God Answers Prayers of Paralyzed Little Boy

[anarch]

'No,' Says God


from The Onion

[WritingIsMyReligion]

1. !

That is both sad and funny.

:rofl:

[anarch]

2. gah! and the 'There is no God' thread go locked before I could post this:

I'll be the first to admit that my idea of God is pretty different. I believe in a God with a long white beard, a gold crown, and a long robe with lots of shiny jewels on it. He sits on a big throne in the clouds, and He's about five hundred feet tall. He talks in a real deep voice like "I...AM...GOD!" He can blow up stuff just by looking at it. This is my own, personal idea of God.

- Jack Handey, Deep Thoughts

[Oeditpus Rex]

3. The 'No God' thread was moved

Not locked.

OTOH... http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=105x5218984



Therefore...
:popcorn:

[anarch]

4. yeah, I noticed that...

Now I can't be bothered with it, though. And as to the other thing, it's a damn shame that a perfectly hilarious piece of irony can't be appreciated without it turning into some kind of ideological battle. I mean, come on people. Hit with lightning! While praying!!!

[Oeditpus Rex]

5. It started with one post that was in error

Given that "I am blessed," it does not logically follow that others are not blessed.

[anarch]

6. Indeed. Logic tends to be troublesome in many cases.

I like this explanation, from Ambrose Bierce, in The Devil's Dictionary:

Logic, n. -- The art of thinking and reasoning in strict accordance with the limitations and incapacities of the human misunderstanding. The basic of logic is the syllogism, consisting of a major and a minor premise and a conclusion – thus:

Major Premise: Sixty men can do a piece of work sixty times as quickly as one man.

Minor Premise: One man can dig a posthole in sixty seconds; therefore –

Conclusion: Sixty men can dig a posthole in one second.

This may be called the syllogism arithmetical, in which, by combining logic and mathematics, we obtain a double certainty and are twice blessed.

[Oeditpus Rex]

7. Yes, and I also like this one:

From the Album of the Soundtrack of the Trailer of the Film 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.'

"All wood burns," states Sir Bedevere. "Therefore," he concludes, "all that burns is wood." This is, of course, pure bullshit. Universal affirmatives can only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the class of dead people are Alma Cogan. "Oh yes," one would think. However, my wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a proposition; consequently, she does not understand me. For how can a woman expect to appreciate a professor of logic if the simplest clothiad syllogism causes her to flounder?

For example, given the premise, "All fish live under water" and "All mackerel are fish," my wife will conclude not that all mackerel live under water, but that if she buys kippers it will not rain, or that trout live in trees, or even that I do not love her anymore. This she calls "Using her intuition." I call it crap, and it gets me very irritated — because it is not logical.

"There will be no supper tonight," she will sometimes cry upon my return home. "Why not?" I will ask. "Because I have been screwing the milkman all day," she will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. "But," I will wearily point out, "even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely then, supper may logically be got."

"You don't love me any more," she will now often postulate. "If you did, you would give me one now and again, so that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms." "I will give you one after you have got me my supper," I now usually scream, "but not before" — as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of my supper.

"God, you turn me on when you're angry, you ancient brute!" she now mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat. "Fuck supper!" I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported by animal passion until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yogurt.

I'm afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a nutshell: sex is more fun than logic. One cannot prove this, but it is, in the same sense that Mount Everest is, or that Alma Cogan isn't.

Goodnight.