? Not the right venue? My apologies. Hey, wait one fucking second! This is my venue, not yours Mr. Almighty. If she wasn't comfortable with scuba diving in the first place, she shouldn't have contrived to get me alone, to say nothing of the perils inherent in chancing Highway 59 while under the influence of the eschaton. And I most certainly am under said influence. Among other things.

Clearly, Almighty, you're presuming I'm either wrapping things up, or I'm anticipating dropping dead of a lightening bolt. One of the two must be the case, and last time I checked, I'm still not doing the electric slide. So what's wrong with me you ask? Godamnit, how often do you piss away a lay-up via the inexpedient expedient of honesty? Really? Well hot damn, ya learned me something.

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John Beck

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