What nobody wants to hear is that the whole beginning thing is at best sketchy.
Cosmologists and children need to be kept busy, but for the rest of us, there is no beginning, because then an end has been created... and a theology, and a code of ethics, and before you know it hundreds of thousands upon hundreds of thousands of penguins have gone to meet their maker.
The plot line is well worn.
The go/no-go decision is imminent. As the pointed tail of the bird scrapes around the corner, it is a foregone conclusion. The backside of the moon. Curious and comedic. Crack. Boing!
Bopped on the bonce, booted into a huge vat and steamed alive is certainly no beginning for a penguin - only the meat matters now: masticated, oil extracted, the life cycle of the ovum is of no going concern in the scheme of men. Infinity is but a second before the official start. Over and out.
To while away the time, the Archbishop’s most incarcerated envoy enjoyed Penguin classics.
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