Wednesday, June 03, 2009

The glorious first

Hurricane season is here again. That Humboldt Current is a damn shame, since it means that we don't get any hurricanes here on the West Coast. One of the best things about hurricane season is trying to guess which beachfront developments are going to get wiped out (some meteorologists make a lucrative living doing this), but imagine how much more fun it would be if we could make bets on celebrity mansions. If Tom Cruise's place were to get flattened and not Mel Gibson's, would that prove the existence of God? But if Mel Gibson's compound ended up in the Pacific Ocean, does that signify a random chance in a chaotic, creator-less Universe, or just that he should have kept his anti-semitism to himself? Maybe Jehovah thinks they're all tits, and will flatten the whole of Malibu; one can only hope.

The nature of God has been much on my mind of late, since I discovered that one can be officially 'ordained' on the internet as prophet or church elder of one's own choosing. The possibilities are endless, and to be honest I'm mildly irritated that no-one told me about it sooner. But what to call myself? I'm thinking along the lines of 'The Right Irreverend Fester Fastrousers, Keeper of the Gates to the Befowled Underpants'. I am open to suggestions though.

A typical major land-falling tropical cyclone goes through five distinct stages; depression, storm, hurricane, storm, depression. It's amazing how often meteorological phenomenon mirror my own emotions.