This one was a close call, folks. Much like last week, one post inspired most of your creative quips, digs, and rants. I nearly gave the prize away to one of the runners-up . . . that is, before I read this narrative from Jackson Skeptical Society, which is long but so very worth the read. I post it in full here, followed by a few runners-up:
While I was one of those people who originally thought â€œBullshitâ€ when I saw the â€œDawkins v. Popeâ€ headline, I do wish it were true. The British arresting the pope is one of those things I just canâ€™t even wrap my head around.
So forgive me for going on an extended bit of OT.
Hitchens stomped the pedal and drove like a man trying to avoid being waterboarded. The 2008 Vauxhall Corsa scraped through traffic, sparks left and right.
â€œHeâ€™s getting away!â€ He shouted, throwing hands on the horn and swerving to avoid a pedestrian.
Ahead, the stark white Popemobile loomed large. The bulletproof glass dome sparkled in the sun, and the lumbering Mercedes M-Class SUV took a slow turn to keep the high-hatted pontiff from toppling over in his armored lair.
A busy intersection was ahead, the traffic no longer halted by the terrified police who now had no idea what was occurring.
â€œWeâ€™ve got half of four horsemen here, a full one-fucking third of the unholy trinity!â€ Richard Dawkins shouted from the passenger seat. â€œI told you to get a car with a sunroof! My plan required a sunroof! Iâ€™ll never hit him at this range.â€ Dawkins drew his sidearm, a long-barreled Colt Anaconda with the phrase â€œMalthusian Solutionâ€ engraved across the grip, which was inlaid with the actual shell of a Galapagos tortoise.
â€œMake a new plan!â€ Hitchens snapped. He wheeled around an old woman with a baby carriage. Dawkins leaned out the window with his .44 and fired, but the bullets hit Godâ€™s Protection â€“ 40 mm of armoured glass and plating.
â€œDamn!â€ Dawkins shouted. â€œItâ€™s like heâ€™s infallible!â€
â€œHardly!â€ Hitchens replied. â€œAre you buckled up?â€
â€œI always buckle up. Youâ€™re far more likely to be injured in a car crash thanâ€¦ What are you doing?!â€ Dawkins lapsed into a simple shout as Hitchens swerved the car towards a traffic barrier. They hit, knocking over the barrier into the side of a mini-cooper. The tiny car and traffic barrier created a makeshift ramp, the Corsa went airborne, both men wailing with excitement in a true Dukes of Hazard moment.
Glass showered across the streets, sparks trailed into the air, and all eyes watched as the Vauxhall Corsa came crashing across the back of the Popemobile. Armour glass crumpled and shattered, airbags popped into existence and deflated, Swiss Guards tumbled about, and the worldâ€™s most expensive hat rolled onto the glass-and-fuel strewn streets of London.
Hitchens was out first, staggered onto the street, looked through the smoke and all around him, people were fleeing. He hadnâ€™t had a reaction like this since heâ€™d set down in Mississippi.
His gun was on the ground, a few feet away. In the car, Dawkins was still reeling, trying to undo his seat belt. A swiss guard was standing over the weapon, resplendent in his orange, blue, and yellow skirt. The hat was no longer funny, because the man was twirling a vicious halberd and approaching in a very professional manner that seemed to suggest that Oberstleutnant Hauptmann knew exactly how to kill a man with a 16th century polearm.
Then, in a flash, a lightening pair of nunchaku wrapped around the haft of the halberd and the wirey man behind them yanked the weapon to the ground. He then began a display of nunchaku prowess, slinging the weapon around his shoulders, his waist, each fluid and deadly movement accompanied by the clank of chain and snap of cured oak.
â€œSimon Singh!â€ Dawkins exclaimed as Oberstleutnant Hauptman took a wide variety of blows to the back. â€œGood to see you!â€
â€œYou two go after the Rat!â€ Singh said, fending off the Swiss Guard. â€œIâ€™m going to give this man a bit of free amateur chiropractic.â€
The two ran into the crowded street, caught sight of the fleeing pope though the glitter of his robes.
â€œThere goes Emperor Palpatine!â€ A young man shouted, before being cracked in the skull with the Papal Cross of Pius IX.
Ratzinger turned another corner, waited, the gold-trimmed immaculate papal pallium against the dirty brick walls. He reached into the omophor, pulled out his spare mitre, and placed it on his head. He gripped the Papal Cross and listened, the footsteps coming closer as the two atheists chased him. At this range, he knew he would be infallible.
Ratzinger whipped around the corner, caught Hitchens right under his pharynx. The anti-theist went down, but Dawkins had fallen behind due to the totally illogical design of the human knee. He held the massive .44 towards the desperate pontiff.
â€œDown on the ground! Youâ€™re under arrest for rape and sexual slavery and other similarly inhumane acts causing harm to mental or physical health, committed against civilians on a widespread or systematic scale!â€ Dawkins shouted, a real mouthful.
Ratzinger froze. He had only one recourse â€“ the magic hat. He raised his hands to his head, put them on each side of the mitre, and began to prayâ€¦
Hitchens grabbed his ankle and turned him over, face-first into the street.
â€œI have diplomatic immunity!â€ He shouted.
â€œItâ€™s been revoked.â€ Hitchens said, slapping the cuffs on. â€œBishop of Rome, a.ka. Vicar of Jesus Christ, a.ka. Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, a.ka. Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, a.k.a. Primate of Italy, a.ka. Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, a.k.a Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, a.k.a Servant of the Servants of God, a.k.a Benedict the XVI, aka Joseph Ratzinger, I hereby place you under arrest.â€
â€œBut Iâ€™m innocent!â€ Ratzinger cried.
â€œTell it to the omniscient tyrant in the sky.â€ Hitchens said.
â€œIâ€™m sure heâ€™ll hear you out first thing. Youâ€™ve got a direct line, if Iâ€™m not mistaken.â€ Dawkins said. â€œDonâ€™t you worry, Father. Thereâ€™s still plenty of forced sodomy where youâ€™re going to be going.â€
Bravo, Jackson Skeptical Society. Bravo. Runners-up (there were honestly too many great ones to choose from, so here are a few):
From delphi_ote, with a metaphor I’ll be adding to my arsenal immediately (EDIT: people were a bit upset that this was directed toward another commenter . . . I include it because I think it’s clever and applicable to many poor arguments. I’ve removed the @ to save any embarrassment and if you want to read the full back-and-forth, you can click through to the original post):
These two sentences donâ€™t mean anything when put together. It seems like youâ€™re trying to blast an intellectual fart into the air and run away into your very smelly smoke screen before anyone notices how utterly full of crap you are.
From Advocatus Diaboli in response to Skepotter:
“From a purely selfish perspective, I learn the most when other skeptics disagree with me. Disagreeing, and being able to support that disagreement with evidence and rational argument is what moves us forward. Agreement is for cults.”
I agree! Oh waitâ€¦ I disagree! No waitâ€¦ *head explodes*
From AndrÃ©s Diplotti:
I must protest. That atheist Barbie makes us atheists look bad. I mean, â€œno pants to be ready for surprise orgiesâ€? Apparently those orgies donâ€™t just pop up surprisingly, but are extremely short too. Do they really flash past so quickly you donâ€™t even have time to take your pants off before itâ€™s over? That doesnâ€™t speak well of us.
Iâ€™m sorry, but thatâ€™s the way I am: I like my universe bleak, my babies medium rare and my orgies looooong and exhausting.