Here's my Dovina answer: I believe it was a serious satire. My answer: It's been a long time since I've seen it. Honestly all I can remember is Mimi's tits. Everything else I remember from the movie are scenes from The Seventh Sign.

No nothing like. A very poor comment, I'm geussing without thought.

Yeah exactly like what precisely does make your shower curtain suck in when you turn on the shower? This topic has been debated by people with real scientific degrees. Apparently nobody has gotten the funding yet to do the appropriate tests.

Not everything has an answer, and sometimes the answers to questions we ask now won't surface until later in life.

I guess we've at least gotten to the bottom of "Do you plan on ever answering anything?".

So you have seen it. Question for a self-described skeptic believer: Do you think it was serious or satire?

I'll restate: I assume God. The formulation "Could X...?" assumes X, for all that's worth. The question "Could a race of Snorks in a hypothetical universe in which gravity is frequently and arbitrarily reversed manage to keep their pants up with fewer than four grasping appendages?" assumes a race of Snorks. Unfortunately for the Snorks, it doesn't make them exist; nor does it make me believe they exist.

Yes, that was about two edits from actually making into the poem.

It's like a housefull of kids tearing the house up with our ruckus sometimes. I guess we should fight on our turfs.

When the comments no longer pertain to the piece, and all the commenters are doing is fighting with each other, I feel that they can be deleted.

I feel myself slipping off the edge of a varigated pastel world.

I think it was at: http://poemranker.com/poem-details.jsp?id=132979, but Dancing Shamrock deleted the comments. Such an act is deserving of gang violence.

Most anthropologists agree that race is not real, that it's not worth talking about. See the website which you posted on this subject.

That’s your opinion and it’s wrong. You can send me a sweatshirt to that effect (size small) for which I’ll pay six tenners worth of wisdom. Keep the change. You’ll know me then, walking up Fleet Street, turning hooded and grey into the narrow lane, to the pub where Charles Dickens liked to hang out—Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Its dark bricks, ancient timbers and inornate wooden benches, like church pews, could be the surroundings for “A Tale of Two Rankers.” Plain wood tables near the old flat-wall fireplace feel like haunts for the beginnings of mysteries. I sat there awhile listening for ghosts, but none came. Maybe next time.

Could you reword that? Do you mean most agree race isn't real or that most disagree with each other.

This conversation has taken a turn for the bow'ls.

I see how it could work that way. But consumptive flames set me thinking you were passivly enjoying the fire.