Continued fro wrath, Bill Maher Jumps the Shark (Again) On Ahmed Mohammed
When I was in third grade I had a telescope but couldn’t find many planetary objects. Dawkins rudely strides into my Star Party and exclaims, "well, I guess someone won’t understand orbital physics till they can wear big boy pants.
So my buddies and I are shooting pool at this bar, right? Some asshole keeps putting The Clash on the jukebox, and you know, it’s cool for like five songs and then it isn’t anymore. Well it just keeps going on, all of “London Calling” in the correct track order and finally someone walks over to that thing and pulls the damn plug.
Guy at the bar spins around and he’s frothing pissed. That’s not Dawkins. It’s his professor buddy Dawkins just helped fall off the wagon after 23 years.
Dawkins is on the stool right there next to him with a Shirley Temple and dead sober. His drunk friend falls on the bar floor chin-first.
“Sodding tit!”, exclaims the renowned scientist. “The next bastard that touches that jukebox is going to be my new project.”
(ETA - And of course, his pronunciation is perfect King’s English.)
Richard Dawkins’ favorite pick-up routine is to corner single women in elevators and invite them into his hotel room for coffee while casually mentioning that he doesn’t approve of clitoridectomies.
Dawkins once called me a fraud when I was nine because I wrote myself into a Spider-Man comic. “You don’t even know how to respect copyright you sniveling twit!” He yelled at me as he ripped it in half.
Richard Dawkins walked into the hospital, yanked Chuck Norris’s plug, and walked out.
Crosses fingers and hopes #Dawkinskilledmydreams starts trending on Twitter.
When I was five, my family moved to a big old hotel for several months in the Rockies. On one of the last warm days of fall, my dad found a big old wasps’ nest while replacing some roof shingles, and after making sure all the inhabitants were dead, he showed me the nest and asked what I thought of it. It was bigger than my head, and I told him I thought it was “really cool.” I asked if I could keep it in my room and he said “sure.” He knew I was fascinated by insects.
Late that night I was awakened by a half-dozen huge wasps crawling on my face and hands, and in panic I began to scream and flail, which only encouraged the little bastards to sting the hell out of me. My bedroom door was flung open with a crash, and there stood Richard Dawkins in a furry dog suit, bearing a croquet mallet in one hand and a thick sheaf of paper bound with three shiny rings in the other.
As he swatted the wasps (and my stung face and limbs) with the heavy manuscript, he bellowed, “Why would the nesting behavior of a stinging insect strike somebody as ‘really cool’? Isn’t it fun to be a living demonstration of how one creature’s genetic makeup can so thoroughly affect another creature and its environment?”
He made a few bucks when he published The Extended Phenotype a couple years later, and I might have profited from possessing that somewhat bloodstained manuscript, had it not been utterly destroyed with the rest of the hotel when the boiler blew up.
And I have a crippling fear of insects now.
Oh, and croquet mallets.
I think a similar thing happened to Joseph Smith?
Richard Dawkins shows up uninvited to funerals of young children to tell everyone that the deaths were part of maintaining a healthy gene pool. Then he cackles like a madman and dances away.
Of course, that shitfaced friend: Christopher Hitchens!
How could you miss such a golden opportunity?!
Drinking?
When I was just learning to toddle about, the Dawkinator crashed his mini into the front wall of our humble abode, knocked me down as I made my first tentative steps across the carpeted wood floor, and proclaimed my attempts to learn to propel myself in this world reverse sexism aided by gender quotas. He then alighted into his ride, and drove through the rest of our hovel, shouting TA! as he raced down the street.
Whenever Richard Dawkins attends a production of Peter Pan, Tinkerbell dies in the third act.
One time Dawkins was in a bowling league with me. This guy on another team slips a little and Dawkins is like, “OVER THE LINE!” and he’s like, straight up mad.
The guy from the other team comes over to mark his score, and Dawkins is like, “Mark it Zero!”
Guy is flustered and has a hard time grabbing the pen from me, so it takes a minute. Without missing a beat, Dawkins pulls a .45 ACP Colt 1911 (Vietnam era and everything…where’d he get that thing?) handgun from his bowling bag yells at guy some more.
Other Team guy, with Dawkins’ gun to his head, finally gets the marker and marks a zero. Dawkins and I head out of the bowling alley and slide into the car just in time to watch the cops run in.
Some jerk stole that car later on.
Oh geeze now I’m imagining him say “I don’t believe in fairies” in the condescending tone he always uses when addressing YECs. And I’m dying of laughter.
I built a time machine out of a DeLorean, and travelled back to 1955, and Richard Dawkins tried to tell me I couldn’t generate the 1.21 gigawatts I’d need to get back.
What would he know? At that age, he couldn’t even build a clock.
FTFY
Every time Richard Dawkins takes a shit, a blade of grass grows a little bit taller.
…and a child’s dreams are destroyed.
Seriously though, I admire the work Dawkins has done, and he was an integral part in my deconversion (although to a much lesser extent than Douglas Adams and Hitch), he’s tweeted a lot of things I find admirable too. But for fuck sake, he’s got to shut up every now and then. Or at least run what he’s going to say by his wife. I can’t possibly imagine half the things he says about women generally were ever run by a woman before he posted.
He’s got really flexible legs and always puts his penny loafers in his mouth. Really unfortunate. In person he’s a sweet guy, but has some rather antiquated views to put it mildly. I don’t think he’s a racist or a misogynist, but he definitely sounds like one pretty often, and ought to do less pontificating and more participating.
