Men Are From Mars, John Waters Is From Uranus

John Waters reads my blog, I know this for a fact. John wanted to make a change in the appearance of  his Mail on Sunday article section one week, so he changed the banner image of himself from a grumpy old man photo, to that of an image of him all genuinely cutesy and cuddly. I made fun of it. The following week, he went back to his old grumpy pic again. That is absolute proof of his visitation here. Well, ok. It's not exactly very substantial, but at least it's more proof than there is for the existence of god.

Ah did you see what done thar? I wrote it as "god", without a capital G. I always do this. I know, I know. It's bad English, right? But then again, so is writing "atheists" instead of Atheists. At least I'm not getting paid to write fucked-up English though.

I didn't want to write about Mr. Waters on this blog again, in case he really was reading and attempted to do a "back trace" on me if my shit got out of hand. You know, he could be very snotty and claim copyright infringement, by me reproducing segments of his and the Mail on Sunday's publications. I also have something nice lined up though, if he attempts to tackle the subject of "Gay Marriage" again, so that might be interesting.

I couldn't resist writing however. Not when I read his piece in the "Mail on Sunday" two weeks ago. It wasn't his views on Atheism that struck me (his views on this matter always make me laugh). No, rather it was his bizarre and vicious attack on women. Even coming from someone with such a poor view of women already (someone should really remind him that Katy French was a woman) this just struck me as odd. Have a read:



I'm beginning to wonder if "the men" should leave other shitty jobs like [par example] opinionated print journalism, to women too. It can hardly be argued that this profession is part of the "stuff that really matters." Perhaps John might like to leave his own little cosy central heated hole, where he writes this bile, and head off down a mine shaft for a few weeks. I'm sure he could manage, he's a man after all.



You might be forgiven for thinking that Mr. Waters is attacking religion in the extract above. If I were to describe the history of mankind's invention of religion, I might write something along the same lines. What he's actually attempting to refer to is the fact that because most of the Chilean miners rescued from  the cave in were deeply religious, this somehow proves the existence of god. He comments that the trapped claustrophobic conditions the miners found themselves in, reminded them of their own fragility and therefore need for a "higher power". But what of their mental fragility? All that praying to a god for a miracle proves is that the human will is weak, and relies on the personification of hope to keep it going.



I think this is John Waters attempting to write erotic fiction. I'm pretty sure he was masturbating at the time of writing it anyway.

Finally let me address the "greatness" of the deep routed Christianity found in Chilean culture. Perhaps Mr. Waters might look at the history books and see how this "divine" Christian enlightenment took place. Like most things with Christianity, it involved a lot of raping, plundering and genocide. The Spanish were generous invaders though. Along with biological diseases that they infected the indigenous people with, they also infected the remaining people with the curse of Christianity. Beating the "savagery" out of them; saving their souls. Bless them.

The area of Chile was slow to be conquered as it's lack of gold deposits made it unattractive to the invading Spanish. Perhaps a greater person than me might write something clever that links the plight of the present day Chilean miners with that of the greed for precious metals by the Conquistadors. Perhaps it might go along the lines of asking whether the invading Christians would only send indigenous men down the mines or would they chuck the women down there too. The "dainty little hands" of women might get into spots "burly man hands" couldn't.

My anus is crying as I write this.