Father Jack Hackett from the absolutely fantastic comedy series Father Ted.

[From Eclectic Micks: HAPPY ST. PADDY'S DAY FROM FATHER JACK HACKETT!]

I also learned that I should never, ever, try to write a webcomic.

There is also a one page ‘Origin of Angerman’ that may, at some point, be transfered from paper to glorious digital quality. Which is highly unlikely since these days I adventure under the name ‘Apathy-man’.

But I’ve finally decided to reverse that decision, and now hereby call for the repeal of Roe v. Wade. As was explained by the Archangel Gabriel to me last night in a dream, while eating at a Dunkin’ Donuts, aborting a fetus before birth is reserved for God and God alone. For does it not say in the Gospel of Luke that the Lord “knew you even while you were in the womb?” For you are a person at conception, regardless of the opinions of certain Satanic jurists. And when God, in his total omnipotence, looks at you and lets you come forth from the womb and into the arms of your mother, it is God saying, “Alright, you’re cool.”

Or at least, it used to be. Now, having usurped God’s role, plucking fetus from womb like Eve plucking the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil, God has turned his back on us. God is no longer watching the door to Club Earth, people. They’re just letting anyone in now.

And this was abundantly clear to me yesterday, when I watched Paris Hilton show Ellen around her house. And in Paris Hilton’s house*, there is a picture of Paris Hilton. And it is made of thousands of little pictures of Paris Hilton.

How many Paris Hiltons will it take for you Godless bastards to let God cull the crowd with miscarriages again? You heartless sons of bitches, recant, recant of your Godlessness!

*A ‘house’ in the same way that the Mississippi is merely a ‘river’.

Note: Yes, I’m talking about miscarriage, which I realize can be an emotional subject. Paris Hilton makes me angry enough that I don’t care.

No, I’m talking about the class of married men who never say a single good word about their wives. Wives who are deficient in every possible way: stupid, lazy, free-loading, etc. At least if one listens to their husbands.

They talk and complain, and bitch, and in general are kind of a pain in the ass to be around, because their conversational turns are as predictable as a NASCAR track. “Hey, did you see that throw Ichiro made yesterday?”

“No. I told my wife to tape Sportscenter, but she didn’t. SHE IS A HORRIBLE CUNT.”

“Uh, you know, you could probably catch it on YouTube, or it might get played again later today on like ESPN News or something.”

“SHE CUNT AND ME HATE! RAH!”

And there it ends.

Because the universe is an ever recurring leitmotif of ‘STUPID CUNT’. All other melodies are relegated to playing counterpoint to that basic point. And I can’t understand why they think this way. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the level of negativity and pettiness that’s necessary to look at the world that way. Thank the Lord.

Whenever I meet guys like this, and if there is no way for me to get out of the conversation, I always tell them that’s why I’m happy to be single.

But what I really mean is I’m happy I’m not a misogynistic douche bag.

Last month Mr Munajid condemned the Beijing Olympics as the “bikini Olympics”, claiming that nothing made Satan happier than seeing females athletes dressed in skimpy outfits.

Frankly, this does not make Satan sound very scary. This makes Satan sound like, um, a lot of people. Like me. Because female athletes in skimpy outfits makes me happy. By equating people like me with Satan, Sheikh Muhammad Munajid is diminishing the fear of Satan in all people. Therefore, Sheikh Muhammad Munajid should be forced to watch beach volleyball.

[Mickey Mouse must die, says Saudi Arabian cleric - Telegraph]

Maybe Harry Potter should have brought a note from his parents saying he would be missing school.

[From Harry Potter pulls vanishing act on Entertainment Weekly, which features film in fall preview]

Sorry, that’s a shitty opening line for a story about Harry Potter, because Harry Potter was an orphan. Duh.

Okay, I’m done being a nerd.

He sat immobile, hidden in a crevice of the Lateran Palace. In the gathering twilight, he was absolutely invisible, but only as long as he didn’t move. He ignored cramping in his legs. In a few more hours, he would have to leap with these same legs. It would be grinding, painful… But the Angry Lefty knows no pain.

His black cape puled tight around him he ignores the growing cold. It is January, and even in Rome it can get cold.

It will be January for only a few more hours, but it will still be cold when it passes. But not as cold as his Angry Justice.

He sees his target. Just as his informant told him, he is staying the night while overseeing restoration work.

And his informant has also left the window open.

It is dark enough. Suddenly, the Angry Lefty explodes into action, leaping from the hiding spot, dropping from roof to Basilica, grabbing the super thin, almost invisible wire that he had put in place the night before. Grabbing a tool from his utility belt (the design of which Che Gueverra gave him in a dream…the same dream where he had known the incomparable pleasures of Emma Goldman) he rode the wire through the open window, landing on the bed where his target had just settled down for sleep. He slapped a hand over his target’s mouth before he could shout for help.

“Gutentag, Herr Papst.”

The Pope’s eyes widened as they recognized his assailant. He knew the game was up.

The Angry Lefty had spent a lifetime researching it. Why was it that every year, the people were forced to pay rents by the month, when the month of February had only 28 days. Every year, the people suffered.

After years of research in dusty libraries, including a break-in to the sub-sub-basement of the Vatican Library, where every book of the Index Librorum Prohibitorum was kept, he finally discovered the truth: The Caesaro-Papist conspiracy. Julius Caesar had invented the modern calendar, using it to yearly cheat the plebeians he claimed to support. A thousand years later, Pope Gregory refined this tool of class oppression into it’s current form. This was how the Roman Empire, and later the Vatican, had built up their vast wealth. The Pope owned a lot of land.

When the Angry Lefty discovered the new Pope was planning a further reform of the calendar, he knew he could not let it past. The Benedictine Calendar could just very well cause the historical dialectic to grind to a halt.

“You will nicht hurt me, Herr Linke. Nein. You are no killer.”

“You’re right, you bastard. But I can’t let you carry through your plans. The proletariat couldn’t survive it. So I’ll leave you with my comrade here.”

In came a man dressed head to foot in crimson clothes, with a red cape about his shoulders, a blood splashed Zorro of the Douglas Fairbanks school, a great smile on his face.

“Ciao, Papa.”

“Nein…Nein!!!”

The Angry Lefty washed off his hands and walked toward the window where he would make his escape. “Yes, I believe you already know my friend, the Red Brigadier.”

USA is represented by a George Bush (lookalike, of course) who ends up being a comedian in this film. He recognizes Turkey only as a poultry product and doesn’t want to attack India since our call center employees serve their nation. Wow, that could be a new angle to the nuclear deal!

[From Mission Istanbul: Movie Review- Entertainment-Media / Entertainment -News By Industry-News-The Economic Times]

Technology is turning us all into a bunch of time-wasters according to The Observer, which reports that the beep of an email alert alone is costing the US economy $70 billion per year.

[From Distraction: Email "Ding" Costs $70 Billion a Year]

You know what I say to this? The productivity of the American worker has been increasing for something like the past fifty years. For the past forty or so years, wages have been declining.

So, yeah. Fuck you, boss. I’m checking my email. Again.

Krawk decided he was in a city. The large buildings would seem to indicate that, but mostly it was the clever idea. People in the cities were always clever, and always had solutions to every problem. Krawk remembered how he had always hated using his family’s outhouse in the winter. When he first came to the city, he was amazed at the simple, elegant solution the city people had come up with: Crap in a bucket in the comfort of your own bedroom, and then toss it out the window. The only time you were cold was when you opened the window. Brilliant!

Krawk then noticed that many people we’re waiting in the bazaar, milling about, buzzing, excited. Many were dressed in fine clothes, wondrous robes from far-off lands, bracelets, rings, necklaces. The ministers of office had great staffs of oak inlaid with ivory and silver; it was an impressive display.

“What is going on?” inquired Krawk, wondering what he had missed in the weeks he had been insensibly drunk.

“Oh, the barbarians are coming today!” said the young man he spoke to. “It’s quite exciting, you know! It’s been dreadful boring, and well, you know, no one can really come up with anything to entertain us. The playwrights, the poets, the singers, they can’t seem to come up with any satisfying songs or plays or what-not.”

Krawk grinned at the small city man, admiring his spirit. “Ah, so you look forward to battling your foes as a great entertainment! You city folk have greater bravery than I expected!”

The young man laughed gently and smiled. “Oh, there won’t be a battle. We’re quite terrible at it, really. We expect to be slaughtered. It will be terribly exciting!”

“Then why is your ruler, and folk of high office, why are they all here today? Those men are in armor, surely they intend to fight!”

“Oh no. Our only hope of surviving is to impress the barbarians with our great wealth and grandeur. It won’t work in the end, eventually they won’t be impressed, and they’ll just destroy us. But it will be oodles of fun the longer we can make it last, eh what?”

Krawk shook his head. “By Thok the Triple-Headed God of Thoraht, young boy! Have more spirit than that! Haven’t you any arenas?”

“Arena? No, what is that?”

“Take someplace where everyone has a good view, like your theater’s, but instead of a stage, dig a pit. Throw in a wild animal, and then some man, and watch them kill each other! Give prizes to the man if he wins, to give him incentive.”

“My god–that would be splendid! So many different animals, too–We’d keep ourselves entertained for years.”

Krawk smiled his wide, stupid grin. “See, little man! You do not have to fear boredom!”

“Yes, yes–but what of the barbarians? What will we do? We have something to live for now, something truly grand–but we cannot hope to fight them!”

By this time, many men were listening to Krawk, including the ruler of the city, an immense frog of a man who was resting on a great chair nearby. They all looked at him expectantly. Aha! thought Krawk. I will learn who is threatening the city, and if I think I can handle them, I will offer to lead them in battle! I will become a great general of the city, and earn much coin, wine, and slave women to pleasure me!

“Who is it that is attacking you,” inquired Krawk, “and what are their numbers.”

The ruler of the city spoke. “We are expecting a great barbarian horde. The Goblin King promised that he would send against us the foulest, most despicable folk against us, to smite us for–what is wrong with you, why have you gone so pale, my fellow?”

Images rushed back to Krawk. Words that he wished he didn’t remember came back as well.

“Ah, there will be no barbarians. They won’t be coming. No problems, you have your arenas, and I’ll just be going now–”

Many eyes narrowed. They were all looking at Krawk, and his furs, and his crude barbarian boots. And especially the ring he was wearing. The ring that had the seal of the Goblin King.

“Take him,” said the ruler, making a delicate gesture with his tiny hand. The guards rushed forward, grabbing Krawk.

“Take him to the theater-–Err, arena. Find a couple of lions. My people, a new day has dawned! We Shall Be Entertained!”

A great cheer went up.

The young man, happy for his people, for his city, smiled, and asked, as if to himself, “What would have become of us, I wonder, without the barbarian? That man provided such a nice resolution!”