Homo heidelbergensis

The Prehistoric Era (300th millennium to 34th century BCE) 300th to 51st millennium BCE 223,000 – 100,000 BCE 03/08/10 The earliest evidence of Homonids, such as Neanderthals[1][2] and even Homo heidelbergensis,[2][3] deliberately disposing of deceased individuals usually in funerary cashes. The graves, located throughout Eurasia (e.g. the Pontnewydd Cave, Atapuerca Mountains, Qafzeh, Es Skhul, Krapina)[2], are debatedly believed to represent the beginnings ceremonial rites.

Neanderthals are placing their deceased in simple graves with little or no concern for grave goods or markers; however, their graves occasionally appear with limestone blocks in or on them, possibly archaic form of grave marking.[2] These practices are possibly the resulting from empathetic feelings towards fellow tribspeople, for example: infant buried the Dederiyeh Cave after its joints had disarticulated was placed with concern correct anatomical arraignment of its bodily parts.[2]

98,000 BCE In the area of present-day France and Belgium, Neanderthals begin defleshing their dead, possibly after a period of excarnation prior to burial.[2] 70,000 BCE A giant stone in the African Kalahari desert resembling a python, accompanied by a hidden chamber and surrounded by broken spear heads, is possibly the site of ritual offerings and snake worship. 50th to 11th millennium BCE 40,000 BCE One of the earliest Anatomically modern humans to be cremated is buried near Lake Mungo.[4][5][6][7][8] 25,000 BCE Individual skulls and/or long bones begin appearing heavily stained with red ochre and are separately buried. This practice may be the origins of sacred relics.[2] 33,000 BCE All convincing evidence for Neanderthal burials cieces. Roughly coinciding with the time period of the Homo sapien introduction to Europe and decline of the Neanderthals.[2]

The oldest discovered “Venus figurines” appear in graves. Some are deliberately broken or repeatedly stabbed. Possibly representing murders of the men they are buried with[2] or some other unknown social dynamic. 25,000 – 21,000 BCE Clear examples of burials are present in Iberia, Wales, and Eastern Europe. All of these, also, incorporate the heavy use of red ochre. Additionally, various are being included in the graves (i.e. periwinkle shells, weighted clothing, dolls, possible drumsticks, mammoth ivory beads, fox teeth pendants, panoply of ivory artifacts, “baton” antlers, flint blades, etc).[2]

I VOWED (AFTER THE LAST ONE) THAT I WOULD NEVER EVER EAT A RUN OVER DEAD PEDESTRIAN AGAIN. (I MEAN DEAD OVER 2 DAYS OLD) THIS DOES NOT APPLY THE YUMMY WARM TWITCHING ONES.

Encyclopedia PDF Textbook Download

This is a free graduate level educational Encyclopedia of Human Evolution and Prehistory. Recent Data. It is an open source textbook.

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Encyclopedia of Human Evolution and Prehistory

What is the reason for Religion and "lack of reason"

There has to be a reason why every culture ever known to exist has had the illogical phenomon of Religion.
And it is not God. 

 

If you have difficulty reading the article text size,

 Please try holding down the CTRL key while simultaneously left clicking text, and then roll the mouse button to zoom in and out. I apologize for the trouble.

Christ Dies at 2,011 Years

The land along this stretch of the river is without empathy. It did not mourn for the inhabitants who disappeared, the ones whom the roots came out of the ground and made prey of. Blind roots that searched by touch. The roots which bored through the soil, came up, and seized the natives. It wrapped round legs, and then twisted up torsos, winding round them–and squeezed the life from them like pythons. Then the land was bound to the living men, and the land fed off their blood. Look at this place, just look at it. It is a plague of cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death–death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. These forgotten men died like flies here. And if we anchor here so shall we.

My Pogo-Stick, Personal Word Record– Immortalized

I, Hanson Anderson do hereby swear–under penalty of death by a firing squad – that the following claim is true in every possible conceivable aspect. If any detail is falsified- then may I be shot 10 times in the chest, at close range.
–So help me, Mrs. Dash.

In 1978 I achieved my all-time personal record for consecutive, non-stop-hops-on a pogo stick. The official hop count was 1,002. There were no witnesses to this eternal classic 30 minutes in the field of Pogo jumping. But I would never lie about a jumping- related sporting event.

After this insuperable personal triumph, I then retired from amateur-competitive pogo and pogo-ing related sporting events. I never hopped again. I wanted to go out on a high note. As that is what true champions do.

The pogo stick is bright orange and is available to the public, on permanent exhibit, for general admiration and viewing. The Huffy Model 29BK Pogo stick (with handle bar streamers) is housed in my parent’s garage–safely guarded behind a velvet rope. Of course, this velvet rope is hooked to a chrome pole.

Admission to the pogo exhibit is free. In addition, for $3.50 I will unhook the velvet rope, stand aside, and you may have a relative photograph you, while posing with your arm and shoulder around the pogo stick, smiling .

This is for those creative types who like post modern visual stimulating enigmatic themes.

Rose cursed, drank like a fish, shoplifted a can of peas, and she never got baptized.

Happy a Happy Sunny Day.

Immoral, Debauched, Satire

Pray that God sends a plague down upon this misanthrope. I think I heard somewhere, that the Blogger Eric Baker kicks puppies for exercise.

 I just know that he is a lackey for Satan. 

Please Avoid his blog.

A BLOGGER ROBBING THE SOULS OF GOOD PEOPLE

8 year old Ricky stood alone out in the middle of the grassy open field at the city park. He craned his neck and looked straight up into the blue sky, squinting into the brightness. Ricky saw shapes in the white puffy clouds.

The first cloud he saw looked like a nervous little school bus that slowly drove past, high above. The bus was afraid because it knew that an enormous billowy whale was slowly swimming behind it.

This whale was hungry and it haunted the bus. The voracious whale jetted a white whisp, which Ricky knew was the furious mist of its exhaled breath and tiny droplets of seawater. The whale was very confident. It bullied the nervous bus. And it was overconfident and felt puffed up with silent pride.

But what the whale did not know was that there was an even greater, open-mouthed, whisp-toothed monster tip-toeing slowly behind it. The monster held its arms and hands up high, and its legs hung as it floated murderously after the whale. The monsters gaping mouth smiled, the monster was trying so hard to repress his silent laughter.

Ricky was so elated with the extravaganza of this drama in the expansive blue sky, that without thinking he began to spin round and round in circles. He gained speed and revolved in a fury. He held his arms straight out at his sides. The child had transformed into a human propeller. His blades were moving very fast. They probably looked like a blur, if anyone might see him.

As the child whirled, witnessing the sky, he saw the piteous school bus and the two predators behind it. They swung around in a panoramic circles blur in a swirling carousel above him. The blood in his head swooshed and he felt it push against the vessels as continued to spin in a world that was a blur of blue and white.

No adult was there to tell him to stop spinning so he went round and round in wanton abandon. It was as good as missing a day of school without having a cold. There was no past, there was no future, there was just the “now” filled with joy.

Gasping, from his phenomenal speed and effort, the need to breathe forced the boy to stop spinning and take a break. Ricky wanted to put his hand on his thighs, bend over, and rest, while looking down at his feet in the plush green grass. What happened was that he could not achieve this simple act. In fact he fell down on the soft ground. Because even though he was no longer twirling in the grass, his world still was swirling all about him.

He felt nauseated for a second, and then a little scared, but finally he became profoundly curious at the experience he was transitioning through. He was so dizzy, much dizzier than when he would get off of the merry go round. The boy, like the insides of a running washing machine, was at the end of the spin cycle.

He shakily stood up and tried to focus on a tree and nothing else. He wanted to look at anything that was not moving. However even the tree moved a bit from left to right.

His legs were weak and felt like two Slinkys. He staggered a few steps trying to keep on his feet. It took a long time but the washing machine slowed into a slower rotation, and then as it came to a rest, he finally was able to gain his feet.

He tried to look back up into the sky for the bus, the whale, and the monster, but looking straight up made him fell dizzy again and he had to stare back at the grass.

When everything finally stopped moving, Ricky lifted his head and looked back up into the sky. The familiar clouds were still in the sky, but they seemed to have moved along in the blue a bit during the interim.

He wanted to enjoy the moment and spin some more, but it was hard as he now had a terrible headache. He wanted to lie on his bed, take a long refreshing nap, and wake up, as if no time had been lost to sleep. Then he would do the whole thing all over again.

She was informed that today was a particularly sad burial, so she wanted everything to be just so. She started work by considering her sky; the mood called for it to be somber and overcast. So she painted it the color of wet ashes. She then rolled out a high, expansive pall of clouds. She artfully saturated them heavily with moisture, which gave them the color of lead. It also created the illusion that they were empathetically holding back tears.

She pursed her lips and exhaled a high layer of frigid air to surround the padded billows. This stratum of piercing cold was far above the ground, so as not to add misery to the bereaved far below. This sharp chill kept the clouds’ moisture from condensing into droplets, so it would not rain down on the grieving observants gathered around the open grave. “It is very well done,” she told herself in humble pride.

She decided to release some of the sky’s moistness carefully; by loosening the vapor in the dark billows. As she did this the humidity descended upon the earth, where it rolled out as thick blanket of sorrowful fog. The haze was dream-like and it enveloped everything– the graveyard, the standing observers, and the grieving loved ones at the open grave.

Suddenly the pall bearers emerged from the fog. They carried the sad little casket towards the freshly dug grave. Inside the casket was the dead boy. Before they closed the coffin he wore an eternal face that gave him the appearance of a sad little angel. The fog was very fitting. It grieved.

Also the Morning chose fog as it served to discretely muffle the sounds of much sobbing, and subdued the inconsolable mother’s wailing. As for the father, he was in too much denial to be mourning. He was determined to have his son back with him, even if that meant he had to slump the dead boy over his shoulder and carry him out of the cemetery. The haze gave his anger the dignity of privacy.

Then there was one glitch in Morning’s work; condensation formed into beads of water on the blades of grass in the graveyard. The polished shoes on the pall bearers’ feet were very wet. The moisture also gave the freshly dug earth the greasy look of mud. Both of these things the Morning blamed on herself as carelessness. But they were not devastating oversights.

Fortunately, a film of moisture glazed the exterior of the highly polished casket. The coffin’s wax-like surface began to bead the liquid into small rounded pools. As the ceremony and prayers came to an end, each spot of water became very heavy. Then one by one, lines of water rolled off the top of the casket and down the sides—like poignant tears. The Morning thought that this was a very good luck indeed, and she thought everyone noticed and appreciated the effect.

Finally the funeral director signaled that the casket be lowered into the grave. That was when Morning made her big mistake. Overcome with emotion, she broke the number one rule, “Never get emotionally involved on the job, stay respectfully observant from afar, but never intermingle with the grieving party.” Yet she could not help herself.

She and her whole presence moved down upon the graveyard. She began to wrap herself around the mourning loved ones. She embraced their bodies, and felt them sobbing. She felt their bodies’ warmth. She then moved down into the grave to feel the casket. It had no warmth in it. Overcome in sadness for the dead little boy lying inside the coffin—the sad little angel with a little frown; she sighed out a long sigh of heavy despondency.

But she completely forgot how very icy her breath was. And she unintentionally breathed a stinging chill into everyone standing around the grave. It numbed everyone to their bones. The fog also froze as layer of frost that covered their clothes. The surrounding ground’s wet grass was now frozen. There was even ice on the lid of the coffin.

This eerie biting cold was ill-omened. And it multiplied the anguish of all the loved ones’ grieving. They were horrified as they looked down into the black maw of the grave. They saw the iced coffin inside the grave; and in their mind’s eye they saw the dead boy inside his coffin. He was powder white. His skin was very cold. His icy lifeless body was lying in the coffin completely alone. This sight was like a knife thrust into their souls.

Morning felt a deep sinking disgrace and she was numb with shame when she realized what she did. She desperately wanted to make everything better. There was nothing at all she could do.

Teeth began to chatter. Soon chilled bodies began to shake uncontrollably, arms wrapped around torsos seeking warmth, and men pulled the collars of their coats tight around their necks. Children’s snotty noses began to run, but there were no handkerchiefs, so naturally they used their sleeves. Mothers jerked them by the arm in anger. The children whined in self-pity. Then a baby suddenly exploded in ejaculations of irrepressible shrieking.

No one could even concentrate on the fact that the boy was dead. The funeral was ruined. Each person grabbed a hand full of greasy wet sod, and threw it onto the casket. It sounded in soft thuds as each hit the surface of the casket. One by one, each of them then went home. They fought in their cars on the ride back.

December morning sat down completely defeated, and realized she made a horrific disaster out of everything.

She felt much regret, and to atone for her failure, she stayed alone with the lifeless boy in his grave. Only a back hoe came and filled the grave back in with the original sod. Then there was no one—just she and the boy. She kept him company and sat silently beside his grave. She laid the palm of her hand on top of the fresh sod of his grave.

When Afternoon and Evening each came to punch in for respective their shifts,—she refused to leave the grave, and told them to go away. They both just shrugged their shoulders, made sure to punch in anyway, and then they went home. Morning stayed with the dead lad; hand still on his grave, until the sun went down.

She was about to leave, but no moon came up that night. So she remained with the lifeless boy and kept him company all night long. She sat with him silently until the sun finally began to rise. When the Sun shone at first light she realized it was her shift once again, so she waited with the boy at the grave until afternoon. When afternoon came, only then did she feel it was o.k. to leave, as the Afternoon brought warmth for the boy’s grave.

Then she went home. And she lay face down on her bed—that is when she finally cried. She cried for a very long time. She finally fell into a deep sleep and she dreamed. She dreamed a good dream. She dreamed that the boy was awake in his casket. He was warm. And he was not afraid. Then he looked at her.

He was smiling.

By Phillip Glass.

It is a death of a loved one here, a divorce there, a broken heart here, financial ruin there—these are to be expected and everyone suffers them. I do not wish to diminish the pain they suffer, albeit a level of pain that is livable, and they coast along, continue to function and they weather it when a storm comes along every once in a while. This is par for the cource and this is what an average person believes that suffering is.

However I have witnessed a minority of people who suffer a vast degree more in life than the average person. I know what it means to truly suffer. Not many people ever will know this level of anguish. Those who truly suffer live one’s life with a rent soul, sharp, torturous pain. The dark clouds of hell fill the sky, and rain down a torrent of indefatigable anguish down on the martyred ones. It storms abysmal black sorrow and anguish most all their days.

The wretches are drenched and swept off their feet by ruinous, black tears from the sky. In such a deluge of pain there are few sunny days. And when the sky is actually blue and sunny on rare occasions it gives the pain-stricken a terrible headache. As children run in the park laughing—while people are without a care, it actually makes the few rare languishers feel worse. Because it forces them to see that others are at peace, have great joy, and they are happy in the Sun.

Seeing the lucky ones, makes those who truly suffer realize that they have none of what these happy people possess. The blue sky, laughter, and couples holding hands gives the weary ones a splitting headache and it makes them feel bitter resentment at the happy ones for having what they have.

Then the black clouds return to rain anguish on the dispossesed, and it is a corrosive torrent of wet misery. This poisonous guile melts away their souls, after years of chronic suffering, comes the complete abandonment of all hope—which is the death of the soul.

Average people don’t think that others really feel that much pain. They disbelieve them and tell them it is all in their heads. “Go out, fix your hair, and go to a movie. It will cheer you up!” The happy never feel that abysmal kind of pain and they blame to tormented for being of weak character and not pulling themselves up by the boot straps, and make themselves work past the pain simply by taking charge of the situation.

This is insulting, and shows that they do not know true suffering. But it is natural as one cannot understand the hell of the hopelessness and unremitting injury. They are not able to understand unless they experience it for themselves.

But some of us live a life of repetitive tragedies and unspeakable agony. It does no good to attempt to explain that it is not weakness and they cannot push through it. The average ones don’t want to hear it. It feels good for one who is suffering to complain, but no one likes to be around a complainer.

However, I will just say that if I were given a choice of how I would suffer; I would have rather been born as a Jew taken into the Holocaust’s Nazi Concentration Camps; I mean no respect to those fine people by saying this. I admire them more than any other people. I simply mean that if I had been among them in Auschwitz, at least the suffering would have been relatively short-lived. Then it would end with the only mercy that death can bring a person.

As terrible as that unspeakable Holocaust was, it did not last for 45 years. However, I have had to endure my pain and suffering for 45 years. And I do not fear hell as I have lived within it all of my years, with very little respite.

I have many, times seriously considered taking my own life. This always was due to the fact that the pain that I was experiencing was simply too much, and it didn’t seem possible to bear such misery for one more day. When such a pain is present a moment takes years to pass. A day is an eternity.

I don’t know how I survived death by my own hand. I think it was only because I was afraid, in the back of my mind; afraid as the archetypal Agnostic. Some splinter about the possibility of God actually existing was still deeply lodged in the center of my mind, and it terrified me. I was an apostate but still held the slightest doubt that there may actually be the terror, of all terrors – Hell; with its infinite suffering, dark fiery flames, absence of light, and absence of life, having nothing but eternal death with pain.

On the one hand, it also seemed ridiculous to consider such a place as Hell existed. Yet I could not be absolutely certain about it either way. So with a .357 magnum in my mouth, index finger on the trigger, and hammer pulled back; I had to consider this dilemma. What would I be able to do? Could I succeed in my plan to stop my suffering by the brutality of a suicide?

So, after a long while sitting there, in a vacant parking lot, trying to decide whether or not to put a bullet into my brain, ultimately, I did not pull the trigger and with much regret, I took the gun out of my mouth. I would have to live and suffer the rest of my miserable life. I couldn’t end it, only because I was a coward. As much as I hurt, my only thought that spared my life was that if I killed myself, that I would go to hell and suffer forever, for the sin of committing suicide.

But when I became an atheist, I no longer feared hell. Ironically I then believed that as shitty as my life is, it is the only life I will ever have. So I made the decision that I would never consider taking my life again. And I have lost that urge to end my own life. I know I will never do that now; Even though I still suffer a tremendous amount of emotional pain and suffering.

This pain and misery, is the primary reason that I do not believe in a God. I do not believe that any loving being or entity would allow the suffering all humans must endure, in general. Moreover, so much more so, would a loving God allow those who truly suffer, to rot and suffer pain, while living their lives in an unspeakable state of anguish? No.

So no, I do not believe in God. Any sentient God would never have allowed this to happen. But it has happened. And he chose that I be born and he did not stop it, even though omnisciently he knew how much I would suffer. He in fact purposely allowed me to be born into a life of chronic anguish. And I believe this precludes the possibility of a loving God. And if God is not loving, what need do I have for God?

In light of the lot who truly suffer, the only God that I could conceive the likelihood of, would be an indescribably wicked and an irreparably cruel God. It could only be a wicked, violent, and pitiless tyrant who created those like me; so as to be singled out as objects for his tortuous, capricious fetish of exacting pain upon the beings of his own selected injustice. Such a God would only design me to be meant for his victim to the greatest suffering, and the loss of all happiness, shackled with hopeless wretchedness. If this God is real, he has wronged me beyond forgiveness.

Such a God is not worthy of anything from me but contempt, and blasphemy. It is my fate to climb up to the top of a tall rock mountain with nothing but sharp crags beneath. And when I arrive at the summit this unworthy God is standing there, and he kicksme in the face. And I tumble headlong, down the sheer slick incline, ripped by pointed crags, and blows on the head crack my skull on the way down, as I plummet, trundle down, and break my body and my bones going on towards to the very nethermost rock-hard floor.

And when I finally hit the rock floor, and dust myself off, I am a broken mortal. Yet still I inch back up to the top of that huge mountain, in the most incredible agony, but I on no occasion let this God see me feel pain, for that he would take pleasure in this fact.

And as I finally reach the top of the mountain, I spit blood in his face just before he kicks me back down the rock faced steep incline, and I fall that long grueling course down to the bottom all over again.

I am like Sisyphus of Greek mythology. As he toils to slowly roll that boulder back up the mountain, always reaching the top only have it fall down to the very bottom again. He has go to the bottom and roll it back up to the summit again, only for it to crash back down. He is fated to this task for all of eternity –that is his curse.

Such is my curse also. And if a God exists who has thus cursed me – I did nothing whatsoever to warrant it. And if this God exists; never shall he see me yield nor submit unto to him. No matter what the price may be.

What is God to me? What is his fiery hell to me? Have I not lived each day my life with such misery? If I can do such and just for a single day–and if I do not die thereof–then I can do it for all of eternity. And I shall not be broken nor killed by him.

He and his mighty omnipotence, in the end, will have no power over me whatsoever. I shall have the power over him. And I shall have no mercy for him and my heart. And he shall grieve his loss of torturing me, and he shall be impotent to affect me in any manner from then on. And then I shall release this God from my mind and God shall then be in no place and shall exist nowhere.

I will remove him, leaving far less than darkness and an eternal void. No that is something that would be to give him the respect of an acknowledgment, to recognize that he once existed. And I refuse to leave him that indulgence. In the end, I will discharge the entire notion of all that is he. And he shall cease to exist to me, and I will thereby have killed him. To me it shall be as if he never was at all.

Out in a field somewhere there is a young boy. It is a summer day, bright and sunny, and the boy’s face is moist. Down on his knees, the boy is bent over. He balances his torso, with his lean left arm, pressing it down on the ground. He rests the weight of his torso on his left hand, which is flattened with its fingers splayed out wide; the skin on the top of his palm is red, and his knuckles are white.

His neck and upper body are now arched fully over, and the boy holds the large magnifying lens in his right hand, about four inches above the ground. He is peering through it, his right cheek and eye almost touching the rounded lens. In the shadow cast by his body, he studies the anatomy of twigs, leaves, spear grass and acorns. He is seeing them with never before seen resolution or clarity.

His right eye strains in concentration as it peers through the lens. But his left eye is pressed shut tightly; as if the left eye were an angry child, just after a quarrel with the right eye. In protest, it refuses to look at anything that the right one looks at.

Overhead is the great sun. It is getting hotter as it rises to its zenith. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his right hand, which is still wrapped around the magnifying glass. His pale exposed neck is now pink with sunburn. This notwithstanding, the boy’s right eye still peers intensely through the large round glass, and continues to examine the ground, until the eye begins to ache from the strain.

Deciding to take a rest from his analyses, the lad uses his hand and arm to press up, while he pulls the right knee from behind him, then the same with the left, and he stands up. He puts his hands behind him, pressing his fingers into the small of his back. He kneads the flesh, massaging the tightness, and he arches his back, bending backwards to stretch it. He grunts out a little moan of complaint.

He straightens up and then reaches towards the nape of his neck. His left hand’s fingers gingerly palpate the neck which is now stinging from the sun. He frowns. It appears his left eye is now open; apparently it is no longer angry with the right.

Still resting the boy moves the glass out of his shadow. He notices the sun shining through the glass and the way it casts a near perfect circle of golden light on the ground. He tilts the plane of the glass, rotating the plane upwards, toward him, slowly changing the magnifying lens’ angle to the sun.

He notices how the circle slowly becomes squatter, and then it changes in form so that it looks like the peeling-side of a lemon wedge, and finally it is reduced to just a slit of light. He brings the plane back parallel with the earth. It is definitely the brightest as a circle, and it has the finest edges, not blurred and soft like the oval shapes.

He lifts the magnifier slowly, straight upwards, and the circle grows increasingly smaller. And the extraordinary lens begins to capture and control the sun.  The glass takes the innumerable rays of diffuse sunlight, manipulates and concentrates them into a narrow beam, and projects this bright shaft onto the ground until it is a pin point of light, a center of blazing white gilded with a golden halo.

The first time the boy puts this magical point of white hotness on the surface of a dried leaf, after a few seconds, he sees the searing spot begin to waft up smoke. Then, born from the brilliant white light, a miracle; a small flash of white fire licks up from the leaf. His eyes are instantly wide, round, and sparkle showing the whites of his eyes, his mouth is agape with an astonished smile.

This simple act fills him up with absolute joy and surprise, because it is the first time the boy is experiencing it, and his joy will never again be as boundless as it is right now. And this phenomenon of his, he figured it out all by himself.

He takes in an excited gasp, so he can yell. He wants nothing in the world but to shout out the wonder of this moment. He wants the others to come to him, to run to him, and see what he has done. Then he will show them how it works, so that they will marvel in awe at it, and also marvel at him for being so very clever. And they will be witness to the fact that he was the first one to ever discover how to do this. He readies to release the excited gasp and scream.

But then he keeps the breath in his lungs, not releasing it in a shout. He suddenly realizes that he is alone here, way out in the field. No one is within sight anywhere—absolutely no one. And not a single person is going to come and see this miracle. He is alone with this magnificent thing and he cannot share it with anyone.

His joy is laden with a sinking sadness. Some joy is still there but it is not the same, it feel hollow, and sterile. The excited gasp simply lay heavily in the bottom of his lungs. That gasp, and the urge to yell, they both fade away to nothing. And the joy of sharing it with another is lost forever. And no sound comes out of the boy. And suddenly he feels very empty and all alone.

The boy broods, sitting for a while feeling sorry for his loss. Then, glumly he starts to burn some more leaves. But as he burns each one, it brings a more decreasing level of excitement. The boy is angry at something, perhaps the other people who were not around to see his moment of joy and behold what he has done. Maybe he is angry at God, who could be unjustly punishing him. But he suddenly thinks that it is not wise to be angry at God. So he concludes that most likely it is fate that he is mad at. He is cross; it shows on his face as he sits burning leaves.

Suddenly he notices something move in his peripheral vision. He turns his head to see what it is. It is a large indigenous Texas red ant crawling across the ground nearby. The boy’s anger remains but his excitement is piqued.

The small boy instantly has the illumination that he can also burn the red ant instead of just leaves. It is a fact that all young boys will agree that burning red ants is much more preferable to leaves. Sadly, it is most likely the taking of life itself which makes this act so appealing to a boy. This action brings a small boy a sense of power and control of which he has known very little, in his short life. And killing the ant makes a little boy feel less small. And every young boy desperately wants to be bigger. No little boy ever wants to be small.

So alone in the field, the boy now can burn the red ant, and he is no longer sullen. He feels energized, excited, and his magnetic gaze follows the crawling ant.

He goes over and carefully puts four thick twigs around the ant boxing it in. Then the boy inspects it with his magnifying glass. He looks at the joints in the legs, the blood red shell of the ant, the head, thorax and abdomen. He sees the posterior thorn which houses its stinger.

The ant tries to escape as it scurries from one twig to another, always reaching the impediment and quickly turning to scamper in another direction. It stops in the middle of the square. It is almost as if its brain is grinding away to pick the right instinct to help get it out of the trap.

The boy holds the magnifying lens so that a soft diffuse light shines on the ant. It is not hot, it is just bright. The ant reacts to the light and scuttles quickly from one side to another. It works itself into a frenzied state. It is moving from side to side like a billiard ball bouncing off the banks of a table.

Finally the boy takes his enlarging glass and he pulls a tight, white, magical circle of light into focus. He summons fire from the sky, like a little god, and commands it to come down and smite the red ant that he has enmity for.

The young predator stalks the ant with the searing disc. He brings the brilliant point to rest upon the insect.  The ant bolts in a panic to scurry out from underneath it. But the young huntsman tracks the insect’s movement magnetically keeping the hot bright point right on top of his prey.

The ant’s flight quickly slows, and then it comes to a stop. The tiny insect’s legs fail it, they buckle beneath its weight, and the ant falls forward and then its entire body collapses to the ground. It curls its body up instinctually in protection. It can no longer move.

The light continues to sear and the thorax of the arthropod puffs up a tiny column of swirling smoke. Suddenly a fleeting flash of white fire appears, and then quickly departs. But the fierce point of sunlight remains.

Then the ant’s crimson, outer skeleton of chitin begins to boil out the vital fluids. The body becomes a sizzling red globule which hisses and erupts in hundreds of miniscule bubbles. They come from the center and expand outwards in all directions. These thick tiny red bubbles burst and spit angrily from the surface. The acrid-sweet smell of the burning hits the boy’s nostrils.

The boy is relentless and continues to burn the cerise globule until all the liquid is vaporized, leaving a dark brown desiccated chunk. And light still bears down formidably. The mass contracts under the intense heat, and displays innumerable tiny cracks—it looks like a tiny roasted coffee bean. Finally, the spot of hotness sears this mass until it burns down into an insignificant, charred, black pellet. These remains expel a whisper of defeat in a final thin miasma of spiraling white smoke.

The boy looked at the carbonized remains of the ant. A slight squeeze between his thumb and forefinger would grind it to black powder, but he did not want to touch it. He noticed the faint red stain that bordered the perimeter of the remains. It was the crusted dry liquids that seeped from the ant’s body. And although he did not understand why, something seemed solemn, and he felt a strange feeling that he never recalled feeling before.

The boy realized that a life, no matter how insignificant it may seem, is still a life. He was struck by a nebulous perception that there is something profound in the taking of a life, any life, and it was something he had not realized before today.

He thought that there was something that he should learn from this experience. It seemed to make no sense to kill the ant without making it right by gaining some small amount of wisdom. But he could not figure it out.

A life was taken, and it was gone forever. The boy once again felt very empty and all alone. And only the infinite stillness of death remained to keep him company.

Guest Writer Beverly Stevens

Repost: See Original Article with Media.

In most societies, it is believed that the highest moral standards and values are taught by our religions. We pass religious and moral values down from parent to child, generation after generation. Most people in religious societies firmly believe: Their society would fall apart without good, strong religious guidance. Without religion, we would be engulfed in evil. Without religion, all that is good would end and chaos would follow. Without religion, nothing would stop people from committing crimes, and our very lives would be at risk every moment. Belief in God or Allah is the only thing that keeps us safe.

The implied truth of this has been told to us by our parents, our religious leaders, our religious friends, and our holy books (the Bible, the Koran). Many are so certain that this is true that they won’t question the validity of their beliefs. And, those who do question (nonbelievers) are obviously flawed and morally fallen people.

Fear of punishment does stop people from doing wrong, but does it make people more moral?

Story: At the end of the day at a small grocery store about to close a young clerk is counting the money taken in that day, having several thousand dollars sitting on the counter. Just as two strangers walk into the store, the clerk becomes suddenly ill and makes a mad dash to the restroom, leaving all of the money unguarded on the counter.

The first man approaches the counter and sees the cash. He has just lost his job and is in financial trouble. The money on the counter is his for the taking. He thinks of how he can survive a little longer with that money. He sees the security camera, then, decides he won’t take any money because he doesn’t want to go to jail for stealing and walks away.

The second man approaches the counter and sees the cash. He also has just lost his job and is in financial trouble. The money on the counter is his for the taking. He thinks of how he can survive a little longer with that money. Then, he thinks, he would not like to live in a world where people just take what they want. He likes living in a civilized society where people have a right to keep what they earn without fear. He walks away.

Which man has the better moral compass as illustrated above?

1) the first man who saw the camera

2) the second man who wants to live in a fair society

The first man lacked an internal, moral value system. He didn’t steal because of fear of punishment. If the only reason a person chooses not to commit a crime is because he fears going to jail (or to Hell), he has not internalized his moral values. The second man is more moral. Both of the men in the scenario above could have been religious or nonreligious.

Statistics show that the number of criminals in American prisons who profess to be atheist, according to the Federal Bureau of Prisons (1997), is only 0.2%. While the number of people in America who claim to be nonreligious is 10-18%. Percentage wise, there are far more religious people in prison than nonreligious. Fear of punishment does stop most people from doing wrong, but it does not make those people more moral.

My goal, when we moved to a new city, was to have my children connect with other children with high moral standards and values. So, I took them to church and got them involved in all of the church activities. When my olest daughter, age 16, went on a weekend retreat with her youth group, I was shocked to learn that the only teen in the group to sneak in beer was the preacher’s son. The preacher and his wife had only two children. How could children raised in a home with two “religiously perfect” parents go against the church’s moral teachings to do this? Shortly after, my second daughter, age 14, was attending a friend’s birthday party when a church friend showed up stoned on drugs. His parents were the most religious people I had ever met.

If religion is the best teacher of moral values, then, the most devoutly religious families would raise the most moral children–based on the moral standards and beliefs of their religion. These children, mentioned above, had not internalized their church’s moral value system. Still, shouldn’t the fear of Hell have been enough to keep them behaving morally?

Why isn’t the fear of burning in Hell enough fear to keep children from following a church’s moral teachings? How can Pastor Ted Haggard preach against homosexuality; then, get caught committing homosexual acts; then, become a preacher again? How can Catholic priests teach morality, then rape children, and still remain Catholic priests? Why isn’t fear of Hell enough to keep people moral?

Most religions have moral loopholes. For instance, in Muslim countries it has been documented that men can sign a marriage certificate before entering a house of prostitution, have sex, then, immediately after, get a divorce. In Christian religions people can be absolved of their sins through confession, and sometimes penance. Another way for a “sinner” to avoid Hell is to be ‘born again’. Since men dominate and control religions, they have more loopholes available to them than do women. “Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.” Seneca the Younger, circa 4 BC-65 AD

Religious believers claim they are guided by the “good book” for moral guidance. There are moral teachings in the Bible and in the Koran. In truth, there are more verses in both books that we, today, would consider to be immoral. Here are some examples from the Bible:

In Judges, 21, God gives instructions on how to rape your [non-Hebrew] enemy’s women.

In Numbers 31 and Deuteronomy 20, God encouraged child rape. There are 613 laws in the Old Testament, and not one prohibits pedophilia

In Deuteronomy 22, God punishes rape of an unattached young [Hebrew] woman with a small payment to her dad, then, requires the victim to marry her rapist. What a loving God!

Clearly, the God of the Bible intends for us to have slaves and instructs us on how to beat them (Lev. 25:44, New Testament: Titus 2:9). A man’s daughter can be sold into slavery.

We are told to kill our children if they disobey us–in the Bible (Deut. 21).

Women in all religious books are treated like property (1Corinthians 14).

If you read the holy books of the major religions, you will find there is no religion of peace. In fact, more wars have been fought in the name of religion than for any other reason. The Koran is full of passages telling followers to kill in the name of Allah, as is the Bible. Matthew 10:34–Jesus states that he did not come to bring peace. Today, Middle Eastern Muslim countries indoctrinate their school children with hate, teach them to use weapons, and instill a willingness to kill and die.

In Saudi Arabia where the Muslim religious law (Sharia Law) is strictly enforced, gender apartheid is practiced. Women are not safe to walk the streets of their town alone. If a girl is raped, her father feels it’s his duty to murder her (honor killing). If a woman breaks a law (like lets hair show in public), she is sometimes buried to her neck, then stoned to death. Women can be attacked, even murdered, by men without any punishment to the men. Boys are raised to lord over their sisters and mother. Sometimes they are taught to beat both. The boys are beaten into submission to behave like Muslim men. Men and boys gather in the town square after prayer to watch beheadings or hangings. They call their religion the Religion of Peace.

If you are from a Muslim family, you would not dare denounce your religion for fear of having a fatwa (death sentence) put on your head. Most of us who come from Christian families have great, great, great grandparents who also feared turning from religion under punishment of death. In Europe, instruments of torture had to be blessed by a priest, and witches were burned. If true freedom of religion and from religion had prevailed over the past 2000 years, many of today’s staunchest Christians would not have been born into Christian families. When the government dictates that everyone have a certain religion or death, people become strong believers.

Today, people in many Western cultures are finally free to admit to not having a religion. The fear of saying, “I am an atheist,” still lingers. But, because atheists in western societies are finally not at risk of losing their lives for speaking out and are free to speak up about their dislike of religion in all aspects of secular life like school and government, Christians are saying they are under attack. For virtually the first time in recorded history nonbelievers, atheists, can finally step out of the closet and ask for a little respect from their oppressors (Christians, Muslims, Jews), and they are told that they are attacking religion. How absurd!

Where do good morals come from if not from religion? The reason that all religious groups have different rules concerning what is and what is not good and moral is that people decide what verses and parts of their holy books they want to represent them. Even within a church or religious sect, you hear, in free societies, things like, “Well, I’m not an Old Testiment Christian,” or “I still have wine with dinner even though my church disapproves of drinking.” We all have our own moral compass, so we choose a religious group according to what it teaches and practices, if we live in a country where we have the opportunity to choose. People who live where there is a separation of church and state have the opportunity to choose where they want to worship, and if they want to worship at all. By doing this, you are choosing the values you want to follow, so you have a moral compass that is guiding you to make this decision. Your morality comes from within: the way you see the world; the way you want to world to be.

“It is only by dispelling the clouds and phantoms of Religion that we shall discover Truth, Reason, and Morality.” Baron d’Holbach

Since their beginnings, Reason, Empiricism, and Knowledge were branded as evil. And in time, scholars of these three systems had unforgivably crossed the line. Their first crime was the heresy of suggesting new truths, which were incongruent with the common, long-held, older truths that had stood for so long as sacrosanct.

And the new truths suggested were realized by the Church to be an exigent and perilous threat. It was a threat to established Orthodoxy and in some cases, its Canon. This created great enmity in the Church leaders towards such scholars who submitted these new truths.

For to assert such evil things may well upset their herd’s placidity, if unchecked. And to spook the hurt could cause a stampede. So the Church condemned these systems formally and execrated their scholars. And everyone then knew that these “new truths,” were really all just lies propagated by the Devil.

And the people of the masses did not love their enemies. Indeed, they held hostility towards anyone who did not also condemn these lies as evil, such as they did. The flock would ask them to recant and if they did not then the flock would revile them, would ostracize them, and would greatly distrust them as being evil themselves.

The herd did this in adherence to the Church’s suggestion but also because of the fear that they had for those believing in new truths. It was not right to question the older truths, or to disagree, in anyway with their established faith.

So reason, empiricism, and knowledge were never things that convinced most people. To protect its security the group saw that the tree of knowledge must be felled. And they knew that the fruit to be poisonous and would not eat it.

So dissention had been quashed, but at the cost of great loss. The herd had come to hate the one thing that could lead to progress and change. And it was at the cost of that which held the promise of bringing benefit to the entire world. This was the second fall of man. And it was perhaps a much greater sin than it was the first time.

This blog, which is sponsored by Slim-Fast canned diet shakes, is deep in the pocket of corporate funding, subsidized to create a mudslinging campaign against me. It has now released a smear campaign against my scientifically validated diet product, Captain Skinny’s, lightning-speed diet breakfast cereal with Taper-Slim ® miracle marshmallows.

A recent post on The Anvil explicitly accused me of “Swindling “Morbidly Obese” back-water yokels, and other country-fried rubes out of their precious food stamps for big profits. It incorrectly stated that I am selling a dangerous diet quack-cereal which has killed 172 people. This is an outright distortion as that number is highly exaggerated.

The post further claimed that I operate as a criminal, under the guise of a legitimate business man, selling Captain Skinny’s at rural county fairs. This is an outright distortion. I operate, with a valid permit, in the parking lot of the Essex County chicken plucking factory, and sometimes at upstanding county hog-wresting contests held at state licensed mud gambling pits.

I want to assure all 3 of my blog viewers here at Weird Dude, that no words ever spoken could be more malicious, false, and also hurtful. I want to publicly state that Captain Skinny’s is a healthy, safe, and moreover a permanent solution to being overweight. Captain Skinny’s also tastes great, as it is the only diet cereal on the market that contains sugar, dark chocolate, real butter, cream cheese, and butter scotch.

And dieting is easy as users are recommended to eat at least 2 huge bowls of Diet Skinny’s at breakfast and two heavy meals a day. Each box of Captain Skinny’s also comes with a carton of appetite curbing filter-less cigarettes and one free can of maple-bacon, syrup to pour all over each 8,000 calorie bowl of this revolutionary diet cereal.

Taper-Slim ® Miracle Marshmallows!

If you are thinking, “Come on, do you really expect me to believe that a diet product which allows me to eat whatever I want actually works? The answer is “yes,” but you don’t have to take my word for it, just try one box of Captain Skinny’s, lightning-speed diet breakfast cereal with Taper-Slim ® miracle marshmallows, and discontinue–forever.

After that, you may eat anything you want, and as much as you want, for the rest of your life, and you will never need to diet ever again! That’s guaranteed. If you don’t lose all the weight, and keep it off, I will personally drive to your home and issue you a giant cashier’s check for $20,000 dollars!

Everyone knows Slim Fast does not work. And everyone also knows that you starve to death for the time you are using it. Don’t believe The Anvil’s lies. Try Captain Skinny’s if it doesn’t work I will dump a huge pile of cash on your doorstep!

Disclaimer: The weight loss ingredient Taper-Slim® works for the reason that each delicious “miracle marshmallow” is riddled with dozens organic fertilized tapeworm eggs. In a clinical study, test subjects who were treated with Taper-Slim ® marshmallows reported that they had to eat 5 times the amount of groceries as they did before using Captain Skinny’s, as compared to patients who used Slim Fast canned diet shakes. Some Taper-Slim® users experienced sensations similar to “painful hunger” when they did not choose to carry on a constant gorging body fat maintenance process. However, this pain subsided in several weeks in such subjects, as they all eventually died from starvation. Consult your veterinarian before using Captain Skinny’s to see if the product is right for you. By buying one box of Captain Skinny’s users agree not to sue in the case of serious medical problems or death that may result from use.

Contains Tapeworm Eggs

Filed under: Fake News, Onion News Like Humor, PG 13 Humor, Satire Tagged: Bing, bizarre, Cars, comedy, fake news, fox, funny, Google, Health, humor, Marshmallow, oddities, Recreation, satire, Search Engines, Shopping, silly, Slim Fast, Support Groups, Twitter, weird, weird dude, WordPress, WTF?, yahoo ]]> https://weirddude.wordpress.com/2011/07/31/lightning-speed-diet-breakfast-cereal/feed/ 3 bryanedmondson captain skinnys slimfast-photo captain skinnys bowl of ceral captain skinnys tapeworm diet https://weirddude.wordpress.com/2011/07/15/3-shocking-questions/ https://weirddude.wordpress.com/2011/07/15/3-shocking-questions/#comments Fri, 15 Jul 2011 16:04:37 +0000 Bryan Edmondson http://weirddude.wordpress.com/?p=870 Continue reading →]]>

Weird Dude: An Interview with the Eric Baker,

Editor in Chief of “The Anvil.”

1. Eric Baker:        Hanson Anderson, Why are you so weird?

My reply:               “Weird,” is such an ugly word, and believe me; I hear that question a lot from just about everyone. Frankly, I’m rather confused as to why people would ask me that.

Am I “Weird,” just because I do things in an unconventional way? Most people don’t realize this, but thinking out-side the litter box, well this is what geniuses do. And not just cat geniuses, but real people geniuses.

And a lot of illustrious geniuses did eccentric things. So I’m really quite OK with the fact that I pompously wear a cowbell around my neck everywhere that I go. Leonardo da Vinci did that too. And Edison, like me, delighted in sitting alone in his study, in a high-back chair, butt-naked, while tootling on the French horn to the beat of a metronome. And Henry Ford, in his later years, did just what I did – he disavowed cars, and for the rest of his life, he rode on the back of a winnowed old Chinese grandmother everywhere he traveled.

And so what if I like to stand in the middle of the town square and make-believe that I am the town crier— doing such while wearing an 18^th century style, standard, town crier crier’s screaming-suit, and matching purple, crushed velvet, tri-corner hat? Nobody called Benjamin Franklin a cracked egg when he did it. And he even wore an outrageously narcissistic belt; a belt that consisted of a series of 23 tiny, shiny, tinkling bells – and would wear this while boldly gyrating and swinging his hips—like he was really workin’ a hula hoop—while stealing the hearts of lonely, swooning, syphilitic maidens.

And just like Einstein, I too have always yearned for a moon-rock, belt buckle; and a quantum-defraculating ray gun—which was not only quantum-defraculatory in nature but was also equipped with a gamma-plasmatic, infrared, night-vision targeting scope; A mannish-firearm which was powered by a highly radioactive, uranium-core cylinder. This gun of course, would therefore discharge a highly-concentrated, omnidirectional, laser beam. A laser beam which could be controlled by an easily accessible control switch on the side of the ray-gun. This gun’s would be adjustable to the standard 3 Star Trek settings of stun/kill/deodorize.

2.Eric Baker:       Hanson, are you not actually “mentally retarded?”

My reply:              No, I am not “retired,” which is another very ugly world. Quite to the contrary, I am “special.” And when I was a child, my Mother got a telephone call from my school principal, a psychologist, and an angry bus driver–and they all said the very same thing. After that, I got to ride to a new school, in a newer, shorter than average bus. In class, I sat on the floor next to a boy who wore a helmet, and smelled like mayonnaise. He compulsively picked his nose, and then stuck his finger in my face to show me. We were best friends. I don’t know his name since he was a mute, but we were a team. We spent every day in class making things with our circle of paper, safety scissors, and then we finger painted them using a huge, shared pile of our own steaming, human, boy-dung. So I feel like this all speaks for itself, viz. I am “Special,” not “Retired.”

3. Eric Baker:        Hanson if you were an animal, what would you be and why?

My reply:                 I would be an iron cat wrapped in a huge coil of copper wire, of which the ends of both sides of the wire were attached, on end on each pole of an Alkaline D battery, which would of course, be shoved up my butt.

Eric Baker:     -Why in the world…. WTF?

My reply:          Look Mr. Baker, if I were such a magneto-cat, everyone would finally have to call me a “Pussy Magnet,” and I could also stick to the door of the refrigerator-which would be pretty cool and convenient.

4. Eric Baker:      Do you still dress up a goat in lingerie and pretend it is Sarah Palin? Or did you stop after that court order?

My Reply:              We talked about this, god damn it. This interview is over…..

WEEK OF MONDAY/06/27/2011

Aries It’s very principled of you, not to mention brave, to stand by your beliefs, but by week’s end you’ll have graphically conclusive proof that bullfighting is not fake.

Taurus this week’s revelations will be especially traumatic for you unless you get it through your thick head that sex is natural and that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with transvestism.

Gemini You were just being clever, if a bit arch, when you said “Either this wallpaper goes or I do,” but the wallpaper will use its powerful social connections to have you ostracized from polite society.

Cancer You’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason, so there will probably be a perfectly reasonable explanation for what the less philosophical would call your senseless death next week.

Leo It was probably a little cynical for you to have used such base physical tactics to get a husband, but on the other hand, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Virgo You’ve always thought your life would be better if you could go back in time and tell yourself a few things, so it’ll be pretty depressing this week when you find out you’ve tried that already.

Libra You’ve never claimed to be a genius, but you have a nagging suspicion that you should have known sheets could be changed.

Scorpio Your drug experimentation enters an exciting new phase when you find one that makes the throbbing pain in your head subside almost completely.

Sagittarius You will find precious little to live for now that the age of the extended synthesizer jam is well and truly over.

Capricorn You can’t understand why people keep telling you they’re tired of your act. Why, the costume changes alone are nothing short of breathtaking.

Aquarius Take heart—there is absolutely nothing wrong with love. However, be warned that love is not exactly what you’re feeling for those poor terrified nurses. Pisces You will indeed live fairly fast, and you’ll die relatively young, but no one will be able to say you left a beautiful corpse.

"AN AGED CHRIST HAD NOT BEEN FEELING OR LOOKING WELL"

“He hasn’t been looking or feeling well as he had lost a lot of skin and hair, and most of his lower teeth,” said one Arch Angel who did not want to be identified by name. “He had sort of let himself go just sitting in a throne, on the right hand of god.”

“Sitting so long on God’s right hand for 2,000 years apparently has left God’s hand numb and tingly,” said St. Peter. The Saint also issued a statement to the press for Christians to, “… keep Lifeless Jesus in their prayers and to continue blindly having faith.” Then Saint Peter stated that the Rigor mortis is being treated by The Son of God’s personal Cardiologist, an ex- Catholic Priest—Dr. Sr. Pedro Philia M.D.

Dr. Philia, who has been Christ’s personal physician during this entire stressful ordeal, stated that he estimated his Holy, departed patient, will take up to 6 full days at least, to rise from the dead for the second time.

STONED PRE-ROLLED AWAY FOR CHRIST

“I wrote a prescription for grave robbers to just go ahead roll the stone away from the door of my patient’s tomb-before he arises; we just can’t risk exerting him after his state of not being alive,” stated Dr. Philia. “We have also installed hand rails in the tomb so that he can walk out on his own,” Philia said. Off the record Pedro Philia said he is “very optimistic.”

“Another postponement for the Apocalypse is expected to follow while Christ recovers,” said St. Peter. He continued, “Everyone is used to this by now, and you also know that prayer isn’t really that effective, but all ticket holders to the Armageddon fireworks showing can just hold on to them. They will still be good as long as you have not scratched off the hologram of Mohammed.”

PLEASE HOLD ONTO YOUR TICKETS.

Christians are urged to have patience. “We appreciate your cooperation in this matter. We apologize for the inconvenience of the main performer dying, and missing the recently scheduled Armageddon. Just get on with hoping for the next time the world is going to end—it will be coming any time soon, ” reassured the Saint.

PR SPOKESMAN ST. PETER

God, Christ’s Surviving Father was grieving, but then he suddenly had a violent mood swing and wrathfully, enjoyed a good killing of 10,080 South Africans had had no access to Life Saving condoms. He said, “One can’t grieve for eternity, I just have to get on with my life – at least till my son comes back to life, and hopefully one day moves out on his own.

THROUGH GRIEVING. MOVING ON WITH LIFE

If you love to hate the Billionaire, Misanthrope, and reviled Blogger, Eric J. Baker, (Editor in chief of The Anvil Fake News), you will want to go to Amazon immediately, and buy my new electrifying book. The 876 page Compendium includes answers to the following questions, as well as, hundreds of lurid, jaw-dropping facts, and numerous shocking and bizarre lists. The book has all of these things and much, much more.

Below are just 10 of the 247 Topics covered in this Book:

1) Are there 8 unspeakable secrets Eric Baker has, that would ruin him if they were made known to the general public? The Answer is “Yes.” And a list of these horrific secrets will be provided in this book—you can decide for yourself if we should re-legalize stoning–and pummel him to death, with his own private collection of 297 rare pet rocks, circa 1979.

2) What’s the deal with Eric Baker’s 6 outrageously concocted Farmville conspiracy theories?—theories that Mark Zuckerberg hinted may actually be true! Is Face Book planning to kill us all with this God damned Farmville App? A list of Eric’s conspiracy-theories and your ultimate mortal fate are provided.

3) Read excerpts from Eric Baker’s Private (but not well hidden) personal diary, including a list of the transsexuals that he insists are Bangkok’s 5 most mind-blowing, she-male, erotic strippers of all time. This list –and a picture of the one tranny who stole, then later, broke his heart-are all provided in this book.

4) Why on earth did the Government issue Eric Baker a secret license to kill? And why does it stipulate that he can only kill a Human Being if he uses a strand of dental floss to do so? Should we all stop flossing to be safer? The answers will surprise you. They are provided in this tome.

5) Is Eric Baker really as accident prone as we hear? The Answer is “Yes.” See the official list of the 10 most common and bizarre calamities, which Eric Baker is constantly hospitalized for. Also, I’m sure you want to know, if in addition to Eric Baker having one of these accidental tragic episodes; is it absolutely true that you would be gruesomely killed–if by pure bad luck, you happened to be standing near Eric Baker? Again, the answer is a resounding “Yes.” Not only does he routinely do bizarre things, injuring himself, due to misfired reflexes, caused by an extra 3 chromosomes–but he also inadvertently, and senselessly, commits man-slaughter, each week, killing dozens of innocent bystanders in the process. This book reveals the horrors. You are probably saying to yourself, “Does Eric Baker really live on the road, constantly driving through all 50 states, in his diamond covered Rolls Royce?” The answer will stun you. He may be headed your way! Also, if he does, and he eventually will, be standing next to you–and have a random-reflexive-fit accident– you will learn the specific way Eric Baker will statistically be most likely to accidentally murder you; as revealed by your Horoscope. The 4 most unlucky signs to be born under will be provided. How painful will your probable death be? Were you born in the “month of the be-headed?” The book will set you straight-with the facts.

6) A list of the Five bizarre, unthinkable things that no one knows about Eric Baker–because he did all 5 things in a Maximum Security Prison, while alone in solitary confinement, in total darkness, living on sewage water and prison rats. No one really knows these 5 amazing and amoral crimes he committed, except for me–thanks to the help of gruesome torture. And the 5 things I had to cut 8 of his fingers off, to get him to tell me, are revealed to you in this book.

7) Six things Eric Baker has in common with Satan. Is it really true that Satan and Eric Baker attended the same community college together, while living in a roach-ridden apartment as roommates? And did they, when finishing a major exam, really both go to the grave yard to celebrate, by digging up dead bodies? If so, what did they do with, (or to) these dead bodies? Find out about the disgusting amoral reality of all of these questions, as they will be answered in this Compendium.

8) Nine things one can learn from Eric Baker, which can help even a total sissy, to survive in prison. For example: One way is to pretend you are Eric Baker, and then act like he would in a given prison scenario. Avoid being raped, by acting as crazy as he does. He’s born to intimidate, he’s also a cannibal, but most of all: he constantly irritates people to their wits end, thereby pushing them away, by extremely unthoughtful, and impolite behaviors; such as interrupting another prisoner who is in the middle of telling a story, to other convicts in the prison mess hall–maybe a story about some guy he shived—but was cut off by Eric Baker asking a totally unrelated question. This is the way to socially ostracize yourself from the lusty clutches of “Bull Queers,” the draw back is that you will have no friends, but the upside is that you will never be some hairy ape’s “Prison Bitch.” The rest of the prison survival tips you can learn from following Eric Baker’s example, you can read about, as they are revealed in my publication.

9) Ten ways that civilization could collapse because of Eric Baker. Find out here before it is too late to build your family an emergency moon-escape rocket.

10) Eric Baker, Pornography, and the Sexual Industry: 10 common misconceptions held–Misconceptions that happen to all ironically all be entirely true. These anti-misconceptions are revealed to you in this book.

I personally guarantee that this will be the best book that you have ever read. You are probably asking out loud, “If I do not like it, will you send me back double the money that I paid for the crappy, rip-off, stupid book? The answer is “NO.” Instead, I will send you back triple the amount of the original money that you paid! That’s how sure I am that this book will knock your socks off; so go to Amazon Now and get your copy before it is too late.

Note: The collectors’ hardback edition contains a life-sized centerfold poster of a shirtless Eric J. Baker eating a live, terrified, screaming kitten–ripping it apart with his bare hands and pointy, saliva-drooling teeth.

IT IS A BLOG OF EVIL

MIRACLE ONION

If you should feel stress, or work related panic- just take a long hot bath. Dry off, then walk into the kitchen completely nude. If you have roommates it is in good taste to leave a note beforehand.

Take a pot of water and boil a large green onion for exactly 7 minutes. No more. No less.

When it is done, use your, LEFT hand and quickly shove the boiled onion into the end of a long ,cotton work sock. Your hand will be badly burned after you do this. Simply coat it in goose grease for the pain. It will heal.

Now tie the sock and onion around your neck. The onion should hang done to your chest at heart level. If breasts are in the way – use duct tape.

Then slather peanut butter under each arm pit before going to bed.

Now use your RIGHT hand and find a large wooden spoon – as you will need it later. Go lie down in bed.

Lie naked and on your back and stare straight up at the ceiling. it is vital to: stay awake. so just lay there awake, staring At the ceiling.Just keep the onion on your heart. Don’t let your breasts touch it. If they do. your heart will stop.

Stay awake. Firmly grasp and hold the large, wooden spoon in your RIGHT hand – stay awake -resist the urge to drift off to sleep.

You must not let go of the spoon. If the spoon falls out of your hand: then an anonymous stranger will die a horrible death. Any pets that they have, might even slowly starve to death if the dead stranger’s body is not found in time. Duct tape is good to keep it attached to your hand.

DO NOT DROP!

All you have to do is stay AWAKE and HOLD the spoon. If you feel scared you can scream.

You are with your onion so you are never alone.

Concentrate on the feeling of peanut butter in your pits to help you stay awake.

Do not sleep until the onion is dry. When the onion is dry you can sleep. It will dry in about 5 to 6 days. So go to the bathroom before bed.

I do this all the time. And I am never lonely. Just very afraid that I will drop the spoon, or that the onion will touch my man teats and many will die.

Good luck.

DO YOU WANT TO GO TO HELL?

Let’s face it; old people are useless, I mean no disrespect but they look like old shriveled up, dried out lizards. They are metaphorical Reptiles that need all sorts of unnecessary extravagances like elbow cream, heart medication, and gold bond brand anti – itch powder. Also they smell like urine. Need I say more?

They probably will often be peeling an empty banana. Every five minutes they forget their address and have no idea the old lady in the room is actually their husband or wife of 50 years and are likely to soon do something stupid. Like mistakenly sit in a bean bag chair. That’s like a turtle on its back in the dessert. They aren’t getting out of that chair alive. If you really want to help them, then go buy a coffin.

They widow can embroider her pillow with to word Singula. That’s the way old people should live – alone and unwanted. Out of sight is my preference. What should we let them do? Engage in vigorous necking like the one episode that conceived you? No they are genetic baggage that serves no purpose to procreate like God meant and perpetuate the species. The seed packet it empty. Throw it away. They never should even think of sex. My grandmother wasn’t named Anita Hardcock. She was named Grandma. And Grandmas shouldn’t be exposed to a wrinkled flaccid Old Man’s Penis.

If Grandma is living with you-If she can’t make damn good cookies and work a mop, lawnmower, hand wash all the dishes and clean house for at least 6 hours every day-consult your local yellow pages for the cheapest old folk’s home, or better yet, a free shelter for the homeless.

You don’t want Grandpa living with you period. Trust me. Men don’t do women’s work like God intended. He is of no use to you at all. You can’t teach an old dog with cataracts new tricks. He’s too tired, and will only knock over things in the house if you try – because he’s blind. Simply put: He’s a flatulent genetic dead end who is just running out the clock while you pay for it all in hard earned cash. A widower will just bore you to tears with what he calls “funny stories,” which are not actually funny as much as they are very, very, long. Unless you want to spend six hours a day listening to a filibuster like -monologue with no plot, that sponteously take off on random, irrelevant, tangential topics without a segue – Remember: Homeless shelter.

Inspired By Steven Colbert. Edited by Hanson Anderson

BILLIONAIRE ERIC BAKER’S SMUT BLOG

BILLIONAIRE  ERIC BAKER, MISANTHROPE AND CHIEF EDITOR OF THE ANVIL

LOS ANGELES, CA. – Young Innocent Billy Beasley, 6 was traumatized last month, when he was researching the internet for his Hero, Tea Party Candidate Sarah Palin, so he could write a story about the Conservative Gun toting Christian Political “Role Model” for a school assignment. However, tragically, when young Billy typed “Palin” into the Google search box and hit “I feel lucky,” he sure got “lucky” – “lucky” the way a sailor would define lucky!

Young Beasley clicked a link, a link he thought- was for a story that would be about Sarah Palin (A Hero,) except that the picture that showed on his monitor, after clicking the hyperlink, was an essentially nude picture of Sarah Palin (A Whore.) This actually was a “look-alike Sarah Palin” loosely clad in scanty black negligée

Weird Dude Fake News will give you three guesses which site Billy was snared into, but you will only need one! That’s right; young Christian, Billy Beasley was hoodwinked into seeing the internationally reviled Fake News Blog known as “The Anvil.”

As devoted Fake News Patrons, we have all been sickened by this Blog.  As you are aware, this Bogus Newscast Trap is a mega-smut-blog, inspired by Brainchild, Billionaire Eric J. Baker--who is enraging the Word Press community as the much-debauched, “Old Ancestor.”

While Baker maintains that his Degenerate Portal of Obscenity offers only “Objective-but inoffensive, PG-13, family-style, Broadcast Reporting—But the Article young Billy Beasley read, an article which landed the Young Christian 6 year old Boy in a Psychiatric Hospital, paints a very different picture of Eric J. Baker’s Blog. A dark, ugly, wicked picture.

Billie was horrified simply by seeing a picture of what he mumbled was Sarah Palin, the “Whore of Babylogna.”

However, he was later completely emotionally shattered when he read further, and found the article stated that the nude sacrilege of a portrait was actually a picture of a “Sarah Palin Look-Alike.”

But wait, it gets worse! This was a picture of a Look-Alike that was genetically an African American Man! Young Billy saw what pornographers call a “chick with a dick;” that has underwent a record 233 cosmetic surgeries, in a quest to become an exact replica of former Alaska governor, and vice-presidential candidate, Sarah Palin.

Billy was horribly and coldly victimized by The Anvil, and was subsequently, briefly hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital where he wrote his “Trauma Note.”

Since that time he has been released to the care of a psychiatrist, with whom he is in intensive therapy. Billy is analyzed 3 times a week, and also now on several strong psychiatric medications. Drugs required for him to function, ever since seeing a very different side of Palin.

Billy, who wanted to grow up and vote for the Tea Party, and also hoped to preach the word of Jesus Christ, serving as a Pastor, now does not know what to do.

Billy’s mother stated, “He is very confused; he stopped crying after the medication but the Haldol, Xanax, Paxil, Ritalin, Thorazine, and Morphine just barely takes the edge off; Billy now thinks the real Sarah Palin is some person with boobies and a “dinky-dangle.” He is really not able to comprehend things anymore; I fear we will lose him to permanent mental illness.”

Billy now doubts his future political stance, saying that he will now probably vote as a, “Librel Dumacrat.” Moreover, two weeks after hand writing his angry letter, Billy has now begun to question the existence of Jesus himself. He is now a fence-sitting 6 year old agnostic!

The Anvil has put little Billy in Hell—both psychological, and perhaps literally. As young shattered and confused Beasley may one day be eternally damned for being a Democrat and Agnostic.

I sent Eric J. Baker an email asking him how he felt about the damage he was responsible for inflicting on young Billy. He replied, “The kid got the link because I paid Google 2 million to rank my Palin Look-Alike Link as the Number 1 link listed. So what do you care?”

He continues, “Hey it’s My Blog and if I want to post a stark-naked photograph of Sarah—what do I feel about all of this? I feel like I am going to do whatever I want to do!”

When asked how he can sleep at night, Eric Baker wrote: “Hey, I acquired a 1/16 percentage of all [U.S legal tender] so I sleep damn well –stark-naked—in a huge pile of cash! Ha ha ha ha ha!…”

In a post script at the end the email he wrote, “So the kid is really totally psychologically unscrewed? That’s certainly God-da*ned entertaining!….Say, is there any way I could acquire a photograph of him? I will make it worth your while. I’ll have my chauffeur drive a dump-truck of money and empty it in your driveway….”

I was so infuriated that I did not reply, and added him to my “blocked sender” list on my email program.

GIVE KIDS THE BIBLE!  KEEP YOUR CHILDREN AWAY
FROM THE ANVIL’S PORNOGRAPHY!

Eco-Friendly, Solar-Powered Chainsaw

Lusty, Transsexual, Lumberjack Log-Running Contests

Nuclear Powered Bulldozer Driving Into the Future!

Exquisite Edible Bumper Sticker

Super-Sized, Disposable, Electron Microscope

What happens when blog comments wrong pets?

What happens when Mexican Fighting Corn enacts independence?

Velcro, Heat-Seeking Missile Sensor

Buy Holy Grail – Free Polishing Cloth.

Well Hung Inflatable Midget Amputee

SLINKY SAFETY RECALL

This week, after sixty-six years of reliably disappointing Children’s hopefulness, and dashing their expectations; Slinky® Inc. issued a National safety warning and emergency product recall for a batch of an estimated 180 malfunctioning Slinky’s which do not meet manufacturer standards or customer exceptions in the long-standing Slinky Company’s Product.

The one-hundred, eighty Slinky’s which were released through gross negligence have already been shipped to several dozen public toy stores over 3 days ago in a multi-state, disastrous mishap.

The Slinky® Inc. Legal Department Attorneys fear Slinky® Inc. may be legally liable for creating a National Panic if this issue is not quickly controlled. All attempts are being made to locate and reclaim the modicum of unsold substandard products, which have not already been purchased. If these remaining Slinky’s are not pulled from shelves and returned in compliance with this safety recall, Attorneys claim Slinky will little legal recourse if any.

DEFECTIVE SLINKYS ACTUALLY WALK DOWN STAIRS!

So far ninety-six of the malfunctioning Slinky’s have resulted in innocent Children being tragically overjoyed, when they discovered that the substandard Slinky’s “Actually did walk down the god damned stairs!”

CHILD TRAGICALLY OVERJOYED BY DEFECTIVE SLINKY!

The malfunctioning lot of downward- stair-walking Slinky’s has greatly embarrassed the company, and may have irreparably damaged brand name integrity forever.

The manufacturer requests that all defective Slinky’s be immediately returned for necessary repairs and adjustments. Slinky® Inc. is believed to negotiate for out of court settlements with the Parents of those victims who were exposed to the amazing “Child Startling Slinky’s.”

INVESTORS FEARED TO PANIC OVER SLINKY DISASTER

Director of the Department for Damage-Control, Hank Springer, urged investors “Not to Panic.” However stock holders are said to fear the dreaded stair-walking incidents will only continue to rise.

Quality control supervisor Stanley Pinkerton was fired without warning, and would not comment on the subject.

SLINKY CREATOR TURNS OVER IN GRAVE

THE HIDEOUS TEN EYED POTATO!!

I am always traumatized when I reach into a bag of potatoes, which I forgot about, and have been in my pantry for way too long. It really makes the hairs on the back of my neck raise, when I find that those once smooth, beautiful potatoes have secretly sprouted those eerie, sick, white eyes.

I just want to quickly slice off those disgusting things. Still, I cannot in all good conscience, take a knife, and start blindly stabbing at the potato trying to hack all of those pointy eyes off—it’s just somehow not right to blind a potato (Especially since potatoes, as you know, are sentient and definitely feel pain.) It would make me a monster, if I panicked and got “knife-crazy.” The starchy object could only sit there, in my palm, helplessly screaming in silence. And it would have to watch me, with its 10 terror-stricken eyes, as I was slapping away at it with my frenzied stabbing.

The only exception–the only conceivable event–in which I could actually blind a potato, would be if I had hurt a spud in some sort of a hideous criminal felony of a “potato-hate-crime.”Like maybe, using it for a softball. Then in that case, hands down, flat out, with no qualms whatsoever; I would never leave that spud with its sight. Because I sure as hell wouldn’t want that starchy, grudge holding, tuber testifying against me, in a court of law, on the stand, as a 10 eyed-witness.

I would end up doing hard time!–if that Idaho rat-of-a-spud then pointed me out, identifying me in the court room—when the prosecutor asks the victimized potato, and material eye-witness to identify the attacker in the court room – and in vindictiveness, it jumps off the witness stand chair, and then begins rolling towards me in a wobbly resolve, meandering around various obstacles, proceeding along the floor until it eventually rolls up and bumps me on the tip of my shoe.

No way, it isn’t going to happen. I’m too picky of an eater to go to prison.

The men’s public restrooms’ toilet stalls at least in Texas, where I have lived all my life, are almost always covered wall to wall inside the stall with graffiti. Most of the colorful epigrams are scribbled in ink, or sometimes magic marker, which the authors must bring with them just for this purpose. A certain percentage of the graffiti is etched into the paint with a key, or possibly a pocket knife.

Despite constant, periodic attempts, in the more upscale restrooms, to paint over the tasteless works of all the ribald authors, the walls are instantly refilled with the unstoppable phenomenon of graffiti, written by squatting defecating men.

First of all, 60% of this “prose” just is the two classic words “Fuck You.” Then ranks lusty sexually graphic descriptions of how , a guy who is surely taking a dump,” loves pussy” and fucking in general. At the University, a guy who I am assuming was Biology major wrote “I live for the titration of vaginal fatty acids.” I have to give full credit to higher education in the field of natural sciences.

It is of interest that this phenomenon of defecation and male sexual ideation has a biological basis in all probability. Guys will feel uncomfortable to hear this but the rubbing of the prostate gland creates pleasure sexually. It does NOT mean that guys are gay to feel this. It is a true fact I read in a sexual study written by physicians. So I think that this may be why most men who are defecating write the crudest sexual things, because they are having sexual stimulation from the rubbing of the prostate (during the bowel movement evacuating fecal matter out of the rectum.) I think that this results in increased sexual ideation.

However I think that the violent “Fuck You!” is probably just anger and does not fit this theory. Maybe ‘Fuck You!” is written by frustrated, retentive, constipated men? Or possibly it is mixed with sex. I have read several psychology books where the statement is made “Sex and Violence are inextricably linked and confused.” I do not understand this. It scares me to even read that. It sounds like a rapist. I have never felt any anger with sex, quite the contrary, sex makes me smile a lot. It is disturbing to think but maybe sex and anger happens in some guys. So the bowel movement may be the result of this? I don’t know that sounds far-fetched. Whatever the case or cause, there is a lot of violence in the stall graffiti.

In public restrooms outside the University the graffiti is much less scholarly and lower brow. There are the hateful racist rednecks, and Neo Nazi skin heads who scratch “I hate all fuckin niggers and wetbacks!” on the stall wall with a key. These redneck hate speech ethnic slurs’ text are scratched away with a key or struck through with a line of ink by an angry “Nigger or Wetback” Once struck out these racial slurs are almost always followed by a reply underneath the stuck out text. The offended racial groups quite justifiably reply with retorts like “crackers suck dick,” and of course just simply the appropriate pithy, laconic “Fuck you, racist Neo Nazi asshole.” Next this reply is scratched or partly effaced, and under the reply there is another partially illiterate redneck or Neo-Nazi -want-to-be who etches another fatuous retort to “Fucking Niggers or Wetbacks” I live in Texas, shameful womb of the Ku Klux Klan, and “Death to niggers” is not an uncommon reply.

Next in graffiti, and this is fairly common, at least to redeem for the sex and violence, there are some humorous, non-sexual, and non-violent topics, which are harmless. There are the well-worn poems about farting, bowel movements, or my personal favorite, “Be like dad, not like siss, lift the lid before you piss.” There is always a poem I see “Here I sit broken-hearted, came to shit but only farted.” There is always some asshole who writes “for a good fuck call _____, “then the name and number of a girl who is probably real, and rejected them sexually, or simply turned them down for a date. It can’t actually be helpful advice with an altruistic suggestion on where to find a vigorous sexual partner — why would any man want to share a “good fuck?” That would be in direct opposition to how men’s primitive midbrain logic works.

It also goes against the whole theory of Natural Selection and the goal of passing one’s genes on. By theory, as horribly sexist as it is, a male is supposed to want to make “his babies,” and avoid the un-coveted female partner having “maybe babies.” To add insult to injury of feminism then the theory states that the men want to be as promiscuous as they can to spread their genes. Of course the male then wants the female to be non-promiscuous to avoid “maybe babies.” It is just plain unfair, I like to think that human males can overcome this. However I do know for a fact that many, many guys do “think this way,” even though they are monogamous (hopefully). It is so shameful of us, but I think that this is unfortunately a hard wired evolutionary trait that has well outlived its time. We males need to evolve, and keep up with the times, and quickly. Isn’t that right ladies?

Back to the graffiti: very interesting to me is the graffiti by gay men. I am not gay myself; but I could care less if anyone is gay, I don’t have a problem with homosexuals. It may be uncomfortable for some heterosexual men to read about this, but I am going to expound upon this topic at some length, as it makes good writing material.

Gay man’s graffiti: occasionally a gay man pens a most altruistic offer on the stall wall. They write on which day of the week, and also the exact time of that day, for anyone interested, to return to that very stall and “Get a great blow job…”

Now I am sure that this offer is genuine in some cases. I say this because the University I attended, in the little used but large, library restrooms, the doors were removed from all of the stalls. This was due to the fact that gay men were indeed pairing up in locked stalls. Someone from the library staff informed me of this so I know the following on good authority.

When the incidents were first reported, and then detected by University security, the stall doors were not removed. Security would just monitor the bathrooms and look underneath the stall doors, and if necessary, then interrupted a furtive fellatio fest. The Library had solved the problem, or so they thought.

The University deemed it necessary to remove the restroom stall doors, when Security became unable to detect the orally electrifying hook-ups. This was because, and I at least have to give the gay students credit for being so clever, they were now in stealth mode and pairing up undetected and in the stalls together. This was because one student was seated on the toilet and the other was standing in a shopping bag. (I find this image a bit yucky personally, however I must at least give credit to the resourcefulness and intelligence of the inventors of the idea of nob-bobbing in a sack race to the finish line.

Now as for other public restrooms, like those stinking, one-room bathrooms outside of gas stations; I think that the blow job offer is more just a homoerotic, yet earnest wish. In any case in these crude common bathrooms, at least in Texas, I suppose it is possible that the coarse sort of repressed homosexual rednecks, if one of them was initiated enough, might shows up at the date and time of the gay to beat the shit out of a “fag.” This is personally sad to think about, especially since the blow job offers, in as much as they are literally the only kind words that are ever written on the guy’s bathroom stalls walls.

As far as I’m aware this is basically all the graffiti generally seen in Texas. I would bet my house that it is probably the same anywhere.

I have never been inside a women’s public restroom so I have always wondered what types of graffiti are written on the walls inside their bathroom stalls. I don’t think that there is any way they could be as base and crude in their prosaic filth as men are. I know from 30 years of reading the walls inside men’s public restroom stalls, I have digested the total of all existing graffiti written and scratched on every possible square inch of the walls of any of the hundreds of men’s public restroom stall. You don’t have to read it, just have a linguist and a chemist, compile, write down, and analyze all that entire testosterone saturated graffiti. Then just chop all up those shitty misspelled transcribed sentences into alphabetic characters. Mix all those ABCs it with water and run it through distilling process. Once it condenses down, it is all basically summed up it in just two words.

Two words, that’s about we guys are capable of, two words; the universal epigram of “Fuck You.”

I’d like to at least believe that just maybe, in a perfect world, if you happen to be gay and return to that one particular stall on any Monday at 1:30, and some repressed homosexual redneck doesn’t show up and beat the shit out of you-”You wind up getting a great blow job.”

This hobbling, ham-hock, and furious mud-boot-befitted, bovine-blasphemy, pagan-piglet–is on an Unholy, non-stop pilgrimage to the center of the Holy Land.

He’s the “other, Transubstantiation-white-meat,” a non-sacramental, dinner choice, for the entire Atheist Family dinner table tonight.

Sir Raging Ham, Hell-Flicker, is the quintessential, “Move it! Jesus,” “I’m coming through, and I don’t believe in using brakes!”

“He’s an unstoppable, pagan, piglet, who takes absolutely no guff.”

This is the world’s only German Engineered, Luxury 8 cylindered, Secular Hoofstomper, equipped with all Pigskin-interior, turbo-snort-charged power, and a positraction, limited slip differential.

He is not just a Pagan and a Pig, but a road speedster—and he is running hot on high octane, unleaded- sin.

A Luxury Sedan and Unholy, 7 mph, heathen, roadster; whose wheels are literally on fire.

The only, Christ-trampling, ham hellion made for efficient Messianic-pedestrian targeted, hit and runs.

And he’s headed to Isreal to put the “The Porky Unclean” int to the Kosher Scene.

However, this Week in Journalism, shocking allegations made by me-

“Weird Dude,” or “Hanson, Anderson,” paints a very different picture of Eric J. Baker. My unverifiable assertions have shaken the journalistic community at its very foundation.

I am required by law to state, that the following allegations are not true. However, as an unbiased journalist, it would be irresponsible of me to not report them here, for the general public, so that they may then judge Mr. Baker, for what he really is, a bad person – a bad person whom should be judged harshly, and with much disgust. Allow me to elaborate, if you will be so kind.

Recently, I was called to appear, and testify against “Eric J. Baker,” a.k.a. “Old Ancestor,” under oath; as an expert witness, giving testimony before the National Congressional Subcommittee on Fisheries, Wildlife, Oceans and Insular Affairs.

Below is an excerpt from the official transcript of my testimony, including all sworn statements. These attested facts, were delivered to the Congressional Subcommittee, in a secret closed chamber hearing.

CONGRESSIONAL SESSION RECORD

[Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid is seated before the senate, and he begins the proceedings--The sound of loud echoes are heard, emanating from wooden block of the leader's desk, as Senator Reid bangs his gavel 3 times]

–Transcript Begins:

Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid: “Senators; we are now in session. Before we hear this sworn testimony; I would personally like to express my great respect for the esteemed, Mr. Hanson Anderson. Furthermore, I would like to say that…..”

[An unexpected interruption]–All Senators on the floor suddenly burst out in a standing Applause. The applause is stopped 5 minutes later, by the furious sounds of The Majority Leader’s gavel being pounded repetitively.

Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid: “Order! Order in the Chamber!

I apologize to Mr. Anderson. Mr. Anderson we all greatly appreciate you appearing here before the Senate Subcommittee on Fisheries, Wildlife, Oceans and Insular Affairs. We know how busy you are-due to your popular, but much less visited blog, as compared to your rival “The Anvil.” Now Senator, is the Subcommittee ready to hear testimony from Mr. Anderson?

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “Yes, Senator we are ready to hear the testimony of Hanson Anderson.

Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid: Hanson Anderson, you are now under oath. The floor is yours. You may begin.”

Hanson Anderson (me):”I loved the free pitcher of water! But I really need to pee now. However, I will hold it, as some of you Senators look really old, and I would hate for one of you to die, while I was in the restroom.”

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “May the record show that we affirm Mr. Anderson’s sworn testimony that he needs to expel urine from his bladder, yet he is concerned that this may result in someone’s death.”

Court Stenographer (tying U-R-I-N-E….) 3 minutes later…”Senator, it is on the record.”

Smut and Profanity – Selling Sin to America.

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “Mr. Anderson, we understand you waive your constitutional right to a 5 minute restroom break. You are a patriot, and we respect your sacrifice.” “Now, Mr. Anderson, we the Senate Subcommittee, have great concerns regarding your statements against ‘The Anvil‘— and Mr. Eric J. Baker, who you assert is ‘A seditious, pro-socialism, flag burner.’ And even more seriously, you insist that Mr. Eric J. Baker, a respected, upstanding, self-made Billionaire–has committed treason. You are in specific, accusing Mr. Baker of secretly funding–what you state is ‘…The U.S. Beef Council’s secret red-meat guerrilla terrorist group,’ which you claim employs suicide butcher’s to target fish and poultry producers? Do I understand you correctly Mr. Anderson?”

The Anvil Empire Headquarters - New Jersey

Hanson Anderson (me): “Yes Senator, you are crystal clear in your understanding of these scandalous facts.”

Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid : “Pardon me Senator, this is a grave accusation. I would request that you and the members here, of Senate Subcommittee on Fisheries, Wildlife, Oceans and Insular Affairs, Also hold conference with the Congressional Subcommittee on Livestock, Dairy, and

Beef Council?

Poultry. As it concerns the interests of both committees, I think that you both need to concur on the Committees’ final decision. In case we sentence Mr. Eric Baker to be shot by a firing squad, for treason. I just want us to have our asses covered. I request this accord be shared in the resolution – and Mr. Baker’s possible execution- by both Subcommittees.”

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “I understand Senator, and I would suggest a motion to allow both the Corn Council’s Subcommittee, and the Department of Defense to consult on this issue. These allegations clearly deal with Corn Subsidies, and hence, implicitly also involves the Army Barbers.

Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid: “Yes, Senator. I agree. Thank you for your acute suggestions. Please continue to proceed with your hearing”

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “Very well, Mr. Anderson, you specified that this is also the ’2010 fishery-shock-and-awe, campaign–you said that this was kept secret in a conspiracy by the Beef Council, but that it entailed the poisoning of a secret government fishery, which we, ourselves, do not know about. Is this correct in my interpretation Mr. Anderson? You are not being satirical in you world renown style – I mean this is not a joke-but you actually swear to this?

Hanson Anderson (me): “Yes Senator, it is all true, but you forgot the part about the Beef Council Chairman laughing when he heard that all the fish died.

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “Good Lord!”

8:30 am The Debauched Baker Has a Quick Breakfast.

My fellow Senators, Today, the Senate Subcommittee on Fisheries, Wildlife, Oceans and Insular Affairs, in conjunction with the Congressional Subcommittee on Livestock, Dairy, and Poultry–Both Subcommittees also being consulted by the Corn Council’s Subcommittee, and the Department of Defense– Are gathered here today decide if Mr. Eric J. Baker presents a clear and present danger to one or more of the following:

Any of the hundreds of National fisheries, any Livestock, Poultry, or Dairy animals, also Corn Farmers–and their Economic Interests, or the general safety of all United States, enlisted Army Barbers.

Now I shall address Mr. Anderson:

Hanson Anderson, your sworn testimony, if it proves treason committed against the Country, by Mr. Eric J. Baker, could ultimately wind up in several punitive sentences which would include: A Vicious Corn Husking, as well as being subjected to a Cow Stampede Trampling, and being restrained, being tied to the ground, and made to suffer a long, furious Chicken Pecking, additionally, it could involve, Angry Corn Farmers kicking him in the ribs, The humiliation of receiving a really short, US cadet standard hair shearing, being slapped in the face with a wet fish, and after all this, then the execution of Mr. Baker by firing squad”

LOCK AND LOAD

Are you now, after being made aware of the very grave nature of this hearing’s possible ruling, and then, still in good consciousness, truly, still willing to testify, against this man, now knowing what could happen to Mr. Eric J. Baker, if convicted?

Hanson Anderson (me): “Senators, Lock and Load!.”

Subcommittee Chairman, Senator Stanley Pinkerton: “Very well, you may now give your statement, Mr. Anderson.”

Hanson Anderson (me): Most Esteemed Subcommittee Members, Senators, and/or lovers of Fisheries, Cattle, Chickens, Corn, Poultry, and Haircuts:

It is an honor to testify before you. Before I begin, let me just state for the record; The Anvil Posted a heinous article in which the post title said “World’s oldest goldfish dies…I won’t finish this disgusting sentence. Eric J. Baker is a man who thinks a dying fish is funny. But I am not here to talk about a psychopath who hates fish. I am here to talk about something much more serious than fish-hate. I am here to reveal to you how a deluded America–and its good, moral, taxpayers, and law-abiding, trusting people—all have been duped–by a dishonest and dangerous demagogue.”

“Gentlemen, I am sure that you all have enjoyed the Anvil, and its clean, inoffensive, classic brand of PG-13 Satirical Fake News. However, and notice I am pounding my fist, and shouting,

” Senators! “I submit that we have made a false god of this “Old Ancestor.” We were naïve; we were credulous; and we were love-struck by this Apotheosis.

WE HAVE MADE A FALSE GOD OF ERIC J. BAKER

And so we whored out our souls, and pawned our trust away. And before we realized it, we had bestowed ‘empty pockets’ Eric Baker, with tax-exempt status. This was our fatal mistake.

Then, this “Faith-Based funded,” up-and-coming,(socialist, fish-hating) Editor-in-Chief; quickly took a common, computer keyboard, and with his gift for lying, and creative genius, “Old Ancestor,” a former Public Relations man, assembled a small Word Press Blog and quickly amassed his tax free revenue into a Multi-Billion Dollar, International Empire.

He Turned Our Money Into an Evil Empire

Soon his Internet based Fake News Blog, which Baker dubbed “The Anvil,” had over 3 million viewers. More victims fall prey to him and his blog each day. 120 people have visited this blog in the last 60 seconds. This, Senators, is a matter of National Security, and of course, clearly affects all lovers of Fisheries, Cattle, Chickens, Corn, Poultry, and Military Haircuts.

We threw ourselves at Old Ancestor’s feet, worshiping him. Blog Visitors world-wide, hungered for his unique brand of hard-hitting, ‘in your face,’ PG-13 style of Bogus News, delivered through Internet based RSS feeds, while also secretly spamming us. I am sure you all got the emails for fake Viagra, and penis-enlarging pumps. We never knew…

So, we were bedazzled, and then it started. We gave everything we owned to Eric J. Baker, Who demanded cash for continued blog posts.

Helpless, unable to oppose this Robber Baron–First, we cashed in our Children’s College Funds, and then we melted down our gold fillings. We emptied our coffers, next selling our shoes, and in the end we sent our kids off to school with sack lunches, of pine cones and salt. Then we gave all this cash to the New Jersey Based Anvil Creator. This money, he commanded of his 3 million viewers, and we paid it, simply to keep his white-water stream of journalistic brilliance flowing…”

End of Transcript Excerpt
—stenographer’s note;

I suggest the court strike the rest of this transcript of testimony from the record. The next 2 hours is basically all just an angry tirade about fish, Ocean facts, a cow with a chicken on its back, the Tea Party, and finally outrageous the shouting of absurd accusations, while he points to Senate Leader, Vice President Joe Biden.

Well, friends and now haters of Eric J. Baker–I think my testimony speaks for itself. I would however like to add that I would declare that the Anvil is an institution pervaded by yellow journalism — journalism that presents little or no legitimate well-researched news and instead uses eye-catching headlines to pander smut and sell more blog posts to us, at our expense.

I urge you to boycott the Anvil–as an American, and as a human being, who is, “Mad as Hell, and not going to take it anymore!”

Epilogue:

After building an empire reporting non-existent events, scandal-mongering, and sensationalism; soon Baker had made enough revenue to purchase the entire State of New Jersey. This purchase included ownership of most of its citizens also.

Here in New Jersey, the eccentric Old Ancestor built himself a castle of the finest white-marble. With Black marble floors and long ominous black velvet drapes which blotted out any sunlight from penetrating this well hidden “wacky shack” of lies and deception.

Forced to Produce Crude Pictures in Sweatshop

The castle includes a sweat shop of Malaysian Children which produce his “childlike” crayon style blog pictures. The evil Eric has a private pet alligator pit, which he throws live kittens into.

The debauched baker has a sex grotto with a rotating bunk bed. The insane murderous “Old Ancestor” also has a dueling pavilion. In his bathroom he had a roll of 100 dollar bills to use for toilet paper. The bathroom also has a large clam shaped bathtub, in which he takes caviar baths, three times a day.

He has a wind-up mechanical Turkish dancer; he had cardboard people who he pretends to be friends with, talking for hours to the pasteboard delusions.

THE FEARED "GHOST CAR"

He has a private hovercraft which runs on 1200 DD RadioShack batteries. The hovercraft has infrared headlights, and he drives in dead blackness, at high speeds above the highway, scaring cattle and sleepy drivers. The townsfolk call it a “ghost car.”

He has an ironic novelty products division which makes things like “eco-friendly solar-powered chain saws, and Slinkys which actually do walk down stairs.” I could continue, but I am too disgusted by the base nature and crapulence of this ogre.

Ironic Products Department

Old Ancestor, a self-proclaimed “News Lord,” currently resides at this palatial estate. Now Baker is reduced to the life of a Howard Hughes grade eccentric recluse.

Inside, his fortress, for 20 hours a day, the Flamboyant Baker can be found inside this bastion, seated upon a majestic white, velvet throne, wearing his portentous jet-black cape, and sparkling, majestic, rhinestone bejeweled crown.

THE KING OF LIES

Having long ago went stark-raving-mad with power, the News Robber Baron “Evil Eric” seldom speaks, but instead he chooses to type out new Fake News articles, on a $267,000 ruby encrusted Dell laptop in silent fury. The Blog Lord, cranking out prize winning article, after plagiarized article, only bringing to a halt, the sound of clicking keys, when he petulantly strikes the marble floor with the end of his diamond-tipped cane-which alerts 10 servants that his ravenous appetite for flesh must be satiated, immediately, with yet, again, another Man-witch.

HE CRAVES FLESH!