For lo, the beautifully brained Saint Donovan righteously and profoundly schooled the blasphemers, and my spirit was greatly troubled. Forsooth, few actually read the scriptures of our great faith. Actually, I didn’t even know we had any. When alas at last I saw the horrid book that has been bilked upon the people, by the false prophet Bobius the son of Hender, as the will and word of the Great and Delicious Flying Spaghetti Monster, I was filled with the holy rage of the Invisible Pink Unicorn.
Which is just exactly like the Holy Spirit except besides being invisible, she’s pink. And she wears a penis metaphor on her head. (So when those heretics called “Christians” say the Holy Spirit impregnated Mary, you may now understand their full true meaning…only those who know the correct secret handshake are told the real deal on that, therefore by logical necessity you now know that correct secret handshake. Religion is magic. Praise be! But no, the worriers worry for naught. Mary wasn’t injured by the horned sex play. When the IPU rage-fucked a rainbow in a bar alley she learned all about being gentle after Dr. Who explained it to her. Who then dropped her off in ancient Judea. I mean, honestly. Everyone knows this.)
I digress. Return shall I now to the tale of true. At once I was carried up into heaven. (Once is a pet rock in my garden.) Now, I mean by my words that I speak the actual heaven. Not the false one imagined by the horrid son of Hender. No, really. You just have to take the red pill. Well, actually, it’s orange and barrel shaped. Orange Sunshine. Anyway. I was there Touched by His Noodly Appendage, as one is, and was telescentedly instructed in the Truth.
Know ye not what I intend? Scentic is the language of intelligent Cats made out of smells, and as that was learned by Cloister the Stupid, and as I am smarter than Cloister the Stupid, by logical necessity I must know Scentic as well, so Monster [I call him Monster; we’re close now] spoke to me in Scentic, albeit telepathically. Hence, telescentically.
Again I digress. Hereto I shall translate what was revealed unto me, into the language that is called English, which uses fussy patterns of photon absences on a glowing plane, often made of a crystal that is liquid (and you thought a unicorn being invisible and pink was an oxymoron…yet if a crystal can be a liquid, a unicorn with no color can obviously be pink. U just bn scienced!)
The words of His Sauciness render in that bizarre tongue of “English” as follows:
Outrage! We have no beer volcanoes here. You fool! It would be all sticky everywhere. Think ye not that I am efficient at keeping Heaven tidy? We have calm and well-tidy pools of every imbibement, even eternal single malt scotch, brewed yet more fantastical than the magical Glenmorangie, which on earth, I now reveal to you, is brewed by the secret immortal ancestors of noted surgeon and horror novelist (sometimes actor) Garth Marenghi, in an other-dimensional valley just outside Bournemouth, all of whom are sorcerers and magical talking rabbits, whose highest commandment is ‘thou shalt not genetically engineer crabs to be as big as men’. Wise words indeed.
It even offends me the more that this false prophet, son of Hender, is to all his damnation mistaken when he, not knowing Scentic, misinterpreted “stripper factories,” knowing he not, evidently, that a stripper is a chemical that breaks down paints and finishes for the cleaning of metals and woods.
I spake in fact that in Heaven our stripper factories produce only mild, eco-friendly strippers. It is that only which I celebrated. Son of Hender perverted my words! (May the burning of the Cheese upon his oral fissure chastise him!)
Ho, indeed, when We truly spake that other sense of the word stripper, that being a woman or man or genderless being (this being Heaven, thou getst any body thou wants) who dances with the removing of clothes, We said strippers (as well as models, porn stars, hookers, sexologists, biologists, and every other kind of professional woman, or man, why, lo, even novelists) served in heaven as our presidents and legislators and doctors and authors and teachers and professors and wives and husbands and boat mechanics and every such thing, and perform the stripping of clothes only for their own personal delight or the consensual exchange of labors.
There were many other great things He told me besides these. But I got distracted by the strippers, which were really amazingly bodacious…I didn’t even need to wear gloves or respirators when employing them, and the byproduct was consumable and tasted like Orangina. Why couldn’t He have given us such strippers on earth? In his infinite wisdom, only He knows. (An infinite wisdom is a kind of kitten-drawn chariot.)
Perhaps others will be blessed with visits to the Ramen heaven and see spake the truths of what I hereby dub Reformed Pastafarianism, and lo, assemble a free and complete bible of many diverse voices, and none false. It shall be the New Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or just “Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” or “Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Reformed)” or (as Dr. Who assures us it will soon be called as well), Reformed Pastafarianism.
Why should we not? The Christians realized Catholicism was fucked up eleven ways to Sunday and nailed ninety-five sentences to a door. And peace and happiness was forevermore. That all worked out. So I declare it shall work for my faith in the Great Pasta and Balls in the Sky as well. My faith in Him on a scale of 1 to 10 is 0 but since 0 is a number and a number is a quantity, I clearly have a quantity of faith in the FSM. Why, indeed, 0 is infinitely small, and infinity is the largest quantity. I therefore have the largest quantity of faith in the FSM. So, I vow, do you.
Down with the blasphemers and false scriptures.
I hereby declare the New Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
My Little Ponies accepted.
I’m glad that nonsense about beer volcanoes and stripper factories has been sorted out. All hail His Noodly Goodness!
HER Noodly Goodness. If the FSM were ever to take a human avatar, you just know it would be as a plump Italian grandmother with a wooden whacking spoon in one hand and a cannoli in the other.
Ze can change gender at will.
Usice Beatha, the Water of Life, from which we get the English word Whisky, commonly referred to as “Scotch”, is not brewed.
It is distilled.
As it is the Water of Life, in Heaven it should not be constrained to isolated pools, but should flow through every creek and stream throughout the land. Or you should be able to get a new malt by drilling a well.
Far better than sticky beer volcanoes.
In Spaghetti Heaven, Scotch is brewed. Because His Noodlyness is whimsical.
But alas, there may indeed be Scotch streams and wellheads. As the Spaghettapologists all duly say, just because the Word omits a fact does not mean it is not nevertheless true!
Remember, I got distracted by the strippers.
[N.B. On earth whisky is both brewed and distilled (at different stages of its production). But in Heaven, the mere brewing of the mash in the bowels of the sky-earth instantly produces distilled and aged Scotch. Because it’s magic and shit.]
Blasphemer!!
The Tentacooloscenti will be avenged!!!
[insert mob with torches and pitchforks here]
And it’s a sandal, not a shoe. Fuck the gourd. And Brian is the messiah.
It’s not official until you actually put together the nail, door, list, and Red Wigglers (the Cadillac of worms!).
It’s official. I hate you.
I was able to come to terms with the fact that you were more intelligent than me. I was able to make peace with the realization that you knew more things than I was ever likely to know, and that you had accomplished more for the good of humanity than I was ever likely to accomplish. All of this I was able to swallow.
But now you’re funnier than I am. It’s simply too much.
What’s more, you’ve packaged this revelation of your superior comic talents in the guise of reforming pastafarianism, something I’ve been meaning to get around to for the better part of two years now (and what really burns? even if I had gotten to it before you it wouldn’t have been this good).
FSMdamn you, Dr. Carrier. FSMdamn you…
I was born a High Church Pastafarian, and I will die a High Church Pastafarian. Sorry, Richard.
[insert mob with torches and pitchforks here]
Red Sauce Pastafarian or White Sauce? And don’t dare suggest that putrid muck of miscegenation rosé sauce.
@6.2: Kevinalexander: Saucist!
Well done, I agree, the FSM gospel is horrid. Totally lacking in character development, rituals, & telling parables. If anyone was qualified to write the FSM new testament, that would be you!
I imagine 37 chapters for the 37 ways (words can be wrong) the FSM is true. A new testament that pays mythic homage to the Apostles, (Hitchens, Yudkowsky, Harris) For example a new ritual of burning incense in a hair dryer (homage to S Harris) to facilitate scentic communications.
I imagine a full developed religion with parables & rituals for all of the 37 ways FSM is true, and a particular incense that would alert all followers that FSMers have been or are near by.
Ramen!
Neil Johnson
Like the Bible, the Holy Book should not be written by one author. Or consistent. Or even barely true. Except metaphorically. Or something.
@7: Neil Johnson….the number of Chapters shall be ’42’ or ‘3’ no more no less. ’43’ is too many and ‘2’ is not quite enough, but ’45’ is right out there!
Well I’m glad THAT got cleared up.
May your beer be eternally flat and strippers STD ridden!
All hail the true prophet of pasta. The prophet Bobby!
[insert mob with torches and pitchforks here]
Is that Joss Whedon’s face on the pony’s ass?
Oh, yes. That pony was created by a fan after my Bayes’ Theorem: Lust for Glory talk at Skepticon a few years back, in which I featured a bunch of Whedonverse images and inside jokes in my slides.
Richard,
Did you see Reza Aslan on Fox News? Talking very slowly and repeating him self over and over?
Excellent performance.
Will you be reviewing his book?
I can’t see any reason to review his book any more than the hundreds of others out there that promote this or that theory about Jesus. If he says anything new about method, let me know. Otherwise, it’s just one more tea leaf reading from the ivory tower.
During your revelations, were there any revisions to The Eight “I’d Rather You Didn’ts”? I’m working on a flyer / insert to counter “Gideon’s Torture Porn”, found in many hotel rooms. I’m concerned to make the statement of these Truths universal, without regard to any unfortunate schisms. Ramen.
Of course, in the seriousverse, I prefer Solon’s Ten Commandments (listed and discussed here), although they aren’t wholly secular (without one revision).
However, for the purpose you have in mind, the parody commandments of the Eight Rather Didn’ts are far better suited.
Just remember they are a human construct and not really revealed by His Noodly Goodness.
Which means, of course, you can revise and edit them anyway you like and pass them off as scripture. Religion is magic. Praise be!
You do high weirdness too? Damn. Thanks for this Corrected Gospel.
Plus, you managed to work in a reference to Garth “Scotch Mist” Marenghi. There simply are not enough internets to award you.
I’m seriously considering opening an official CFSM here in Brazil. I actually can pay $200 bucks to have a legally recognized church.
Evangelical christians are gaining forces here, political ones, and trying to pass church-favorable laws. Catholics also are getting a pretty good share of our public money. We are just paying the Pope to come here and bash drug legalization and abortion laws.
I’ve wrote to Bobby asking if I could translate his book. I’m thinking of doing it anyway (isn’t that how religion works?). But obviously, I will edit a bit. And mistranslate. And put some other holy book.
Maybe.
Needs moar “And it came to pass”-es.
Oh, come one, everyone knows that the book is just a metaphor. There is no literal Heaven; when we die, the pastaness within us is reincorporated into the great universal pot of pastaness that is unseen but all around us. Now be quiet while I visualize hir loving and noodly appendages reaching out to bring the sauce of prosperity and health into my life…
Sure.
But we should choose wisely what metaphors we live by.