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A Kitzmas Carol

Page history last edited by Swinefat Pink 1 year, 11 months ago

 

A Kitzmas Carol

 

by Charles Dawkins FRS

 

Darwin was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The Dissent from Darwinism Petition was signed by over 800 chiropractors, realtors, paralegals, auto mechanics, and dental hygienists. And Mr. Excremflinger Klooge had signed it: and Klooge’s name was good at the National Review (or used to be, at least), for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Darwin was as dead as a door-nail.

 

And what a free-wheeling poo-flinger he was at the Disco’Tute, Klooge!  Whining, moaning, kvetching at every slight, real or imagined, by the global conspiracy of godless materialists! A frosty slime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Kitzmastide.

 

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, on Kitzmas Eve—old Klooge sat busy in the Disco’Tute blogging-house. It was cold, bleak, biting Seattle weather: and he could hear the people in the street outside, clutching their cheerless Starbucks’ cups in their hands to warm them. The door of Klooge’s office was open that he might keep his eye upon the ranks of shills and hacks in their dismal cells writing blog posts.

 

“’Tis a dreary Kitzmas!” wailed the mournful voice of Chap Hatchet, Master of the ‘Tute.  “And the fell Evilutionists are whooping it up and a-making merry, withal!”

 

“Bah!” said Klooge. “Bah, finchbeaks!”

 

“And poor little Whiny Gerb,” continued Hatchet, “has quite worn out his fingers knocking out blurbs about the Ten Myths of Dover!  But still the Godless Materialists celebrate!”  And with that, Chap Hatchet turned and left, closing Klooge’s door behind him and muttering darkly to himself.

 

But it then so fell, as Klooge was vacantly staring at the dartboard on the back of door, that the photo of Zack Kopplin pinned thereon began to swirl and mutate into the very visage of Charles Darwin, F.R.S, before his unblinking and unbelieving eyes!   And out of the dartboard floated the Ghost of the Father of Evolutionary Theory.

 

“The Arch-Fiend!” cried out Klooge.  “...But no!  This cannot be!”

 

“You don’t believe your own observations?” observed the Ghost.

 

“I don’t,” said Klooge, “because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.”

 

“Ahhh!” purred the Ghost.  “So you do allow that material causes have effects on what you maintain is the immaterial oogity-boogity of mind?”

“Bandy not words with me, foul spectre!”  cried Klooge.  “Be gone!”

 

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Klooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon.

“You have dimmed the light of Reason,” said the spectre, extending an accusing finger, “and sought to plunge mankind into darkest superstition.  You will be haunted by Three Spirits.  Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path you tread!”

 

And with that, the Ghost dissolved into a cloud, only to at once assume a new shape and form—the form of Albert Einstein!

 

“I am the Spirit of Science Past,” proclaimed the spectre.  “Behold!”

 

And as the spirit of Einstein pointed to the blackboard on the wall, there was projected thereon a wondrous pageant of the shades of great scientists from history: Aristotle composing his treatise on Physics, Eratosthenes measuring the globe, Muhammad ibn Musa Al-Khwarizmi demonstrating algebra—and then, in so swift succession that Klooge could scarcely follow the parade, came Democritus and  Acharya Kanad discussing atomic theory, Kepler and Copernicus observing the movements of heavenly bodies, followed by Galileo battling the Papal lawyers.  And still more swiftly came Newton, Maxwell, Faraday, Darwin, Rutherford, Curie, Mendel, Watson, Crick, the Franklins (Benjamin and Rosalind), and a host of others beyond all counting.

 

“Bah, finchbeaks!” bleated Klooge.  “Most of these shades were men with religious beliefs!  Tell me no tales of godless materialism!”

 

“Indeed,” said Einstein, “among them were many Pagans, Hindus, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Deists, Agnostics and Atheists.  But what they held in common was their pursuit of knowledge from nature, not from dogma.  Reason unites us where religion sets us asunder.”

 

And so saying, the shade of Einstein began to dissolve and then re-form into a new shape—a wheelchair bearing Stephen Hawking.

 

“I am the Spirit of Science Present” came the synthesised voice of Dr. Hawking.  “Behold!”

 

And as before, the blackboard displayed a rapid spectral pageant of such diverse wonders as gene therapy, deserts transformed into arable land, immeasurably vast libraries of data (printed and digital) tended and nurtured by legions of scientists, and all the myriad wonders of technology.  But, barely discernible in a small corner of this colossal edifice of knowledge, was a tiny coterie of Flat-Earthers, Geocentrists, Creationists, Cdesign Proponentsists, and Time-Cubists.

 

Klooge, his head spinning, barely noticed as the shade of Hawking once again transformed, this time into the Ayatollah of Appalachia himself!

 

“G’day!  I am the Spirit of Science to Come!” greeted Hambo.  “And I do mean Observational Science--not Historical Science, which is a myth. Behold the future world we are making together!”

 

But this time, the images on the blackboard were not a swift-flowing progression but a torpid, blasted landscape of dilapidated dwellings for people in rags gnawing on animal bones or gathering a few meagre berries from dying bushes beside stagnant ponds of drool.  A few warmed themselves by piles of burning books, and in attendance at the side of so many dying children were monks praying and barber-surgeons applying leeches. And then appeared a mighty landlocked Ark out of which issued uniformed and beweaponed Evangelical Thought Police, goose-stepping and apparently hunting something.

 

“This is the world to be,” cooed Hambo, “when we have rid it of godless materialists!”

 

But Klooge felt a shadow of a question fall over his mind.  “But if the foul materialists have finally been overthrown, then whom do those armed enforcers seek so intently?”

 

“That should be obvious, Sport!  They’re running down infidels who worship the wrong Oogity-Boogity!  We’re getting rid, finally, of all and sundry who do not love Baby Jebus!”

 

“…But…but…” spluttered Klooge,  “We make no claims about the identity of the Intelligent Designer (Blessed be He/She/It/Them!).  Surely this is—“

 

But the Hambo Spirit threw his head back and roared with laughter.  “Oh c’mon, everyone knows that was just a bit of legal spin-doctoring!  But now, with the mighty Wedge finally driven like a stake into the heart of empiricism, the real fun begins!”

 

“But some of us are Jewish!” cried Klooge. 

 

“Some of you are patsies, you mean!  D’you think those Born Again Fundie donors to your ‘Tute and my Ark give their money to build some candy-assed world of Inter-Faith Co-Existence!? In your own words: bah, finchbeaks!  Face it, mate, they’re wet-dreaming about Armageddon and the Apocalyptic End-Times! All you Christ-deniers are bound for the Lake o’ Fire in the hereafter—and for the heretic’s stake in the here and now!”  And the Spirit of Hambo raised an enormous, bloodied wedge over his head and started forward menacingly.  “Excremflinger Klooge, look ye on your own future!”

 

And there then appeared an open grave, the headstone beside it engraved ‘REASON’.

 

“When you kill off Reason,” boomed Hambo, “you open the door to Superstition and Holy War!”

 

Klooge screamed in horror and collapsed writhing to the floor, bracing himself for the blow.  But it never came.

 

Instead, when he plucked up the courage to open his eyes, he found everything as it had been in his office:  no spirits, no spectral pageants, and only the soft tapping of blogging fingers on keyboards from next door.

 

Klooge leapt to his feet and charged into the adjoining office.  “We are ignorant fools!” he cried.  “Quick, I must have a copy of Origins; I have a shedload of reading to do and centuries of knowledge to catch up on!”  And he dashed out into the snowy streets of Seattle, a transformed man.

 

But witnessing the bizarre spectacle, Chap Hatchet slowly shook his head in dismay as a tearful Whiny Gerb, leaning on his mental crutches, sobbed, “God help us, every one!”

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