Tuesday, December 18, 2012

A Truish Story Told Using Advanced Vocabulary.

Cross-posted at Mme Scherzo

When I was but a wee tomrig of two, I was a consummate gymnosophist, refusing to wear even the drugget my mother fashioned for me as a diaper. She would cry in horror, “You’ll die of the murrain if you don’t keep clothed!”
Of course, this was a situation that could not go on, and my mother prorogued my right to flit about in the altogether, while I, all of two, could only whimper in protest. Her words were more bitter than suckling upon a cruet of vinegar. Wefadged, she more forcefully, that I would not only wear the drugget, but also the outer attire she put on me at the beginning of the day.
Being small and unlanguaged, my tantrums against this injustice were an epopee.
Alas, my dear mother had no ear for my unreasonable rhymes and resorted to a most painful curative for my froppishness.
She promised me that if I would behave and wear my clothes, I would get pudding for dessert. 
I smiled, and fadged to wear my togs for the whole day, with the understanding that there was a reward of pudding for doing so.
And so I spent the day playing nangerly in my play yard, dreaming of pudding, mypeckled face a beacon of chocolaty hope for the after-dinner.
Alas, after-dinner produced the hard hoped-for pudding, and I, instead of being grateful, as all children should be, diffided that I didn’t WANT the pudding. 
Mother sat silently as I crossed my arms and put out my lower lip. “You WILL eat your pudding!” A war of attrition had begun and I was determined to win it.
So was mother, whose peckled face became a rash of seething red, and a fumidheat shimmered above her even redder hair.
Spilth! Went the pudding down my face, which had opened into a screaming maw of rage and chocolate.
She smiled in triumph, having won her battle with me.
But I won the war, for no sooner than I was baptized in pudding, I once again found myself happily disrobed.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Which Reminds Me

Posted originally at Jaded Haven, whose proprietrix has taken down her shingle and thrown in the ink blotter. The blogging world will sorely miss her. I know I will. I had a devil of a time trying to find this essay, but given the spiritual turmoil I am currently under lately, I thought I would trot it out before it gets exiled to the circular file. 

 Little White Church Photograph - Little White Church Fine Art Print - Warren Thompson

Driving leisurely through Daphne’s archives often sends my mental carriage fishtailing out of control. If not with fits of  giggles, then with sated sighs, and every so often, rage and grief.   This essay caused my memory  to go into reverse without pausing for neutral.   Read as her skilled hand causes the wreck which follows:
Long held secrets came spilling out the summer I turned seven, killing the balancing act of my parent’s marriage.  On High Island, we attended church every Sunday morning in a white clapboard building that held no more than a hundred souls in the pews. Maybe once a month, on Saturday evenings, we’d attend tent revivals held for traveling charismatic preachers. My daddy’s family looked forward to these religious spectacles. They scared me shitless. Regular Pentecostal services are a wide world away from their Catholic, Episcopalian or Baptist equivalents. Tent revivals exist in a whole other realm. I watched my stalwart, calm faced aunts, female cousins and grandmother moan, speak in tongues, faint in ecstasy, handle snakes and dance like demons. The normally stoic male members of my family exhibited similar bouts of frightening behavior. I hated tent revivals, spending most of them hidden under my folding chair, eyes squeezed tight shut, fingers shoved in my ears, waiting to be carried out to the safety of the car and driven home.
Ah, you’ve caused me to drive the car backwards into a ditch, Daphne, and now you’ll have to sit with me for a spell. Have a Slurpee while I share my own tale of Pentecaustic Woe.

My father’s only love is the piano.  My mother once complained that he spent more time at the piano than with her, and she was going to leave him if he didn’t get off that infernal thing and watch Lucy with her on the tee-vee. Without a word, he went into the bedroom, packed her bags, left them in the hallway and went back to practicing. She never complained about it again.

By day he sold pianos at the French Market in Kansas City, at least, he made a valiant effort. By night he played in mob-owned strip clubs. His desire to be Sarah Vaughan’s accompanist was never realized – his brush with fleeting fame at that time was posing in a photograph with Lawrence Welk.

He wasn’t a very good salesman. He’d start his spiel by offering the customer advice,  then select a piano that would go with the rest of their furniture.  At the point he had to close the deal, he would demonstrate the piano’s virtues, and forgetting the customer, he would begin to play. And play. The customer, realizing he would never be able to play that well, left.  But there were occasions when he made the sale. And that was usually to a church.

Dad played the organ in our church. He was the only member who could. Our church was a small, nondenominational collective of anal, henpecked men whose wives were gossiping scolds. Our family was their main source of nourishment.

The problem the church busybodies had with my father was how he played the organ.

Musically, he was a black man in a church full of tone deaf Klansmen. His playing was a thing of exquisite blasphemy. He cast aside the Methodist three-chord blandishments and restraints  and pumped in chords and forbidden rhythms from the Devil’s own Fake Book,  inspiring lustful arousal – augmented minors, dominant sevenths and tenths vamped with a downbeat and walking bass lines. He made the Wurlitzer wail and moan with orgasmic pleasure.

Alas, in our church, there was no amen choir for such playing. There was no choir at all. Just congregational singing at its worst. I spent my time in those moments by making up new words for whatever hymn we were singing.

And then he sold a baby grand to a Pentecostal church.
The preacher, an organist himself, invited us to visit his church. My father, wary of all things Roman Catholic or Charismatic, would have declined, but for the money.  Come Sunday, the six of us showed up, dressed in our faded, Goodwill best.

The preacher had roped off a whole pew for us midway from the front to the back and we filed in, youngest to oldest.  My father sat next to the center aisle, removing the only avenue of escape.

The service started off well, with robust and joyous singing. The preacher played the organ, with his wife at the new piano.  The church members sang well, clapped their hands, and for once, my father felt kinship with a church.

After the  preacher introduced us and made announcements, the praying commenced. And such praying it was. Nothing prepared us for the praying.


The six of us froze as one. I slowly opened my eyes and turned to look at my father for silent instruction. He was waxen. His eyes were as wide as mine, and he was sweating. He made no expression, and did not look back at my inquiring gaze.
My older brother likewise, was a stone.

“HAMMANA  SHEE TOGEE YODEE YODEE VOVOVOVO TANGA MENTO DODEEDODO!” continued the preacher. Everyone, save for us, had their eyes closed and hands upraised, each beseeching their Lord and Savior in his own tongue.

I looked at my little sister, Malinda, on my left, who looked back at me with the same expression I gave her. And then I looked beyond her to my little brother, Stacy, expecting the same reaction. My mouth fell open as I watched him press the palms of his hands to his mouth.

“Oh Lord, please don’t do what I think you’re gonna do!” I thought, hoping he would see the word “NO” forming on my lips and the slight shake of my head. He did, of course, but chose not to listen to his Better Angel.

“PPPPFFFFTTTTH!” he softly farted with his mouth into his hands.
My father’s stupor was over. Turning, he glared at Little Brother, his jaw clenched in rage.  I stared straight ahead, as the raucous gibbering of the congregation continued. I felt my father’s arm slide behind my neck.  With a silent flick of his wrist he slapped Little Brother’s head.

Only he missed, and hit Little Sister’s head, instead.
“Ow! Whud I do?” she cried, rubbing her head.  Dad leaned to his left a bit more and flicked his hand again. And once more, he missed Little Brother, hitting Little Sister.

I tried to stifle the laughter forming in the pit of my stomach. I struggled and failed. My whole body shook. I looked again at Little Brother and in a brief display of mercy, he quit face-farting. My eyes began to water and I bit my lip. The preacher, squawking ecstatic insanities heavenward was now moving up the aisle. He paused at each pew and placed his hands on the head of the person sitting closest to the aisle and spewed sacred gibberish, following with the only word I understood:  "Amen!”  He continued up the aisle toward us. I bit my lip hard, to stop myself from laughing. I gave a pleading look at Little Brother, who decided to play the face game.

Pulling his cheeks downward and rolling his eyes into the back of his head, he opened his mouth to show only his bottom teeth. Zombie face.

“Please, oh please oh please, just STOP!” I silently prayed.  Little Brother continued, this time pulling the sides of his head back to make his eyes squint. He sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips, with his front teeth protruding. Chinese face.

I covered my mouth with my hands and laughed, as my whole body shook. I gave up trying to control myself and began to cry. The preacher stopped at our pew. He stopped chattering and spoke loudly in English:

“Brothers and Sisters,” he bellowed, looking directly at me. “This child is filled with the Holy Ghost!”

And with that, the entire congregation got up from their pews and surrounded us, laying hands on my head, while rapidly praying to Jesus in heartfelt, unintelligible noise. Some were overwhelmed and cried.

Once more, I froze, and waited for the blessing to pass. The preacher said, “Amen!’ and a chorus of amens followed.

There was a sermon, I believe. I can’t for the life of me remember what it was about. Little Brother sat still for the rest of the service, when he saw that I was bored with his antics.

Once we left the church and got into the car, Dad turned to look at us, his face shaking with rage.

We held our breaths, awaiting the judgment and punishment that was sure to come. Instead, he laughed. Long and hard. And we laughed with him. All the way home. Back to our neighborhood of drug addicts, drunks, wife beaters, gangs and crazy ladies.

We all got out of the car as the Crazy Lady walked slowly by.
“Goddamnsonofabitch! Goddamnsonofabitch! Goddamnsonofabitch!” she incanted. Those were the only words anyone had ever heard her say. She stopped to look at us.

And we replied, “Amen!”

Please take some time and read Daphne's wonderful and hilarious piece of weirdness and the comments left by the readers. They are all brilliant, witty, and one of the reasons I will miss Daphne and her razor-sharp mind

Sunday, July 22, 2012

The Dangers of Falling Asleep While Watching Television

My daughter Emily, was playing Skyrim, a video game of Vikings, of magic spells and dragons. The volume was  low enough not to bother me as I dozed. Behind my recliner, the fan was humming its beautiful white noise, and the breeze being sucked in was refreshing and cool enough to cause me to fall into a delicious nap. Which I promptly did. 

I began to dream a most realistic dream. In it. Emily had summoned all the dragons who lived beneath the seas, and they began to set the seas to boil, and all the creatures in the seas cooked, and when the dragons were done eating the whales and dolphins and the toasted sharks with jellyfish, they began to burn everything down.

I became very angry at Emily for letting the dragons out, but she, in my dream, was only three years old, and thought it was very great fun. The sounds of people being broiled alive didn’t seem to bother her at all. She just wanted to ‘pet the pretty horsies’.

And that is why you should never, ever, ever have anything but a fan blowing when you take a nap.

This has been your cautionary tale of the day.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Epic Meal Time

You see, this is why America is so futzed up and fat. I know, I know. I'm a hypocrite or something like that, but this...this is just...wrong.

In fact, it is the one trend I've noticed on the Food Network, The Cooking Channel, and a number of other stations that glorify gluttony. America is doomed. Enjoy the death spiral, infidels:

Garbage in, garbage out.

A New Fashion Statement: Grief Tats

Ostentatious vanity has been de rigueur in the last half of the 20th century, now going into the 21st. The age of circuses is here to stay for the time being and has found new venues to put up the tents. There is no modesty, nor is there privacy. There is no shame. Only show.

From the moment a baby is born, it's a show. If you have lots of babies on the same day, it's a series on TLC. Divorcing? There's a show for that. Dysfunctional, abusive parents? A show. Maybe several on different channels. You want to glorify gluttony? Sloth? Greed? Malignant Narcissism? All of the Seven Deadlies! There are shows for each and every one of them, and watching them will teach you the only virtue that there is left: Tolerance.

Why, they'll send out talent scouts to look for new celebrities to be in shows dedicated to every form of excess and perversity! There is nothing that can't be feted, promoted, sold and bought by the drooling masses. Even Death has a show. Consider Diana, Princess of Wales.

When Princess Diana died in 1997, grief as pornography came out. The handwritten letters, stuffed bears, photos and candles piled up outside of Buckingham Palace were tribute to a goddess who typified the ostentatious vanity and emptiness of our culture. The urgency of prayers uttered by the mob of hopeless worshipers to this sad and vacuous woman were obscene, and no matter where you turned your head to avert your gaze from the spectacle of Diana worship, there was no escaping it.  In death she became a kind of Christ, slain for the redemption of our sin against fashion and beauty. Even after the funeral, which was quite a show, indeed, the obscenity of Diana Death pornography in the book shops continued, with endless amounts of over sized, badly written photo books on display. She was as lucrative in death as she had been in life.

Perhaps, then, I am being heartless for noting the following tragedy that happened in Harrisburg, PA. 
A fire swept through a block of row houses, killing 5 people, 4 of them children. That's the tragic part of the story.  This, however, I cannot fathom. Watch. Wait for it, and try not to ask yourself: How much did she spend on this bit of grief pornography?

I won't call the fundraiser obscene, because that would be horribly intolerant, and that is the only sin left to commit.

Link Update: The original video of the mother appearing with her dead children's faces, names and date of death tattooed on her chest, at a benefit to raise money for the funeral expenses was removed. I haven't been able to find a replacement for it. I left the link as it appeared at the time. Going to the news'  site yielded no results when I searched for the video.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Who is Karl Rogue? Dropping Eaves in the Café of the Damned

Via The Blaze
Not one for mincing her words, unless she's mincing someone with them, Daphne has an exquisite conversation with her brother....who doesn't mince words, either. Better go there now and read her blog while it is still open. Like Borders Books, it's closing soon!

The only place to hear such conversations  - other than in offices and doctors' waiting rooms is the bookstore café.

My daughter used to work in Border's  coffee shop.  I'd often go there for a free cuppa and to people watch, and I can say with certainty, that the bizarre conversation Daphne's brother heard actually happened, because the coffee shop is a twit magnet. Seriously, it is.

There are maybe only two bookstore chains left, Amazon doing away with the need for them. The bookstore is a kind of secular temple, so the most interesting conversations are all about atheism, enviromentalism, leftwing politics, all topics riddled with unquestioning clichés and bumper sticker sound bytes... and all the other boring topics that impress the girls that Daphne's brother described.

I thought I would share a few of the more memorable ones that my daughter either related to me, or that we both heard, since they are indicative of the state of the educated minds swirling around  in the bookstores, nowadays.

Conversation that Emily and I had about an interesting event at work:

"Carl Rogue was signing books at the store, today."

"Carl Rogue? You mean Karl Rove. Wow. Were there a lot of protesters?"

"Not really. I got to meet him. He's nice. What did he do that made everyone so mad at him?"

"He was George Bush's advisor. A lot of the really hardcore Bush haters think he is Satan. That he should be in jail."

"Well, he's really nice. We had a catered lunch for him from Isaac's, and he offered me a 'sammich'.. That's how he said it, too. Sammich. I had a roast beef sammich with Carl Rogue, and it was a really nice time. Then he went out and signed a lot of books. There were exactly 3 protesters. They kept trying to interrupt him and they were saying that "1 Bush = 10, 000 dead babies. I don't know if they were protesting the war or abortion. They got kicked out for annoying everyone."

Emily is easily bored with politics. She'd rather tell you about anything else but politics. I did well with this one.

Conversation between a man and sales clerk helping him in his search for something really, really important, and had to be led out of the bookstore in order to find it in the parking lot before the police arrived:

The disheveled young man with the badly uncombed long, unwashed hair came by me as I was sitting in the café drinking my mango-peach kreme kula.  My big feet almost tripped him, and he swerved in time to avoid falling with the tower of hardbacks he was carrying.

He was both rushed and angry, and I apologized to him for having my feet in his way. He only looked at me with rage and disgust and began to slap his books into separate piles on one of the tables.

Each book was slapped loudly, causing all the patrons to look at him. After his books were arranged, he left, and came back not many minutes later, with another tower of hardbacks and began again to loudly slap his books down into the piles on the table.

A clerk came by as we all watched him, and asked if she could help him find something.

"You aren't qualified to help me find what I need."

"Well, I am a bookstore clerk. I'm sure there's something I can help you with."

"I am (long dramatic pause) waiting for the dharma."

"I'm sorry. What was that again?"


"There's no reason to shout.  I suggest you wait for your dharma outside, before I call the police."

He promptly left to go outside to wait for his dharma.  The curious patrons gathered round the table with the towers of books upon them. He had cleared out the religious book section and made three piles upon the table. Korans, Bibles, Torahs, Buddhist books, books on Hinduism. The clerk looked at the books and sighed. "At least they all go back to the same section."

These were just two of the many interesting things that went on in the Borders where Emily worked. Please don't read anything culturally  important into them. This isn't exactly a serious rant....just an observation.

I would love to have been the fly on this wall.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Pretty Pwnies! Pretty Ugly Pwnies

From 2010:

Via Sippican Cottage:  The horses are ugly.  But the scenery is gorgeous!

You don't have to tell me twice, brother. I used to have this teenaged girl's notion about horsies, you know - romantic scenes from perfume commercials, with beautiful people and white-capped waves crashing on the beach. I wanted that. I wanted to be on the beach with beautiful horses and the ocean and beautiful people....who wouldn't?

Finally, the dream was realized in my thirties, when my husband and children decided to camp at Assateague Island.  With the wild horses. Running on the beach.

Smell the brine! Feel the mist of the ocean on your face! Avoid the pile of horse crap. Oh CRAP! It's Everywhere! Geez. Go wash your feet off....DON'T put that in your mouth! It isn't food.....crap...

What the Hell? Horse gangs have trampled the neighbor's campsite, pulling down their canopy and ransacked their food supply.

                               Criminal horse thugs out looking for victims. Bastards.

After looting their camp, they turned to mine. I was there waiting for them. Ponies, my ass! These are teenagers. Hooligans. Horse thugs, thieves and delinquents all. I ran them off, but they swore at me in their filthy horse slang and promised they'd be back.

The neighbors came back and surveyed the damage done to their camp and decided to pack it in and go home. Another good family run out of the campground by horse crime.

Little Irksome Middle Child was at that time known as the Squealing Ball of Fat, and the youngest. She was needy, always needy. Her feet and hands were covered in horse droppings, and between trying to wash her at the bath house, and swatting away the giant flesh eating flies,  the horses were gathering, scheming.

We sought refuge from the heat, the flies and the horse gangs in the van, where I tried to nurse the Squealing Ball of Fat. And the horses gathered outside the van. I should have not left the windows open

Trying to shoo a big horse head out of your car window while breastfeeding a baby is nigh on impossible. The pwnies knew that and took full advantage of my situation. One pwny took my hairbrush from my swatting hand with its teeth, while another pulled out my sandal and ran off with it. Then, seeing the bag of apples under the towel, they went for that.

I screamed for help, and miraculously, half a dozen saviours appeared.....with video cameras.....

Fortunately, the incident I just described was well before the advent of Youtube....but there are plenty of videos that show you what criminals horses are.  Jonathan Swift can bite me.

Gulliver's final voyage takes him to a near utopia. He finds himself in a land of talking horses, called the Houyhnhnms, who rule over a world of brutish humans, called Yahoos. The society is beautiful--without violence, pettiness or greed. All the horses live together in a cohesive social unit. Gulliver feels that he is a stupid outsider. The Houyhnhnms cannot accept him because of his human form; and he escapes in a canoe. When he returns home, he is upset by the sordid nature of the human world, and wishes he were back with the more enlightened horses that he left.
Yeah, right.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Arabic, as it should be taught in the Middle Eastern Hystrionics Department. (Arab Hubris Studies)

(First published 2002)
My One and Only Goal This Year: Learn to speak Arabic, in order to better eavesdrop on the enemy without him knowing or suspecting, write down anything he says that may incriminate him, and then turn him in to the Justice Department in order to collect the 25 million bucks the DoJ is offering anyone with knowledge that will prevent another enemy attack. To accomplish this goal, I have purchased the following book :

Arabic For Beginners by Syed Ali
ISBN 0-7818-0841-3 Copyright 2001 (I bought this book after 9/11, by the way, and before the invasion of Iraq)

After I give you a sampling of what I will be learning in this book, you will say with confidence, "I can actually see you getting 25 mil from the gubmint!" All the samples I cite are in this book, absolutely no joking! 

The first indication of what I will be studying is listed in the author's thanks to the following people and institutions: 2nd page of the Introduction:

"I am thankful to King Faisal Center for Research in Islamic Studies, Riyadh, Baghdad University and Islamic African Center, Khartoum for suggesting certain changes in the book and these have been incorporated in this edition." Syed Ali. 

In one line, Syed thanks Our Friends in the Everlasting Kingdom of Hatred, The Republic of Saddam, Uday and Qusay, and the wasteland of Genocidal Janjaweed for suggesting some "changes"...Hmmmm, I wonder what those "changes" might be: 

Let's see, shall we? In lesson nine, model sentences are given:
19: The soldier is brave.
20: God is powerful.
22: The sermon is eloquent.
29: The tank is full.
36: The sky is high.
38: The city is crowded...and my personal favorite...
39: The duck is fat.

In lesson eleven, a few model sentences:
3: The mother stays at home. She cooks food, brings up the children and looks after the domestic chores. Say with me, now girls: "I am but a woman. I am but a woman".
5: The Director of the establishment told the workers: "Every one of you has made an effort and played his role for achieving the industrial and trade targets of the company, hence you deserve extra allowance." I am hoping to drop this line in small talk.

In lesson 12, Syed gives us lots of descriptions of New York City, including a line about tall buildings, and friendly people.

In lesson 14, Syed talks about the happy peasants.

On page 108 and 109, in lesson 17, Syed quotes from the Koran...I think.
3: Do not call those who are slain in the way of God as dead. But they are living.
16: O my brother! Do not leave the water tap open.Do not write on the wall of the house nor throw the waste paper and peel of the fruits except in the waste-paper basket.

Lesson 18 offers this line:
5: The rocket has been fired.

In one lesson, (I can't find it now that I want to quote it)
Syed parses the verb to beat as follows: He was beaten, he is beating, he beat, he will beat, etc...

There are 25 lessons in this book, (which translates into 1 million dollars per chapter) and by lesson 20 a picture is beginning to take serious shape here:

pp 134-135:
11: He has enjoined upon me prayer and almsgiving, so long as I remain alive.
12: The wind continues to be strong.
13: The market continues to be crowded.
14: The airplane was about to explode.
20: The playground is not crowded with people.
28: We don't have much time.
29: People had imagined that aviation was an impossible skill... at least for Zacarias Moussaoui it appears to have been, right?

In lesson 21 I will learn how to say the following lines:
1: Certainly God is with the steadfast.
2: As if the news was correct! Not if you are reading the New Duranty Times, shahid.
3: The plane crashed, but the loss is little.
4: If only the accused was free! See sentence 17.
10: Perhaps the train is reaching the station according to schedule. Oh Syed, did you mean the ones arriving in Madrid or London? Or, howdja like a nice New Year's Eve razzia on the train in Nice?
16: If only the medicine was useful! How does one say Cipro in Arabic, I wonder?
17: Perhaps the culprit is free! In Yemen he is, and thanks to Germany, a couple of others are, too! Way to go, Krauts!
18: It pains me that the war is continuing. It seems to have pained Uday and Qusay and several thousands of their buddies, too.
20: Perhaps the goal is near! Oh, yeah. Nearer than you think, punk.

Hmm. Maybe I should just get some Pimsleur CDs and learn Arabic the good old-fashioned, American way...in my car.
 Update: Pimsleur is only so good. It begins to suck after about the 10th lesson, because you end up dying from boredom. I have learned some Arabic, but not with this little book nor with Pimsleur. I have a method of language learning that isn't anything like these methods. I would write about it, but you would be bored to tears reading about it.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Test Driving Windows 8

Windows 8 has an application that will allow me to blog even if I am offline. That being the case, I will blog about the awfulness of Papa John’s Pizza and Buffalo Chicken tenders.
In a word: Inedible.
Since I care about you all very much, I haven’t included actual photographs of my disastrous ordeal, but I am now convinced that I need to fast for at least ten days to start, in order to detoxify myself and get this swill out of my arteries and veins.
I have only myself to blame.
End of post.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Derrick Bell's Excellent Adventure in White Privilege

Derrick Bell

The fascinating thing about Derrick Bell is that he became a success within the Evil Capitalistic System of White Privilege™:

Tenured professor at a Prestigious Ivy League University? Yup!

Famous through the medium of television interviews and celebrated as a hero.

Wealthy through selling books and persuading others of his beliefs.

He garnered for himself a following of acolytes, one of whom is the president of the United States.

For an oppressed member of the permanent class of professional victims, he did quite well for himself.

All thanks to a Society of Privileged Whites.

Monday, April 2, 2012

New James Bond Movie Coming in November

Spoilage alert:

There's no History. There's only the Now

Duh, Senator Grass Stains. How Kind of You to Notice
So Chuckles notices that there is no history on the History Channel. That has always been the case. The first historical movie that inaugurated the History Channel - complete with an after movie round table discussion - was Lady Jane.   The roundtable critics eviscerated the film. Nothing about it was historically accurate. So much for history, then. But the shit and shinola appearing on the History Channel is just one more abomination that a decaying, morbidly obese culture is indulging in just before the Fall line-up
I started noticing something weird about the world of High Falutin’ Artsy Fartism on the cable stations. There’s no art on Arts & Entertainment. There’s nothing to cheer on Bravo. There’s precious little learning that goes on TLC. And there’s no history on the History Channel.
The Biography Channel, an offshoot of A&E, only seems interested in Lives of the Vacuous and Inexplicably Famous, of serial killers and of Ghosts. Yes. Ghosts are fascinating, but fiction is duller than truth would have been. Even NatGEO TV is full of white trash dumbness.
All of the dumb is mind-numbing. Watching this crap is like being anesthetized in preparation for something truly epic in upcoming awfulness. It is almost as if the people running these shows know something we don’t.
It’s deliberate stultification. I can’t believe there is an audience for these shows.
Something wicked this way comes. Won’t the viewers be surprised to find out that Madison Avenue can’t save them from themselves.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Gone in a Jiffy

Recipe: 2 boxes Jiffy corn muffin mix
2 extra large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
1 half stick of melted butter

Mix in 50 strokes. Batter will be lumpy. Don't over mix. Let it set for a few minutes and put a knob of butter in your screaming hot skillet as it is still in the oven. With a thick oven mitt, rotate the skillet until the butter is all melted and then pour the batter quickly into the very hot skillet. Close up the oven and bake for about 20 minutes until dry and cracked on top, with the sides all crispy and golden brown.

If you don't eat the whole skillet at dinner, just remove it from the skillet and wrap it in plastic and then eat a piece for breakfast. Cold milk and sugar. Can't be beat.

So why am I writing about this little box of loving spoonfuls? Because it is what thrifty housewives buy. In the 80s, when I got married, the box cost a mere 15 cents or so. In the 90s, it was up to 28 cents a box. Last year, it went up to 39, then 50, and last night, I stared, wanting to cry, at this little box of gold: 75. Cents. No kidding. 

All good things must come to an end, I guess.

Anonymous Declares War on Religion

Well, this is special, isn’t it? Seems to me that there has always been a war on religion. Would the brave godless warrior Richard Dawkins be willing to take on Allah and the sons of his prophet? I think not. Anonymous is gutless by the very virtue of being anonymous.
Really. Think about it. How good a thing is it that you submerge your own unique identity into a legion of nameless know-nothings, don a silly mask, and try to recreate a frickin’ MOVIE? REALLY?! Are you that cowardly? Or are you just stupid?
Let us just look fondly back at all the wars against religion and see how that’s turned out, shall we?
The French Revolution was a bloody war against religion. Now their country, once smugly ‘secular’  is now infested with very devoted, religious believers, who turn the streets of Paris and Nice and Marseilles every Friday into mosques. Way to go. Atheists 1, Religious 6 billion.
Let’s look at the Nazis’ war on Christendom and the Jews. It wasn’t good enough trying to remake the Church into the image of Der Fuhrer, and exterminate all the Jews in Europe. Oh noes, but look at Germany now. Oh, sorry. I meant to say, look at Turkey’s little brother now! Almost all grown up. And you Germans worked so hard to make clean, sanitary, well-lit, and efficient death camps. All you had to do is jettison those stupid Lutheran and Catholic beliefs willingly and stop reproducing, and voila! A nation who no longer has its religion. Atheists win big here. Until the True Believers of Allah have their way with them, and then I predict a lot of conversions.
Russia, perhaps more than any other nation outside of China, epitomizes the Glorious War by Scientific Atheism Against the Rot of Christendom.
Yeah, that turned out well for you. You seem to be running out of Russians in Russia these days. I hear you have to import North Koreans to staff your gulags.
And China. The makers of Instacities, populated by the ghosts of their aborted dead, can’t stop the Christian juggernaut. Oh they try, they try, but they can’t seem to convince their defiant and mentally deficient citizens that all this, this temporal existence is all there is, because, you know…if that’s All There Is

Something to Consider as we enjoy the Fisking the Fluck out of Sandra

This essay is about birth control pills. Not condoms, spermicide, the Sponge or various IUD devices. It is about The Pill. Sandra Fluke is getting a lot of flak for her absurd statement about the cost of The Pill. $1000 a year out of pocket might buy a lot of nights of child-free sex, but many women do not take The Pill for that reason. 

My daughter must take The Pill in conjunction with many other pills to control the disease of endometriosis. It is a painful disease. It can also cause sterility, cancer, and other problems for women. It often runs in families, although I don't have it myself. 

Julia has it bad. Really bad. The only thing that controls the growth of uterine tissue on her major organs is The Pill. Some insurance companies will pay for it, but most don't, since it is seen as an optional form of birth control, and not necessary. 

For Julia and countless other young women trying to avoid hysterectomies, it is an absolute necessity, and even in the cases of medical need, insurance companies might not pay for it. 

The hormones she takes pretty much knocks her period off the calendar. If she does have one, the pain is so excruciating that she is all but bedridden, and on heavy pain-killers. It is very much like giving birth, trying to pass all that tissue. That tissue wreaks havoc on her bladder, her kidneys and other organs. The tissue just grows like internal kudzu, covering everything. Laparoscopic surgery is unpleasant and expensive, and most of the tissue that is removed comes right back. And that is why she must take The Pill.

The Pill also kills all desire for sex. Julia must also take mood balancing drugs due to the out of whack hormonal shift in her body.
This isn't pleasant for her, or her family. Her endometriosis is severe. She can however, afford the generic version of The Pill to take care of it and doesn't require your financial assistance in this regard.

Sandra Fluke did herself, her reputation and whatever cause she was defending a world of irreparable harm. She gets no sympathy from me. 

But there is a reason for a girl to need The Pill that goes beyond mere recreational reasons. Endometriosis is one of them. 

Whatever cause Miss Fluke was championing, it's all part of the Big Lie, and a lost cause, as far as I'm concerned. She's a very sad tool and useful idiot. 

I'd feel sorry for her, but my pity glands have all dried up.  I can't afford the medication to restore my depleted sympathy.  Maybe some of you can fork over the loot to get me some nice, tasty meds for that.

Monday, March 5, 2012

I need new reading glasses

I must be getting old. I completely misread this want ad in the local paper. I actually thought being experienced in RAVING, I might have a future job as a SCREED OPERATOR:

Burkholder Paving EXPERIENCED PAVING PERSONNEL Burkholder Paving, a Martin Limestone company, is a recognized leader in the paving industry. We are a successful company with opportunities for personal growth and career advancement. We have immediate openings for experienced paving personnel in the following positions: Paving Laborer, Screed Operator and Paver Operator. All three positions involve working as a vitally important member of a paving crew to ensure a quality paved surface on all jobs performed by the crew. The ideal candidate will have the following: experience working as a Paving Laborer, Screed Operator and/or Paver Operator; the ability to work 8 to 10+ hours per day; a valid PA driver’s license; and, either a Class A or B CDL or the willingness to obtain one with assistance from the company. These positions offer a competitive wage and excellent employee benefits. Qualified individuals should submit a resume and wage history to: Martin Limestone, Inc., P.O. Box 550, Blue Ball, PA 17506, Attn: Director, Human Resources OR apply in person at: Martin Limestone, Inc. 3580 Division Highway, East Earl, PA 17519. Feel free to visit our website at www.martinlimestone.com for more details concerning our company. Equal Opportunity Employer-M/F/D/V We encourage minorities and females to apply!

I thought they were talking about experienced RAVERS, not PAVERS. Damn. Missed it by THAT much.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

A Shiny New Slogan for Islam

Islam. The Religion of Unquenchable Thirst.™

...and Peace™

I guess that only leaves Coca-Cola....oh wait. Never mind.

We'll always have Zam Zam! Just in time for Passover.

Next Year in Mecca, hajjis!