Perhaps you recall my query relative to the whereabouts of the Michelin man.  You don’t?  Perhaps you need to work on your reading comprehension.  Certainly, your recall could use a little work.  Speaking of spruce, did you know that the Spruce Goose was actually made almost exclusively of birch?  Had it been a submarine it could have been the Birch Perch.  But the vicissitudes of history would not allow it.  The birch came from Mellen, Wisconsin.  This is a little trivia tidbit that you can use if you really want to impress someone.  Someone in this case being a total and unrepentant geek.  (Are there unrepentant geeks?  I wouldn’t think so.  I mean, some of them act like their geekiness is a badge of honor.  But really they don’t mean it.  Kind of like short guys who make jokes about being short all the time.)

Anyway, the Michelin man has a name.  It is Bibendum.  The French.  Who else would give a name to their company’s symbol?  They should have rolled a line of Bibendums into Belgium before the Germans came.  Certainly, they would have proved no less effective than the Maginot line.  Nous avons baisé vers le haut.  (Note: I don’t really know other languages.  But I don’t have to.  Technology has made me polyphonic.  The Internet is my god.)

I am reading a book where the protagonist is a woman who has visceral, almost allergic, reactions to certain marketing symbols.  The one she is most frightened of happens to be Bibendum.  Personally, I find this a ridiculous premise.  I’ve always found Bibendum to be a whimsical character, full of cheerfulness and European charms.  Anyway, I’d also cut off the head of any vampire I met.  So, my thoughts and those of fictional characters often diverge.  Anyway, I found this allusion to Bibendum rather interesting as I had just raised the question as to the whereabouts of the Michelin Man in an earlier blog.  Eerie.

When these things happen, I can’t help but imagine that I possess some sort of prescient abilities.  I refer to Bibendum and he appears in the pages of a book that I randomly choose to read.  Perhaps, I, like the Internet, am some sort of god.  At the very least, I might be an important prophet.  Maybe I am the first true prophet of the church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Wait, I am getting a revelation……..

I think I’ll write that one down, oh powerful FSG.

And, in the time of the waning of the Bibendum, a message came to the prophet Muffet’s Orange, sent to him by the FSG to giveth to the true believers.

“MO is the light and beacon, my earthly proxy, who speaketh for me to man.  He is the conduit of the eternal, the vehicle through which I giveth my commandments to all of mankind.  Thus, ye should giveth all of your temporal goods to the prophet MO- so sayeth I lest ye be cast down into the Pit of Ravioli to be burneth alive for all eternity with hot sauces that drip down from the ladle of the Chefboyardee.

Also, MO shouldn’t payeth any taxes.  Thus sayeth the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

There you have it.  I’m just telling you what my god says, you know.  Don’t blame the messenger.

Infidel.