Origins Bomb

I’m sorry to get you worried about explosions two posts running, but you really should be reading Countdown to Annihilation! at Hitherby Dragons. (Especially PZ, who likes to keep abreast of scientific advances along these lines.) I feel bad excerpting just the premise because, though hilarious, it’s almost the least hiliarious bit. Make sure to start with the linked segment, then consult ‘latest entries’ for parts II, III & IV and the Lizard Cops bonus wossname.

"There!" says Mr. Lancaster. He rolls back the platform. He dusts
himself off. He rises. "It’s a perfect Origins Bomb, if I do say so
myself."

"Perfection is for God alone," corrects Mrs. Lancaster.

"Oh, Mrs. Lancaster," says Mr. Lancaster, beeping her nose. "You do keep me honest."

"What’s it do?" Iphigenia asks.

"It’s a way to prove Creationism right for once and for all," says Mr. Lancaster. "When I push this button—"

Here he indicates a large red button labeled "Emergency Proof of Creationism."

"—everything in the universe that is older than ten thousand years
old, and every human who evolved from lower life forms, blows up!"

Iphigenia frowns. "But that’s nobody. You said that people were made by God."

Mr. Lancaster’s eyes dance.

Iphigenia will always remember this moment. When Mr. Lancaster is
very happy his eyes get a marvelous crinkle at the edges. It makes
Iphigenia want to laugh and hug him. And sometimes he will sweep her up
and spin her around, or tell her a wonderful secret, like where the
Apostle Paul is really buried, or race her through the house around and
around and around.

His eyes are crinkly like that now.

"That’s the marvel of it," he says, "The absolute marvel of it! It’s
the world’s deadliest bomb—and it won’t hurt hardly anything!"

"We expect there are a few things that will qualify," explains Mrs.
Lancaster. "Sinister bloodlines descended from lizards, ancient
gyroscopes from alternate timelines, the angels of nations, and so
forth. Exceptions. Nothing the world can’t do without."

Those guys at Powerline would totally push the button.

I was delighted when a commenter found my comment spam fiction worthy of connecting with Rebecca Borgstrom’s (previously unknown to me) spam fiction "The Noise Dreams of Signal." She’s got this Roald Dahl, Donald Barthelme sort of sensibility, with a taroty aftertaste worthy of either or both Crowleys. Reminds me of this story I’m never going to write about a congregation of fundamentalist Christian tarot card users who insist on literal readings of the text. ‘You’re going to die, and you’re going to see four cups, and six wands, and a fool, and a guy hanging upside down …’ Course it turns out that’s just how it goes.) I, for one, welcome our new Snavering Lavelwod overlords. (Say it three times fast.)