Your Nightmare For This Evening
Now, I'm not a religious man. But now and then I read something that makes me whisper oh, holy Jesus with genuine reverence--my sense of reason falls away, stunned, and for just a moment, I share in the dearest hope of professional holyfolk and chain-smoking pensioners everywhere--that everybody's favourite Israeli Superman really is out there somewhere, looking out for us.
Because there are terrible things in this world.
LIKE MOTHS THAT DRINK THE TEARS OF SLEEPING BIRDS WITH THEIR HARPOON-LIKE TONGUES.
If there is a creator-God, posessor of the awesome and incomprehensible mind within which all things reside, then somebody needs to go have a bit of a chat with him about, you know, things like this. Because that's just not right.
Because there are terrible things in this world.
LIKE MOTHS THAT DRINK THE TEARS OF SLEEPING BIRDS WITH THEIR HARPOON-LIKE TONGUES.
If there is a creator-God, posessor of the awesome and incomprehensible mind within which all things reside, then somebody needs to go have a bit of a chat with him about, you know, things like this. Because that's just not right.
Deposited By Neil Struthers at 1:18 AM
6 Sub-deposits:
"Barbed proboscis"
See, that's enough for me. Two words: barbed, meaning, with bits that point backwards, and proboscis, which means mobile, hungry tongue.
Makes you glad they'll all be dead before the century's out, doesn't it? I can imagine, if allowed to live, our descendants running from hordes of these things, (tear-jerkers, we'll call them), as they spread their misery-dust on us and send us into mad comatose nightmares, so that they might put their barbed tongues in our eyes and drink deeply of our salty ducts.
God, let me tell you, is some sort of juvenile maker-of-universes, mucking about with this little 13.7-billion-year-long mote that we call home while his mother's back is turned. She'll turn round in a minute (from tending to some grand, orderly megatrillion-year-long work of art) and God will have to destroy us or hide us under the kitchen table. "No, ma, I ain't been creatin', I promise! And I sure haven't been making mad things that live on other things glands, or anythin' like that! Jeez, maw, stop wailin' on me! Maw! I'll try harder! I'LL TRY HARDER!"
I have this terrible scene in my head now.
A child lies under the boughs of a big old oak tree in some glittering Antarctic meadow, the warm sun beating down on his little face. His eyes are closed; the world is a red haze. Then he feels something on his face; he brushes it off. It comes back; he reaches up, brushes it off, eyes still closed.
Then it starts--six little pinpricks on his cheek, as the tearjerker moth finds purchase with its barbed feet. He realises what's going on, and he knows just what to do.
Clever child.
He lies still, trembling, eyes closed, while the red haze is disturbed by a flashing line of black whipping back and forth across his vision. The moth bobs happily on his face, emitting ultrasonic signals that say hey, this one's layin' still!
Another moth lands on his forehead with a soft pat.
If he brushes them off, their tongues will break off in his eyes, inviting infection and blindness.
He has to let them drink their fill; they flutter away, engorged. Then he runs, rivers of tears streaming back into his hair, back down to the farmhouse, and the arms of his mother, her one good eye full of love.
He looks up towards the meadow, and the tree; there's a swarm of them now, a swirling, hungry mass, confused, dissapointed.
Daddy steps out from the barn in his reflective suit, goggles gelled to his face and a biogas flamethrower blazing in his hands.
"S'alright, son," he shouts over the roar of the flames, "It wasn't your fault!"
so has Mark officially died?
On a permanent holiday?
Had his internet access revoked?
He's not dead: his work have filtered out all blogspot addresses, and banned the skanky proxy he was using to bypass the filters. So he can't see or edit blogs. That's why The Green Lodge is stuck forever in September...
Oh, eww! That is truly disturbing. Much worse than eyelash mites. Glad I'm not a bird.
They have...eyelash mites now?
EYELASH MITES?
Cue the bowl of boiling water and the careful, careful dipping...
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