A half a century of P. Z. Myers

I’m told that today is P. Z. Myer‘s 50th birthday and that apparently he’s requested poetry, now that he’s hanging out with bigshots like Richard Dawkins, who actually did write him a poem. Cranky and contrary box of blinking lights that Orac is, you probably already know that Orac won’t go along with the crowd on this one. Oh, he’ll wish P.Z. a happy birthday, but poetry isn’t his thing. (Remember, this is the same computer that spend endless amounts of time analyzing jokes and limericks because he couldn’t understand why humans liked them. Do you really want to see him attempt actual poetry? I didn’t think so.)

Instead, there’s only one way to birthday wishes ever come from this blog:


I know, I know, I stink at Photoshop. I also realize that I’ve probably just guaranteed that I won’t be receiving any more links from Pharygula any time soon. Oh, well, a guy’s gotta stay true to his muse.

My one concession was to include a cephalopod, because, well, as much as I never could really understand P.Z.’s thing about cephalopods, it is his birthday, and it just wouldn’t be birthday wishes to him without a cephalopod.