David Dvorkin @DavidDvorkin@qoto.org

Behold the Cucumber God.

He is surrounded by His adoring worshippers. The crowd is so dense that some of those in it must stand upon others so that they can be bathed in the effulgence of His divine stupendiferousness as he spews his seeds (of wisdom). Sadly, there seem to be some doubters among the tomatoes.

You might notice that the god is made up of two conjoined aspects. How can this be? How can He be both one and two?

This is a deep mystery that can be understood, to the extent mortal mind can understand it, only by those who have studied deeply the ancient writings, the Cuke Canon, and the centuries of exegisis performed thereon and extrapolation derived therefrom by generations of cucologians, cranky fellows crammed together in stinky little rooms, performing their sacred labor while their wives and children labored to provide food and shelter for their families.

For us ordinary mortals, it is sufficient to know that He is the bigod. When a person thinks he is saying "By God!" he is in truth offering a prayer to the only true god, the bigod. Or should that be the bigods? It is a bit confusing.

#atheist

'Tis the season when the coronavirus feels very, very thankful.

181,000 words, and still a long way to go. That may not sound like much to those who have written long books, but it's humongous by my standards. I wonder how long it will be when it's done. I wonder when it will be done. I'm trying not to wonder whether it will be done.
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Now that I'm an old far-- guy, I write much more slowly than when I was young and the words poured out of me. However, the words that creep out of me so slowly now are better chosen, and the result needs far less rewriting to be good.

Or possibly I'm deluding myself about that.

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Inevitably, after the mass murders at Club Q in Colorado Springs, newsreaders are telling us solemnly that the city is in mourning. It should be, but we all know that there are many in that city and across the country who are delighted and gleefully anticipating more murders of gays, trans people, Jews, blacks, Asians, and on and on -- and that will happen, thanks to the twin evils of hatred and the proliferation of guns.

It seems to me that, strictly speaking, you can't write your autobiography because you don't know how it ends until you're at the end, at which point you're unlikely to feel like writing or to be able to if the end is sudden and unexpected. Even if you could write the end, it would be something like this: And now, my friends, as I reach my end, I want to sum up everything I've learned in my long and eventful life in the form of this vitally important messa

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Hmm. I could swear I've seen you somewhere before.

These replies are quite telling.

(I have no idea what I mean by that.)

"Time will tell" is an odd expression. Of course time will tell. It always does.

That should work, shouldn't it?