The same uptick of seismic activity which prompted Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi to condemn Western immodesty might be the best reason not to shake your breasts at Mother Earth in defiance of another earthquake. BOOBQUAKE organizers want to show Iran’s fundamentalists that American women can titillate with disdain for religious superstitions, although the mullah’s Rube Goldberg ipso facto seems appealingly pagan to me. Of course the refutation to be made with #BoobQuake (or #PantsQuake depending on the lure you’re shaking) counts on plate tectonics not batting an eye. How arrogantly Western to presume Mother Nature does not respond to us.
Not My Tribe
The Myth of Middle Ground
and there will be wars, and rumors of wars, famines, plagues and earthquakes in various places and dogs and cats living together in sin, salmonella in peanut butter and Mad Mullahs throwing obscure curses our way from halfway around the world.
This made me think, somehow, of Brother Pat Robertson and his smarmy remarks about Haiti. And the huge numbers of tornadoes that strike the Red States every spring.
And our Phine Phreaky Phriend, Pastor Phred Phelps.
If there’s any positive proof that God doesn’t use mass murder to smite the sinners, by wiping out everybody who lives near them, it would be that his church, in Topeka, Tornado Alley, Kansas has never been lifted off its foundations and dropped on a trailer park somewhere.
But then, we don’t need any further reminders in the way of earthquakes, we get Our Very Own Special curse in the form of Rush and Dobbs and Cheney and of course, Phelps.
I’d be willing to make the trade, you know, send Sedighi a care package including Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin and a couple of congressmen in exchange for two earthquakes in American cities of his choice. I’d say we’d be getting the better part of the deal.
This is, of course, why exactly I’m not offered any kind of political power.