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This is a story of a fish. Not a particularly beautiful fish, not too red, not too blue, not too large, not too small... It's not the one that supposedly swallowed Jonah (that fish was much too large), nor was it the fishes Jesus supposedly fed 5,000 people with (those fish were much too small), and neither is it the type of fish a researcher would dream up with the sole intent and purpose of driving a literal creationist mad...
That's purely icing... (and juuuuuuuust riiiiight...)
I remember a time in the not-too-distant past--no, no, not about the Jesus Shark--when my father took umbrage that not all creatures were reproducing after their own kind! What with the wholphins, the ligers, and the Primula kewensis (that would be a new type of primrose for you non-Latin-speaking gardeners out there...)
But then there's this fish, the oddly named California Sheephead (and it may just be me, but when I look at it, the name "Dolly" doesn't exactly spring to mind...) The remarkable thing about the California Sheephead, however, isn't so much its size, or its color, or its ability to eat mollusks... It's the willful ignorance and sheer exuberance of this fish to defy set-forth biblical law! Hello, "male and female he created them"? Does the California Sheephead not have a bible!?
You see, California Sheephead are all born female. Each and every one. All female (but before the feminists get carried away, you should finish reading...). So there they are, a whole flock of scaly vagina's, loving life, swimming free, eating mollusks, until... Well, depending on factors such as size, age, and how many other California Sheephead are lurking in the general vicinity... Well, it seems they then grow a penis, much to their own consternation... (The feminists of the group may now cry with anger and frustration...) Every single California Sheephead eventually ends up a male--usually four-fifths of their life is spent wondering where this new organ came from and why they feel the need to stab the younger ones with it who haven't grown one--yet. In fact, they usually end up spontaneously growing this penis at about seven or eight years of age, then spend the rest of their almost fifty years on this earth lugging it around making a new batch of females with the other females who have yet to undergo gender reassignment surgery...
I suppose this means Chaz Bono wishes he had been born a California Sheephead. But then again, maybe not...
Believe it or not, there a quite a large number of fishes who have this female-to-male sex switching going on (and not in the 1970s kind of way--hello swingers, wherever you are!), but California Sheepheads are unique in that they are the only ones who always start out female and always end up males! (And you thought the orgies you attended were confusing!)
And of course, I never did care overly much for s/he-food...
Now, while there may be something that needs to be said about the whole "Hmm? I wonder what I would do if one morning I woke up the opposite sex!?" (all straight men reading this suddenly started rubbing their chests knowing they would spend all day playing with their new boobs...) I know I personally am breathing a sigh of relief that I know I'll still have what I have when I wake up tomorrow morning...
As long as I stay away from Lorena Bobbit...
Sources:
... to those of you who subscribe by email and got two comics early by mistake... It seems Beaux has taken up doing the moonwalk on my keyboard for shits and giggles... #5 had the right comic but the wrong title, and #6? Well, consider it your sneak peak...
The rest of you will see #5 tomorrow at noon and #6 next Saturday at noon... (Stop drooling with anticipation... It'll come soon enough...) :)
I stared into the green-tinged blackness, and it stared back with vengeance and glee, certain in its imperviousness. Its foliage was its weapon of choice and it brandished silence like the veils of a belly dancer seducing a sheik. I hefted my shovel in my right hand, my shears in my left--if it could show off its weapons so brazenly, the least I could do was manage mine like a man.
As I stepped toward the jungle, thick with its glossy ivy's and dappled shade, the shears did their work, clearing away the debris of nature and failed gardening's of a generation past. Large roots from the Japanese cherry tried in vain to hinder my progress, strange alien-limbed bugs emerged from under leaves and rocks, and even though a salamander even stopped in for a guest appearance, eventually I found bare earth before me. Earth worms writhed in the sun light much like vampires and I started about the task of moving any I happened to spot. Eventually, however, I had to move on to the task at hand: create a decent and humane way of getting from the front yard to the side yard that didn't involve poison ivy, ticks, concrete chunks, or berry stains. Step one was now complete, and although I was very tempted to call it a day, a slightly chilly breeze and the yellowing leaves of the cherry warned of the impending deadline fast approaching.
Just to the left of the cherry I started a pile two years ago of various sized rocks and boulders (nothing Paul Bunyan would fret over, mind you, but boulders all the same...). I began to methodically move them to the right of the tree onto my patch of bare earth, separating flat ones from round, chunky from oblong. I then re-separated them by color, giving into my failed perfectionism with the reasoning that a randomly-placed look could only be achieved through non-random selection (like, duh!)
After arranging them to my satisfaction (not to mention OCDs proud delight), I pulled my leather gloves up tight, gripped my shovel with a determination Clint Eastwood would have swooned over, and slammed the tool down with such force Thor would have wept at its beauty...
Clunk! "Yeeeoooowwwwwch!!!"
There seemed to be a problem with my dirt, however. Ten minutes of waiting for my arms to stop shaking and a closer inspection of the area where I wished to start my project later, I realized that the failed gardenings of the past generation included a small cement patio under a half inch of soil roughly two and a half feet wide by six feet long... Flat as a pancake, hard as stone, it nevertheless managed to camouflage its presence under that half inch of soil with a profusion of weeds and grasses so healthy looking as to make my vitamin water seem shamefully inadequate.
Step two was going to be even rougher than I thought: either ignore this cement patio and move my staircase two feet to the left, or move the whole staircase I meant to build three feet to the right and use this as a landing--which also meant I would have to rebuild the end of the flower bed along the side of the house...
I moved it to the right and rebuilt the flower bed... Of course...
But after two Saturdays and several hours-long visits from the now-retired babysitter of Jesus who lives across the street from me and fancies himself a better mason then myself ("You should flip that one over," "You sure that you want that one there?", "That looks too large for that spot," and so on...), I am the proud new owner of a rock staircase wide enough to accommodate some well-placed flower pots and still have plenty of room to utilize for walking to and from the front and side yards... Since I've taken these photos, there are also now some small solar-powered lights adding ambient glow late into the evening, adding a serenity usually reserved for those who've seen the tunnel but came back to tell about it (i.e. Shirley McClaine) just in case we ever doubted serenity could exist without solar-powered garden lights...
As if...
Rich: Aren't you going to wipe up?
Me: Huh? Wha--? Is it morning already?
Rich: Nnnnnnooooooo....
Me: I was sleeping!
Rich: How? That's disgusting...
I must be special ("He's special alright... especially ugly!") This post may be T.M.I. for you, dear reader, so consider yourself warned, but as I wandered from the bedroom to the bathroom to "wipe off," as it was so tersely put, my short, unslutty sex-life flashed before my eyes (well, perhaps unslutty to some...). While it occurs to me that I can count all of my lovers on less than two full hands, not a single one of them was a fan of the so-called "wet spot."
You know what I'm talking about. I don't care what genitalia you were born with and which you prefer to play with, there is always--always--a wet spot.
First there was Joe: Not a fan. As soon as any escapades were complete, the entire bed was stripped down with fresh linens grabbed--where they had been strategically placed beforehand--and placed on the mattress before a long, cuddly night could begin...
Then there was Robbie. The man I still miss at times, my first true love. Although, truth be told, also not a fan of the wet spot. He, too, always kept a fresh pair of linens at the ready as soon as festivities had been completed. This is when I first began to suspect that perhaps I had strange taste in men...
A few years and a broken heart later, I bumped into Ben. Ben was--well, a comedian. A non-stop comedian. And at first, to a broken-hearted lonely man such as myself, he was the perfect rebound. However, he found sex "messy." So messy, in fact, he didn't like to have it. And if we had to have it, so much the better that it just happened to happen outside of the bedroom so that no one would have to sleep in--yep, "the wet spot." It should go without saying that this did not last long...
But then there was Chad--easily a personal best when it came to the "hot as hell" category! But by now, I knew what my track record had in store for me, and it wasn't too long (just long enough to be proper, in my mind at least) before I found out how he handled this hang-up. A towel. And no, he wasn't a fan of Hitchhikers Guide. Didn't matter how hot and heavy it was, didn't matter if the mood was utterly romantic, it probably wouldn't have mattered if we only had minutes to live before a meteorite came crashing through the roof: we had to stop and grab a beach towel and lay it across wherever we happened to be "getting busy" before we could commence with "the business."
Following him (and I know this is the part where you start thinking, "OMG! What a slut! Did he live near on naval base?!") was Joey. Joey was when I started branching out from blond-haired, blue-eyed pretty boys to the dark and brooding end of the scale. It was as if my mind figured it may be genetically tied to blonds, or blue eyes, or trim little carry-on size pocket gays... However, no such thing proved to be true. As with previous boyfriends, this one also turned out to have an aversion to wet spots. I was definitely convinced that the failing was mine at this point. I simply went along with the "only on the blow-up machine-washable mattress" until I got tired of the squeaky noises, at which point Joey decided he preferred blonds and left me...
Celibacy embraced me for quite a bit longer this time as I rethought the whole wet spot thing, as well as a few other things. Were my standards too high? Or did every guy with a great personality and witty conversation have this hang-up? Did I miss a memo by skipping gay pride that year in New York City? You know, the same gay pride event where the "Gay Agenda" and "The Homosexual War on Marriage" were dreamed up and made public?
Well, many moons and an invitation to see my sisters' slutty cats' kittens later, I still don't get to drift off into la-la land sticky, sweaty and wet with the evenings' great time. Even now, ten years later, there is no room for discussion and even less room for liquid: a quick elbow, a rough push, even a nibble on the ear and I know what's coming...
I trudge back into the bedroom, flop down on my side of the bed and pull the comforter up to my chin.
Rich: Thanks babe. I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
And it's all okay. (Hey, look at that.. I suppose it also ends with a "kay"!)
Every kiss may begin with "K," but every night ends with a clean-up...
Or perhaps that's a "Klean-up"?
This blog post is mainly a response to a discussion going on here at War of the Waves.
The problem with saying "Darwinism" is at fault, or at least "the scientific rationale for Communism-an ideology" is it's not only a mis-directed blame-ology, it is a false argument at it's core. It would be much like trying to say it's the bible's fault that people have used scripture as the basis for some of the bloodiest and deadliest wars in all of recorded history. Just because Marx was able to twist Darwin's writings on natural selection as a way of building a government system with which to subjugate and control most of a continent isn't Darwin's fault, and it certainly isn't evolutions fault--it's Marx's fault! And you, Richard Ramsey, are making the same misplaced logic that Marx was at fault for using! You just have a different goal for misreading evolutionary theory! (not to say that the misreading is entirely "on purpose," but it is nonetheless twisted and misread on your part...)
And while it may be nice, even a worthy goal, to read up and study Communism's faults, foibles, and history upon earth as it relates to human history and such, it is still a very bad casual connection to say Darwin and evolutionary theory are somehow to blame for Communism's brutal and bloody reign. The bible, and the wars fought on it's behalf (or, if you will, the beliefs held by those who have read and misread it for eons) have caused just as much misery, pain, torture as Marx--more, if truth be entirely told. And while it is easy to see how Marx could misread and use evolutionary theory to build a governmental system meant for subjugating a people, the fault lies in that, instead of seeing how Marx misread the writings of Darwin, but that you think Marx read them correctly and thus it must be Darwin's fault (or at the very least evolution's fault!) means that you think Marx's misreading and misapplication must have been the only true and accurate way of reading Darwin's material in the first place!
I am hoping you see the distinction here, but if you think I'm not being entirely clear here on the distinction, let me know and I can try to figure out another way to phrase or illustrate my point...
Now, onto your second point, "how can one go about observing one species changing into another?"
First, I suggest you read up on how micro- and macroevoltion are the exact same thing. (You can see my 29 posts about the topic of evolution and it's impact on all our lives, or if you do a simple Google search on macroevolution and find many reputable, scientific articles, sources, and facts about macroevolution and its many proofs). Of course, none of this will mean a pile of dingo's kidneys if you refuse to look at any of it with any type of critical thinking (so many refuse to engage in critical thinking when it comes to these topics of "creationism V evolution") but I like to think most people keep an open mind when considering any point of view or reading any new material... :)
People annoy me.
Perhaps I should clarify: People en masse annoy me. We're talking in groups (whether real or imagined) when they invade or otherwise infringe upon my life in such a way as to come across as nothing but no-good money-grubbing hussies...
BACK STORY: I had an idea. A brilliant idea. Well, brilliant in my life. Many other people have been there/done that with this idea, but it was a first for our household and so it was met with a smattering of applause and the congenial congratulatory grin. I advertised our big yard sale of the Labor Day weekend on Craigslist. (I know, I know, please hold your applause...) I tried to be concise, detailed, and list the yard sale complete with directions on how to find my place, as well as include as many items in the description as I possible could--after all, I'm trying to get people to come and purchase my items, am I not? It's not like I'm asking them to just show up and hand me money for nothing!
What I didn't expect was a horde of emails asking for more details! "I'm interested in this!"; "Can you tell me more about this?"; "What do you mean by this?" Now generally I don't mind these types of questions--seriously! I feel a lot like one of those doors made by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation: "Thanks for asking! Glad to be of help! Here's your info! Have a great day!" That sort of thing. Creates a general sense of a day well spent ensuring that I will have some sales, you know?
But then--and I'm not sure who these people are, but apparently they wake up around 8:00 am on Wednesdays with the sheer goal of annoying the crap out of me--they started emailing. It started as a trickle, but by 9:00 I had to edit my craigslist ad to read: "Stop asking questions, just show up on Saturday!" (More politely than that, of course, though not by much...) They were saying things like, "Can you not put that out and hold it for me until next week?"; "Do you have such-and-such on DVD?"; "Can you send me a list of the CDs you'll be selling at the yard sale?"
?????????
At first I thought these emails were some kind of joke, a whole hazing ritual for the craigslist community. I imagined the guys at the main office giggling to themselves saying, "Hehe! I just asked him to list all the CDS he's going to sell, Haha!" Except they kept coming! And coming! At 9:45 am this morning, I had 23 emails from people asking about something or other that I had either mentioned or omitted in my craigslist ad! (Yes, someone hinted that not saying what types of clothes would be available seemed to her like a "glaring omission"!)
I realize the economy is in "not-so-great" shape. But it's a YARD SALE people! Show up! Browse! Look through things! That's HALF the FUN of YARD SALING! I realize people have needs and are trying to find things on the cheap to meet those needs, but...
Jeez! It's almost as if they not only expect a bargain, but that I should just put in a drive-up window: "Yes, I'll take 2 pairs of Levis, that rubber duck, and... Let's see, you said you had Lionel Richie's Greatest Hits? That as well."
I'm hoping all this grief isn't for nothing...
This is a story of a fish. Not a particularly beautiful fish, not too red, not too blue, not too large, not too small... It's not the one that supposedly swallowed Jonah (that fish was much too large), nor was it the fishes Jesus supposedly fed 5,000 people with (those fish were much too small), and neither is it the type of fish a researcher would dream up with the sole intent and purpose of driving a literal creationist mad...
