My friend Ziztur’s top ranked Amazon customer review of Ray Comfort’s book You Can Lead an Atheist to Evidence, But You Can’t Make Him Think, was recently deleted, along with every other negative review.  Nearly 600 people had rated her review as helpful.  And she has not only read the book, but is ripping all of its arguments to shreds in her daily “Ray a Day” posts.  If Ray is indeed responsible for the deleted comments, and he seems to be the prime candidate given that his explanation for the missing reviews is an obvious lie, then his reputation as a retard and a scoundrel only becomes all the more solidified.  I encourage all of you to visit the amazon page for his book and vote for the review that you find to be the most accurate.  Ziztur has reposted her review and I feel it deserves the top spot.  Go and support her review if you agree that it is helpful.  And go read her “Ray a Day” posts for even more Comforty goodness.

How Ziztur manages to devote so many days to this muttering retard is beyond me.  When I take on his arguments, I try to go for the quick, decisive knockout and be done with it, but she is dragging this out to criminal lengths, humiliating the poor man over and over again each day, showcasing his shit-encrusted arguments and then obliterating them ad nauseam.  At least I had the mercy to put the man out of his misery in a single post.  But she is dragging out the torture over weeks, beating his arguments mercilessly into the ground.  The horse that Comfort led to the water has long since died from intellectual dehydration, and on top of it this young woman is beating this dead horse again and again and again with the long rod of truth, leaving nothing but blood, hooves, and the remnants of Comfort’s child-molestor moustache.

Ziztur, you should almost feel ashamed.  This is an unfair fight.  This is tantamount to kickboxing with a toddler or arm wrestling a baby bird or defeating a retard in a spelling bee.  But it is a necessary unfairness, for it is unfortunate that this retarded toddler has a soapbox upon which he can reach millions with his ridiculous, dangerous arguments.

In general, the ladies and Mr. Saint Gasoline usually do not mingle very well together.  Like oil and water, we don’t mix; and also like oil and water, when we are both put into a test tube we tend not to absorb each other and form a solution, which is probably good, or else swimming would really suck.

I know what you’re all thinking.  Dear, gentle reader, you must be shocked and astounded that I remain perpetually single in spite of my devastatingly rugged good looks, immense narcissism, and indefatigable ability to stare at myself in the mirror while shirtless.  In fact, I am what many people would call a “catch”.  Of course, this is probably used in the negative sense, as in “catching a cold” or “catching a case of herpes”.  Like herpes, though, I am swollen and red and pus-filled and will grow on you over time, only to be suppressed by your immune system and then rise again during periods of stress.  In short, I’d be the perfect boyfriend.

So the problem, as I see it, is not my amazing personality or many talents or even my intense—some would say overbearing and glorious—attractiveness.  It seems that I am just too perfect.  I show up on a first date, say tremendously witty things, try to make out with them within five minutes and end up getting my beard in their mouth, constantly mention my penis and make allusions about its lackluster size, occasionally piss myself with excitement, and inevitably the girl never returns my phone calls when I call her seventeen times at 3 in the morning and subsequently leave countless messages indicating my various mood swings, ranging from bawling pleas for acceptance to overconfident rants about my glory.  I can totally understand why a girl may not find herself worthy of such majesty, though.  Or as the kids used to say, I can see why they ain’t ready for my jelly, because my booty is apparently quite tasty and delicious and bootylicious.

But in all seriousness, I am perpetually stuck in first date-ville.  And going on first dates is a lot like living in Awkwardsville, USA; population 2.  Being male, of course, I suppress this awkwardness and instead assume a date is going swimmingly, because it is in my own self-interest to assume any sort of attention paid to me is some sort of signpost toward future copulation.  The male brain is not wired to rationally assess a woman’s interest.  It is wired to assume every woman is interested, to resist rejection as long as possible, to put one’s penis in as many things as possible, and to hope that one of those things the penis eventually ends up within is somehow a woman rather than an overripe watermelon.  (Sadly, it is usually the watermelon.  Why must that watermelon always be so conveniently located right in front of my crotch?!)

I have tried almost everything to have a successful first date that leads to a second date.  I’ve refrained from ridiculing people when they profess a belief in some sort of crazy mystical crap, be it crystal healing, angels, astrology, or whatever.  And it is hard to withhold the inner turmoil that rages within me when I hear such bullshit, yet I do so with pained initiative at the behest of my lonely, lonely penis.  Yet even pretending to be credulous and accepting of the typical womanly superstitions has not helped.  My desperate penis, withered with disuse, sits huddled inside my pants as old cobwebs hang from my pubes.  As a result of this foreboding appearance and murdered sex life, my crotch is actually number 96 on the top 100 haunted places according to A&E, and many a ghost hunter holding a thermal reader has noticed a large uptick in heat generation after pointing their misused electronic devices at my crotch, assuring me that this is heat generated by some sort of spiritual entity and not my own body heat or the friction generated from my constant rubbing.  I have a fucking poltercock.

So, I am not compatible with the large majority of women.  This is a sad, terrible thing.  Mostly for the women.  They willingly deprive themselves of my astounding wit, vain superiority complex, and constant condescension toward them.  How they manage to get through the day, much less their shallow, empty lives, without my god-like presence is one of the great mysteries of the universe.  I can only console myself by constantly, incessantly, telling myself that they don’t deserve a man like me, that I am too good for all of them, as I softly whimper into my pillow at night, cuddling my pillow and pretending it is a woman, only to find that my pillow, in its strong distaste of me, evolves the capacity for speech just to tell me to get the fuck off of it and to stop whining like a silly little bitch.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I blog.  And also because there are stupid people on the internet saying stupid things.