It's his 51st. As always, this necessitates a poem.
A temper burning hotter than a tower of flaming tires:
Who's that conflagration? PZ Meyers.
His ire directed straight at evolutional deniers:
What's his name again? PZ Miers.
Oh, woe betide the kill-filed that his acrid wit expires,
Their visc'ra disemvoweled with a pair of rusty pliers;
It's only what's expected for a crowd of cranks and liars.
Can you spell it right? PZ Myers.