[Pressed for time? Just the links here.]
I am old and tired, my son. I feel the creeping chill of death in these creaking bones. I smell the heather of heavenly meadows and hear the distant strains of Gabriel's flugelhorn. Listen as I croak out my last will and testament. Lean in close. No, not that close. Your breath stinks.
Are you writing this down? No, I don't have a pencil--do I look like a pencil store? You always were the slow one.
Ready? I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my worldly goods to my fellow skeptics.
I leave my brain to PZ Myers, so that he may prove once and for all that the holes appearing in my various CAT scans were the result of fifty years of arguing with creationists, and not a side effect of glossolalia.
To Matt, I will all my tinfoil. There should be a couple rolls in the right-hand drawer next to the oven. He might find them useful for keeping food fresh, or maybe as a fashion accessory.
Clark Bartram gets my head lice. Even in these thinning strands of gray, I've got a thriving population. Say hi when you see him. He'll know how to deal with the lice--nothing involving homeopathy, I'm sure. What do you mean he won't catch them from me? Didn't I tell you to lean in close?
To Zeno I bequeath my collection of Dembski's Greatest Contributions to Information Theory. I've buried them in the back yard. He'll have a heck of a time finding them with his dowsing rod, 'cause Dembski's proofs don't hold any water. Get it? Water? Yeah, you're still the slow one.
Shalini... Shalini... make sure you call Shalini and tell her that I had a Near Death Experience just a couple hours ago--oh, and I did see Deepak Chopra. He and Jesus were tussling over a bag of Fritos. Figures.
Phil Plait can have my Angel Trap. Sure, it looks like a bug zapper, but it's because angels are known to slip through mosquito netting and aren't put off by citronella candles. Have you ever spent a Saturday morning sweeping angel carcasses off your front porch? I have. Phil took pictures.
To Mark Nutter I leave my ham radio. If you're going to contact God in an experiment to see if He exists, you have to make sure you're talking on the right frequency--777 mHz, if I remember right.
To that old rapscallion John I leave a calculator with gigantic buttons, perfect for shaky hands, which he should use to pummel the nearest creationist mathematician who spews blather outside his field of expertise.
Bob Carroll, that even-handed reviewer of Richard Dawkins' latest, can have my denim pants with the mollusks on the back pockets. They're my shellfish jeans. Get it? Laugh a little with your dying father, would you?
I don't have anything for Mike. Tell him to take a cold shower or something. Anyhow, despite what he claims, sexually induced calm probably is contagious. Just ask Mom. All I'd have to say is "Hey honey," and she'd fall into a coma.
To guest-blogger GSB and Carl Feagans, I bequeath duck repellent. Seems they have to take on more than their fair share of quacks--really sick, twisted, fallacy-spouting quacks who hurt people with their "chelation therapy" and their "natural cures."
Same goes to Orac, who seems a little bit despondent about the future of American medicine. Tell him to cheer up--when homeopathy is finally proven true, alternative medicine will be vindicated. Also, he can have the Brooklyn Bridge.
Martin Rundkvist and Rebecca Watson can have my leftover air miles. Martin hasn't had enough of Chinese superstition, I'm sure. Rebecca needs to go and check out that QiGong master, and witness his amazing table trickery firsthand. (I used to pull that stunt to impress the ladies. It's how I met your mother.)
To EoR I devote my entire Mr. Ed library. Did he show that Equine Breathing nonsense? Knowing you, you probably thought he was serious. No wonder your breath smells like rotten oats.
Sandy Szwarc can have whatever meat's left in the freezer, since, until science shows otherwise, it's as healthy as it is tasty. Hell, I ate steak twice a month, and, aside from fathering a dullard of a son, I've lived a good life.
To Bronze Dog I bequeath my last bottle of cologne. Obsession--even obsession with right reason--will never smell as sweet as Preferred Stock.
Last, to you, my genetic detritus, I will my razor-sharp logic and critical thinking skills--God knows you need them. You can lean back, halitosis boy. My croaking is done. Now I can die in peace.
This Skeptics' Circle couldn't have come together without the gracious contributions of all the bloggers involved. Thanks to all who linked, emailed, and passed the word along. Any errors or omissions are my own.
Next time: December 7, hosted by Autism Street. See you there.
[My previous entry: #17, Ask a Random Skeptic]