Jesus in marmalade

Jesus has appeared to the humans many times. These images fill the expecting flock with faith and feelings of divine miracles, which are plentiful of mirth, and hope, and (insert favorite emotion here).

However, the interesting thing here is that according to forensic and anthropological studies, the christ´s face would have pretty much looked like this:

But the one showing up looks like this:

It is logical to think that by the time, a face like such would have issued responses such as "here comes the monster", "don´t be afraid of him, he is horrible but sweet" and "the lepers love him, because he is as ugly as them". Therefore, the christ looked like a regular person, since only differences are noted.

(That is why it is impossible that the 9-11 terrorists had been arabs. I know that the most trusted and honest Bush and the totally reliable Al-Qaeda said so. But there is no phone conversation from the victims in the plane hijackings that said "we are being hijacked by some fucking shit arab guy". All say "hijackers", "with red bandanas", "with a knife", etc... in other words, the hijackers looked like them: white and American)

But back to the christ. From the sightings several things are noted:

- The apparitions do not correspond to the original Christ, but to images that people want to be the Christ.
-The image is not really important, it is more so the desire for it to be true.
-The one appearing is not the Christ but some white, european, blue-eyed, bearded dude.
-The bearded dude is possibly a guy who in life kicked puppies and spat at old ladies...

Let´s pray.

To relieve stress

Exams to check, no job for the summer, papers due, swine (er... mexican... er... A) flu...
we do have to relax

So stupid

There is a series of internet pages that document human stupidity.
Sometimes I wonder if in a distant future (considering there will be one), when the archaeologists research daily practices of the xxi century sapiens sapiens animal, they will conclude (accurately) that all human life: that is meanings, objectives, dreams and desires (such as now is said about the mayas were sky watchers or the ancient egyptians were Nile farmers who wore eyeliner and short skirts) was centered in the regulation and description of ways to maim and annihilate the others,

in a obsessive collection of human orifices and things that might be inserted into them,

and a chronology of stupidity.

Interestingly enough, stupidity is closely associated to the viewing of a different outcome as the one predicted or quite simple situations were humans are hurt.

Anyway, I found a wonderful internet page that has become a favorite of mine, a way to lighten up my gray days: Failblog.org.

I leave you with and image and a couple of videos from that site that I have found lovely.

Fail sign!

Fail Ironing!

Fail parking, fail awareness of surroundings, fail good samaritan, fail everything!!

Mirror mirror

It does not matter how many fashionable clothes, board meetings, different jobs or excessive money humans have or want, they are still animals. Most of the time, humans try to identify their humanness with non-animal elements. That is, if an animal can do it, the human will negate that and construct s/his identity with the anti-animal notions.

So, if an animal defecates in public, the human will do it hidden in a restroom. If an animal eats another while the delicatessen is still alive; the human will kill, dismember and bake. It does not matter if the second option is more complicated, absurd and requires technicians, engineers, and hours of training in order to achieve it. Any variation turns humans into nasty beasts.

And those cuasi-perfect animals that behave in a non-animalistic way are almost humans: emotional dogs, memorious elephants who suffer painfully when they encounter elephant bones, or parrots that speak.

But when one of these animals behaves as s/his earthbound irremediable nature indicates, humans are astounded. Because they see a mirror of the beast that they are. After so many words... be flabbergasted:

Zombie Power

Due to recent post about zombie love, edigator was flooded with unending questions about the emotional nature of the zombie. Do they love? Is s/he driven by pure passion? Is it a spiritual hunger? When s/he wants your brain, is it because of solitude?

So we conducted strenuous zombie research and a series of autopsies (which, if we may say so, were not that easy, with all the biting situation…) and here we have, specially for you, a zombie brain:

So, if you know a zombie, and now with this detailed knowledge of s/his drives and urges, you may now enjoy life (er… death) and just keep away of sharp edges (teeth, hands).

And to conclude, a society which under normal circumstances would have never reached the pinnacle of Western civilization (since they had no blacks or latinos), but did so with the wondrous fortune of the zombie slavery.

Here piggy piggy!

I love beer. I love its taste, its texture, its foam, I love it completely. But I hate beer publicity. And when I say hate, do imagine the hate that has the torches, the picks, the mobs, and is chanting ouside the castle "burn burn burn".
Apparently, the people in charge of promoting its drinking, after careful market analysis and five digit salaries, believe that those who ingest this beverage are basically pigs.
If one studies its target audience it is easily spotted that the companies think the drinkers are brainless, sexist, stupid men whose ultimate desire in life (the loooong quest of existence) is limited to finding the remote for the T.V.
I see these ads and am repulsed (with the eyes rolling back and the foaming at the mouth) but people see them and laugh, and are able to take a joke juar juar juar, and buy and buy even more.
Is the edigator wrong?
Here are four videos from four different countries:
American Pigs.

Danish Pigs.

Mexican Pigs.

Irish Pigs.


Of course, it would not be fair if I did not do it, so... I also give you the opposite case:
Just Pigs.

Lord, help my poor soul

I can not imagine that 200 years ago, when he was born, his mother could have suspected that 40 years later the comatose body of her babe would be lying life-less on a ditch in front of a tavern. That mangy dogs and scruffy rats would jump over his inert body, but his repulsive smell would impede them make the traditional sniffing performed by such critters. That her precious son´s life, in practical terms, had been pathetic and miserable. And she never knew, for she departed this life when he was 2. A somber existence, it seems to be, an unfortunate marriage to a 13-year old cousin (who died at 15), zero monetary gains, no properties, gambling debts, addicted to various drugs, a complete and total loser… lying in a puddle besides the sidewalk, being soaked in borrowed clothes. His last four days would be spent in a hospital, amidst delirium and hallucinations, refusing even to drink water. And the causes of his death were inconclusive, either because of his abuse of alcohol, or rabies (he was probably bitten by a bat during his long hours of insomnia, or by any of his numerous dogs and cats he kept in his house), or syphilis, or suicide, or murder, or it simply does not matter. Alcoholic, gambler, unwell, pedophile, incestuous, good for nothing, disinherited, just like that, Edgar Allan Poe died.



Perhaps, the parameters we use to measure success are skewed.

Happy End of December

It was until this year that I finally understood what that creepy song about the "White Christmas" talks about.
It is about snow!!! It falls freely from the sky.

Since I have been hearing corny dull repetitive carols I will join the hoardes and offer you my very favorite song of this season. I believe it is the one that best represents the joyous significance of this holiday, that of total binging and family fighting... sigh.

(that is why I will never understand a holiday like ThanksGiving... who has heard of a party without gifts? )

Cats galore

There is basically two kinds of humans: those who love cats and those who have never had a cat.
On this topic, there is this wonderful short movie, -however it is possible that as soon as you press play PETA will knock down your door and spray you with red paint (or flour) or any non denomination Animal Rights Association will place a bomb in your living room.- Hope that does not happen to you, because...here it is!

It is based on a song composed in 1893. (info here)



But if you belong to the second kind of humans, do consider, querid@:

A Night at the (not) Opera

Today they are showing Madama Butterfly in the theatre.
I see the posters, imagine buying a ticket... yet my background experience whispers in my ear: edigator, if you go to the opera you will encounter screaming fat banshees and an orchestra that will receive a standing ovation as soon as they finish tuning their instruments.
I try to explain this to the world, the opera is way too jazzy for me, it is like a bad andrew lloyd weber with worse wardrobe, it is like a pre-school spring festival...
edigator, do you like the opera?
edigator whines, winces a little, bites her lip, no no no.
Maybe this might enlighten you:

After the previous post, the piñatas called me and demanded me to tell their own version.

According to them, piñatas are exploited. As the layers of brightly colored papier machié are applied nobody indicates that they will be tortured, hung from a rope, surrounded and prodded with sticks. They say that as they overhang looking down they can see how the diminute humans greedily fight over their spilled entrails.

And I must admit the different perspective approach was not moving me to tell the tale, I mean, are we now going to start telling something in order to include all versions? according to the rope? to the stick? Osea, hellow, we have to draw the line somewhere, the edigator is not the UNESCO. But... I must concede that there was one particular piñata with this heart warming story, and then I just knew I had to tell it here.

Viewer discretion advised:

We could say that childhood is marked by those moments reminiscenced with a sigh, by those nostalgic flashbacks filled with enormous intake of breaths, that are ingrained in our minds so strongly that they have helped produce incredibly wealthy psychiatrists.

Basically, we can say that we spend most of our adult life trying to erase trauma.

In addition to your dead pet turtle, seeing mommy and daddy doing that, school taunting, etc., adult Mexicans have to also erase memories of piñatas.
And just a little know-how of the piñata situation for non-Mexicans:
1. The piñata is the spitting image of the uttermost admired superhero.
2. The piñata is literally torn apart in front of a terrified child who stands aghast.
3. There is always some little snot that steals your candy.
4. And without exception, someone unfailingly gets hurt.