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                         Another Foggy Moment

      These are the continuing adventures of a typical resident
      of the self-proclaimed center of the Pugetopolis universe -
      Seattle. Most are true stories but some are made of whole-
      cloth. I ain't the Mayor, the Governor or a Big Shot. Just
      another Working Stiff with a Bad Attitude.

                     THIS AIN'T NO STINK'N BLOG
                 
         ------------------------------------------------
         WARNING: This is not a Child-Proof Neighborhood.
         If you're a kid - scram!, beat it! you little
         punk before your Old Lady catches you and calls
         the cops. They'll throw you in the Big House in
         Walla Walla and won't let you out until you're
         89 years old. There. Don't say I didn't warn you.
         -------------------------------------------------

                             - 174 -

 Don't miss Seattle's finest parade: the annual Bon Thanksgiving
 Day parade. Aside from Santa Claus, it's got every high-school
 marching band within a couple hundred miles. If the Husky Marching
 Band has sobered up from Apple Cup celebrations by then, they 
 might be in there too. Lots of local Strut'n & Step'n drill teams 
 as well. It's my favorite parade. 

 Doug and Ron's "Scandanavian Hour" was loaded with all sorts of
 mouth-watering Christmas announcements this past Saturday. Dang!
 Their announcements always give me a major case of the Munchies.
 But it's like Christmas done run right over Thanksgiving this year.
 Our merchants are trying to milk the Rubes and Jaspers before they 
 get their pre-Christmas lay-off notices and the guys who've already
 been laid off run out of benes. Why don't they just be done with it
 and have Christmas and Thanksgiving trade places? It's not like 
 anybody takes the spiritual side of either seriously.

 It's funny watching the ravens during the foggy mornings when we're
 socked in. A little hesitant to venture across Union Bay without 
 being able to see where they're going, a massive hoard of them sit
 across the water squalking up a storm. They sneek over in small
 groups. If it is possible for a bird to leap for joy at the sight
 of those trees, the ravens do something like that. Safe. Meanwhile 
 the few remaing salmon keep going round and round in their little 
 pond off the ship canal as the annual Life & Death Pow Wow draws 
 to a close.

 APPLE CUP WEEKEND...

 I was working all week with a group of people from Kentucky. They 
 were kind of amazed by the whole Apple Cup thing - they had never 
 heard of it before. UK is their Big School. Kentucky State ain't 
 squat. The University of Louisville is UK's main in-state rival. 
 But it still doesn't approach the sort of rivalry we have between 
 The Dub and Wazoo. Needless to say, basketball is the their Big Game. 
 And while they tend to play down the horseracing angle, just the 
 mention of our Mike Pegram and his Derby-winner "Real Quiet" was 
 enough to crack the facade. They all know where Churchill Downs 
 is. I swear, everybody in that state is at least lanky if not tall. 
 They got no fat people. Kentucky has to import fat people from 
 neighboring Ohio.

 They would have loved watching #3 in the nation WSU get one up the 
 ol Wazoo Saturday night in triple overtime. Ouch! Dawg bite! When
 a team has as inconsistent a season as the Dawgs, you know the talent
 is there as well as the ability. What's missing is the coaching.
 
 SEATTLE GETS A CASE OF MONO...
 
 In case this week's newspaper headlines left you a little confused -
 Tuesday:   "Monorail Loses by 3 Votes"
 Wednesday: "Monorail Passes" 
 the correct answer is the latter: the Monorail DID pass. It passed
 by nearly 1,000 votes. The 3-vote-loss was merely a Hooterville Yacht
 Club fantasy. A small taste of what is to come from our dumbass
 News Nazis.

 Why not hit up Sound Transit for some of that Federal money they got 
 for sitting around on their fat asses doing nothing? Seems only fair. 
 The Monorail people are far more deserving. It would nicely supplement
 the $20 MegaBucks the City's going to lend them while the check's in
 the mail.

 Projections are for a West Seattle to Ballard line in five years.
 Super! It won't interfere with anything Sound Transit has planned
 and fills a much needed transit void poorly served by Metro Transit.
 Not to mention that we will finally have an alternative to KingCo's 
 crapola buses-only MetroTransit operation within Seattle. Ballard 
 and West Seattle will be plugged into the City like they never have 
 been ever before. I'll bet their business people are happy about
 that. And, if by some weird twist of fate, Sound Transit ever gets
 its act together in the distant future, the Monorail's route will
 nicely supplement an ST north-south backbone LRT system.

 It will be a looonnngggg five years full of cat-calls from the Boo
 Birds at our News Nazi operations. Standby for a nearly continuous
 spew of whinning, bitching and moaning from them about every little
 hickup in the Monorail effort. We'll have KING-5 Investigations, 
 KIRO Special Reports and the usual trash from the ragsheets. They've
 been against the Monorail since the get-go. Not because it's a bad
 idea but simply because it isn't a Hooterville Yacht Club sanctioned
 project like their cash-cow Sound Transit. The Monorail comes from 
 the Little People who pay the bills. Yeah, well - screw the HYC.
 
 HORN IF YOU'RE HONKY...

 I haven't listened to NPR's "Prairie Home Companion"  in ages. To
 begin with, NPR generally sucks. Community stations KEXP and KBCS 
 do a far better job. And I can take or leave Garrison Keillor. 
 Sure he's humorous but funny would be a bit of an exaggeration. Unlike 
 most of the jerkoffs on the radio, he at least has some small measure 
 of ability. The hook when I have listened was the regional talent his
 show likes to spotlight. It's a chance to hear one or two of our many
 secret, hidden local talents that can't get playtime on our national
 buck-sucking radio networks and syndicates.

 The venue on Saturday was Chicago. And on the menu was polka Great 
 Eddie "The Blaz" Blazonczyk (blaz-ON-chick) and his Versatones, 
 fresh from Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Polka Harvest Dance in Wyandotte, 
 Michigan. Eddie pretty much invented the driving, swing'n "Chicago 
 Push" style polka. But then many Chicago polka Kings claim that 
 title. Try to argue with them about it and theyll likely reach down 
 your throat and rip one of your lungs out by the roots. None of 
 them are as popular and successful as Blaz. He really puts the 
 pizzle in everybody's schnizzle. 

 He smacked 'em hard with that Big Phat heavy-drums, full-horns
 blazing-concertina orchestral sound of his. His cheesebox blew 
 out the mic on the first song. Whoa! This ain't Grandpa's polka 
 baby! Then he had the balls to do a song in freak'n POLISH. It 
 might have cost him a spot on Letterman or Leno but he's true to
 his polka roots. That's why his fans love him.

 Polka, like The Great American "This Ain't No Shit..." Sea Story, 
 is a much ignored aspect of our national culture. There ain't much 
 money in either which provides our Media with all the excuse they 
 need to ignore both. Polka anyways, enjoys considerable regional 
 appeal. There are radio stations in Wisconsin, Minnesota and Ohio 
 that play nothing but polka music. All day long. Year around. But 
 it really comes into its own with live bands. There are tons of 
 them playing bars/weddings/divorces/first-communions/funerals all 
 over the country. Except Seattle of course where, thanks to our
 dumbass Pollock Police Chief, having a good time is illegal. Touring 
 comes as natural to a polka band as driving does to a Greyhound bus 
 driver. That's why Weird Al's so weird. His daddy was a Polka King.

 Many regions sport their own styles of polka. You got your Cleveland
 style made famous by Frank Yankovic (Weird Al's dad); your Chicago
 Push-style from Eddie Blazonczyk; your Chicago Trad-style with Stas
 Golonka carrying on Little Wally Jagiello's tradition; your Tex-Mex
 tejano and conjunto styles from guys like Little Joe Hernandez who
 mixes polka with ranchero music; your Scandahoovian Polkabilly style 
 from the Lake Superior mine regions of northern Wisconsin, Michigan 
 and Minnesota; you got your German Rheinlander style and Dutch style - 
 on and on it goes. They even play polka in classy joints like
 Conneticut. And there are things like Catholic Polka Masses. Wisconsin
 declared polka their State Dance. Which begs the eternal question: is
 polka a kind of music or a dance? It's a Czecho-Slovakian zen koan.

 Everyone from back woods hillbillies to Americans of Slovenian, Polish, 
 Finnish, German, Hispanic and Dutch heritage have embraced polka as 
 their musical voice. Its the opposite of the Blues. There ain't no such 
 thing as unhappy polka music. Though they do have a couple slower polkas 
 so you can cop a feel on the Old Lady occasionally. And vice versa. Polka
 music says: "Screw the World! Let's Party!". It comes from the hearts of
 people who had Hard Lives and needed something powerful to cheer them
 up so they could briefly forget their troubles.

 About the only ones slow to get hip to the scene are Asian and Black
 Americans. Black guys just don't know how to Get Down and cut their
 Funky Monkey loose. They're very stiff and rigid people - got no 
 Natural Rhythm like a healthy Pollock or Slovene's got. Our Asians 
 are a complete mess - they got no rhythm, no jazz, no nut'n. Those 
 weird bands I hear on short-wave radio from Taiwan ain't like that. 
 They know how to Boogie Woogie what with all their wild banging and
 clanging. They're hip. I guess we got stuck with all the Squares.

..........................................................................

 There's no Norweigans in Dickeyville.
 None in the valley and none on the hill
 There never was and there never will
 be no Norweigans in Dickeyville.

 There's no Yonny Yohnson in Dickeyville
 no Ola Olson or Paul
 there's no Peter Swenson down by the mill
 cuz there's no Norweigans in Dickeyville.

                                   "There's No Norweigans in Dickeyville"
                                             Dickeyville Polka
                                       Wendell "Uncle Windy" Whitford
                                           Goose Island Ramblers
...........................................................................

                          MOTOWN MEMORIES

 When I was a high-school kid in Detroit's suburbs in the early 60's, 
 I had a real Thing about downtown Detroit. Every Saturday morning 
 that I could swing it, I'd catch the suburban bus to where it connected
 with the Detroit Street Railway (DSR), which actually wasn't a railway
 at all - it was all buses at the time - then head downtown. I would do 
 this very early in the morning. It was always dark as night. By the time
 I hopped off at the foot of Woodward Avenue overlooking the Detroit
 River, dawn was just breaking. The City was mostly empty and quiet. 
 I got a real kick out of watching it come to life.

 At the time, Detroit was like a smaller version of Chicago. The two 
 cities had always been close. They shared a common emotional tie. 
 Clearly Chicago was the big-brother of this relationship but we stood
 our ground. The time when Al Capone tried to muscle in on the Purple
 Gang (mentioned in Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock") during Prohibition
 days to control the illegal booze biz, was the stuff of local legend.
 Despite being Jews, the Purple Gang were Our Guys and whooped Al's
 ass good. Chased him all the way back to Chicago. Many of them later
 enjoyed a quiet and respectful 'retirement' in Marquette State Prison.
 The Detroit Red Wings hockey team, shortly after winning a Stanley
 Cup championship in the mid-50's, flew up to Marquette to play the
 retired Purple Gangsters. They played that game outside on a shoveled
 off patch of ice near the prison, like a bunch of kids. Them Purple 
 Boyz had real clout. Even in prison, when they snapped their fingers, 
 Big People hundreds of miles away jumped. We may have been smaller, but 
 we didn't let anybody push us around. Detroiters were known as scrapy
 little bastards.

 Most of the earliest neighborhoods I grew up in were absolutely stuffed
 with hillbillies and immigrants. Tons of 'em. Ambitious young Limmey
 junior-exec-wannabes next door to hard-core southern rednecks.  Old
 granny ladies sitting on their tiny suburbanish front porches smoking 
 their pipes with flea-bitten hounds at their feet. Hair-ripping/screaming
 Cat Fights between the neighbor ladies all the time. I thought it was
 normal. I was almost the only kid in my school who didn't have a southern 
 accent.I thought I was a freak of some sort. "Ma? What's wrong with me? 
 How come I talk funny?". She never seemed to have a reply. We didn't
 socialize with the rednecks - only the Normal White People. Those
 hillbillies were just too damn weird for normal people.
 
 It was all part of the great post-WW-II northern migration fueled by 
 the war vets GI Bill money and Mr. Ford's factory jobs. Cow pastures 
 and apple orchards were converted into neat rows of small homes
 practically overnight. It's all still there. Over the years it just 
 kept rolling futher afield, albeit at a slower pace. And the Old Man
 followed it further and further from the city. We moved about six times
 between first grade and high school. 

 I developed my fascination with downtown Detroit from when I used to
 have to catch the Greyhound at the downtown terminal to go to school
 in Chicago. We never lived downtown nor did I have any family down
 there. It was like a foreign country - TV land. It's where old Briggs
 Stadium was, the source of all those ballgames I used to listen to
 on the radio. It was the home of old Olympia Stadium, source of all
 those Red Wing games I used to listen to as well. We saw its landmarks
 all the time on TV but only rarely saw the rest of it. I knew they
 were only showing us the tip of the iceberg.

 One of the peculiarities of this Urban Jungle was the fact that it
 was immediately adjacent to the Detroit River. You could literally
 walk a couple blocks from deep, dark neon-lit, traffic-crowded urban
 canyons at the foot of Woodward Avenue and suddenly find yourself 
 gazing out over the bucholic serenity of the river complete with
 fishermen lounging on the bank and a foreign country on the far shore.
 Nearby, the Boblo ferry boats were tied up at the dock. Perhaps a Great
 Lakes freighter might pass by. A little further up-river was Belle Isle
 Park - one of the few spots downtown left in its natural state. Harry
 Houdini once had himself chained up and dropped off one of its scenic 
 bridges into the icy waters below. He emerged shortly afterwards, sans 
 chains, to everyone's amazement and applause. Belle Isle was a popular 
 Sunday Promenade spot back when people did such things on sunny Sunday
 afternoons. Bands played in its bandshells. Swans languidly swam
 its lagoons. The rest of the City was all asphalt and concrete. 
 Belle Isle was the only treed green patch.

 Another peculiarity of Detroit was the hole in the middle. There is 
 a district of the city known as Hamtramack that has never joined the
 City. It is and always has remained independant and seperate from
 the rest of the city. It is and always has been very Polish. Well
 known for its painted and regularly scrubbed home sidewalks, front
 lawn vegetable gardens and fantastic little mom&pop restaurants, it
 was one of the few areas of Detroit that held its own. But as the
 older generation died off and the jobs went south, it too finally
 felt the pinch as well. It not as neat and tidy as it used to be
 but it remains a seperate city-within-the-city. At this rate it might
 even outlive Detroit.

 It was at Cobo Hall that I sort of 'met' Dr. Martin Luther King.
 During the legendary Selma March, he flew up for a fundraiser at
 Cobo Hall along with many of the other Southern Christian Leadership
 Conference people. Ralph Abernathy and Roy Wilkins were there, as well
 as Medgar Evers brother with the story of his recent murder. EVERYBODY
 was there: SCLC, Stokely Carmichael's Student Non-Violence Coordinating
 Committee (SNCC), the UAW's Black Caucus, even the Black Muslims joined
 in. It was a sea of Black faces. Thousands of people stuffed one of the
 big halls at Cobo to see and hear Dr. King. Afterwards I managed to 
 touch his hand as he passed through a gauntlet of admirerers shaking
 hands. It was a time when Freedom Riders like Detroit housewife Viola
 Liuzzo got beaten to death with a lead pipe on a Greyhound bus by a
 FBI-agent/Klan-member and Civil Rights workers were being found in
 shallow graves in the Mississippi countryside. Nobody knew they were
 going to win. Death seemed more proable. But nobody backed down. That
 Freedom Train was rolling too fast to jump off.
 
 I hung around Wayne State University a lot too. It was in the earliest
 days of the Civil Right Movement and Vietnam. The campus, smack in the
 midst of the city and only a short ways up Woodward Avenue from the
 downtown core, was a real hotbed of troublemakers. There were loads of
 subversive little storefronts hugging the edges of the nearby Ditch 
 (the John Lodge Expressway). They were constantly getting their front
 windows busted in with bricks and occasionally even getting fire-bombed. 
 This greatly enhanced their attractiveness to the wayward, romantic,
 danger-seeking, youths of the day. There were also many interesting
 little clubs that featured weird music - the kind that was fun to do 
 but would never make anybody any money. Sun Ra was a regular at one 
 of them. 

 I especially liked a little bookstore nearby way up in an old office
 building. It was run by a retired old Merchant Mariner and his wife. It
 was the only place I could find that carried "Fuck You! - A Journal of
 the Arts". That was Ed Sanders (The Fugs) groundbreaking (and somewhat
 lawbreaking) poety zine. The poetry was a bit over my head but I thought
 the title was pretty dang Kewl. People just didn't say 'fuck' in public
 in those days. It literally was grounds for arrest. This became a problem
 when Paul Krassner of "The Realist" began offering his "Fuck Communism"
 posters and t-shirts. The cops never did quite figger out how to handle
 it. They weren't quite sure whether to bust the wearer or offer to buy
 the shirt off them. They liked the message but not the filthy, long-hair
 messanger. One out of two ain't bad.

 The couple who ran the bookstore were Commies. I wasn't. But, for lack 
 of business, they were always trying to convert me and/or whoop my butt
 in a game of chess. The wife would always bring out cookies and coffee 
 to lure into embracing their Bolshevik ways. They were very nice people
 and I've ever afterwards had a soft spot in my heart for Commies. At
 least the ones who knew how to make cookies.

 The best coffeehouse in town was next to the Jesuits University of 
 Detroit on Livernois. Detroit has terrific street names: John R, 
 Grand River, Dexter, Beaubien, Grand Boulevard, etc. This little 
 place got all the big names of the time: Phil Ochs, Mississippi John
 Hurt, Jim Kweskin & his Jugband, etc. And every Wednesday night, a 
 local couple used to take the stage - Jonie and Chuck Mitchell. 
 Chuck's history but Jonie's still kick'n it. Meanwhile across town, 
 Ed Asner (Lou Grant of the Mary Tyler Moore Show) was working local
 theatre trying to make a name for himself. And Lily Tomlin was working
 the local clubs doing comedy while taking Med classes at Wayne State.
 John Lee Hooker was already well on his way to being a legend in local
 clubs, but was unknown outside Black circles. And the Motown Sound was
 just starting to cook in the studios of a converted funeral home across
 the street from General Motor's World HQ off Grand Boulevard. Malcolm X
 had just started his new Black Muslim temple for Elijah Mohammed. Sister
 Aretha must have been singing in her dad's church choir on the eastside. 
 There was a lot happening. It's hard to belive Detroit was about the 
 same size population-wise that Seattle is now. Seattle's pretty boring
 by comparison.

 It's all gone now. Detroit's been a Ghost Town since the late 60's.
 Ask the locals and they all swear it was the '68 riots what scared 
 all the White People into the now-rich suburbs. But it's more likely
 that the sudden disappearance of thousands of jobs as the big car
 manufacturers headed for Mexico had more to do with it. Places like
 Highland Park that used to teem with thousands of immigrants from
 Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary and tons of Hillbillies from the
 deep south, suddenly died and became instant slums. Gigantic assembly
 plants sat empty and quiet. Busy neighborhood department stores sat
 boarded up and derelict. Old skyscrapers were abandoned and left.
 Formerly grand old churches and Jewish temples were bought for a song
 and converted into The Sacred Tabernacle of the Outrageous Groove'n
 Jesus and the such. Formerly crowded streets were taken over by a
 scattering of junkies and whores. Nobody would have ever belived it
 possible a mere ten years earlier. No way.

 Eminem's new movie "Eight Mile Road" is a REAL place for me. It is 
 Detroit's border between Black and White. In the early-to-mid 1800s,
 my great-grandfather, then just a kid who had ventured on his own for 
 the frst time up from Ft. Cleveland, set up a homestead somewhere near 
 of what is now Eight Mile Road and Woodward Avenue. At one time the
 scoundrel had a couple small banks going. He lost it all in the Great
 Depression and drank himself to death shortly afterewards. My grandfather
 built his own house near 10 Mile Road and Woodward back when it was 
 mostly farmland. It's still there. He was an Army mule-skinner in France
 during WW-I and worked as a teamster for a lumber yard afterwards. That
 was when teamsters really did work a team of horses. I saw lots of
 pictures of him and his flunky riding high up on their big old lumber
 wagon with a team of horses in the front. Yet for all his blue-collar
 background, I never once saw him in anything less than a suit and tie.
 A bottle of Strohs in one hand and an R.G. Dunn cigar in the other. The
 man was a style'n, profile'n fool. He played the horses at Hazel Park
 and DRC a lot and apparently did rather well. I've inherited his interest
 though unfortunately not his winning ways.

 Eight Mile Road and Woodward Ave is also where the Michigan State Fair
 Grounds are. One rainly late-summer weekday in the early 60's during 
 the State fair, I sat almost alone outside a tiny bandstand and listened 
 to a skinny little Black kid playing a harmonica. The rain didn't seem
 to bother him at all. He just bobbed and weaved around blowing up a
 storm on his mouth organ. It was "Little" Stevie Wonder. He was free 
 that time. I couldn't afford a ticket for one of his concerts today. 

 Hard to believe how fast it can happen. The City went from 3 million
 people to its present 250,000 in the space of only a few years. They
 say the rabbits have returned to set up housekeeping in empty downtown
 lots once again. It adds a  whole new meaning to 'you can never go home 
 again'. The Detroit I grew up in no longer exists. There's nothing to
 go home to anymore.

..........................................................................

 "Now is the time to build a dam against the flowing of our musical
  life by the accordion."

                                      President of the Reichsmusikkamer
                                      the institution controlling music
                                         in Hilter's Nazi Germany
                                       which banned accordion music
..........................................................................

                        'OL YELLER'S TWAT
                 (aka The War Against Terrorism)

 I can't help laughing everytime I hear President Yellowbelly doing his
 Tough Guy routine vis a vis Iraq. I mean, he's such a freaking gutless
 wimp. This is the guy who hid in the Texas National Guard to avoid
 getting sent to Vietnam. This is the guy who ran and hid when the WTC
 got attacked, leaving the nation leaderless for 12-hours in its moment
 of deepest danger. A chichuahua has more balls than that hillbilly does.
 I'd love it if Saddam just up and told him to shut his fucking mouth
 or he'd come over here and shut it for him. Now that would be something
 I'd pay to hear. I think Saddam could kick Yeller's ass any day of the
 week. And with two brainless, vicious thugs like them involved, how
 could we lose? I'd say an old-fashioned duel would rid us of two major
 jackasses.

 Those two old Faggots, Daschle and Gephardt, heading up the Democrats 
 in DC lacked even the balls to pull the rug out from Yeller's stupid
 Homeland Security scam during a lame-duck session. We already got a
 homeland defense - it's called the Defense Department. That's what 
 those jerkoff artists are for - to protect us. Like they failed to do
 during 9/11. Instead of creating a whole new buck-sucking department 
 to do DoD's job for them, just kick our Fairie Warriors in the ass and
 tell them to earn their goddam paychecks. The snooping provisions in 
 the bill are moot. They've always done whatever the hell they felt like
 doing regardless of the law. Nobody has higher contempt for our system
 of laws than cops and judges. Check out the FBI's Rap-Sheet some time.
 They're dirtier than most of the scum they arrest. And when was the
 last time a judge, ANY GODDAM JUDGE, turned down a phone-tap? It's
 been decades. So much for their phony judicial review bullshit.

 While our News Nazis are giving us the definite impression that the
 Rooskies and Euros are nearly ready to give us a blank check to steal
 Iraq and its oil from the Iraqi people, it is a false impression. I
 listen to shortwave radio a lot. That ain't what the Rooskies and Euros
 are saying. They ain't on our side. They think we're nutso. And they're
 sure our coon-ass hillbilly Commander in Chief is a total screwball and 
 a retard to boot. He ain't fool'n them. They laugh at him a lot. They
 can't believe how stupid he is. America is rapidly becoming a joke. 
 From the World's Cop to the World's Biggest Whinning Cry Baby.

 It's not hard to figure out why we haven't caught Osama. Ol Yeller life
 expectancy is directly tied to Osama's fate. Anything happens to ObL,
 Yeller can bend over and kiss his ass good-bye. They'd nail him By Any
 Means Necessary. And therein lies Mr. bin Laden secret: Yellowbelly's
 inherent cowardice.

...........................................................................

              O Rome immortal of Martyrs and Saints,
              O immortal Rome accept our praises,
              Glory in the heavens to God our Lord,
              And peace to men who love Christ.

              To you we come, Angelic Pastor,
              In you we see the gentle Redeemer,
              The Holy Heir of true and holy Faith,
              Comfort and refuge of those who believe and fight.

               Force and terror will not prevail, 
               But truth and love will reign.

                       - The Papal Hymn -
                official Vatican National Anthem

...........................................................................

                       -  MONDO VATICANO -

 On Saturday December 21st the new group Save Our Church is calling for
 an international exorcism of Vatican City. Claiming that the Vatican's
 corruption and lack of common moral sense is sure evidence of demonic
 possession, they intend to drive the Evil out of it. A number of them
 will be surrounding the outer perimeter in Roma where they will begin
 chanting the exorcism ritual from the old Rituale Romanum while
 sprinkling holy water. They are calling for Catholics around the world 
 to join them in reciting the ritual from wherever they happen to be. 
 So far the response has been positive and enthusiastic. Further 
 exorcisms of various American bishops residences are being planned.

                                  +

 Sr. Caryl Hartjes from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin was one of seven nuns and
 100 other protestors who cut the fence at Ft. Benning and squeezed in
 to register their disgust with the Pentagoon's training center for Latin
 American military thugs. Graduates of this distinguished Pentagoon
 facility have gone on to murder many unarmed nuns and priests in South
 America and inflict no end of misery and terror on their populations. 
 It is in fact a School for Terrorists indistinguishable from anything
 they might imagine Al Qaida operating. Though our Boyz have been at for
 a longer period than Osama has. Terror R Us. Way to go Sr. Caryl! Kick'n
 booty baby.

                                  +

 Fordham, New York City's most prestigious Catholic university, has an
 National Public Radio outlet that has carried a program called the 
 "Polka Party" for 40 years. But last week, with only a few days notice,
 the program got chopped. They said it was too old-fashioned and fuddy
 duddy for a hip, swing'n operation like theirs. The Micks "Celtic
 Hour" stays but the Pollocks and Hunkies got shown the door. Fordham
 was just showing that it's all about money and ratings. Yet another
 fine example of Fordham's phony Catholic moral superiority.

                                  +

 The sexy calendar craze is all the rage in Italy these days. And the
 Church is not to be spared. Glamour photographer Alberto Magliozzi
 has come out with a 2003 calendar featuring 12 months of Catholic-
 inspired nudes. From the Blessed Virgin to Mary Magdelene, he didn't
 seem to miss much of anybody. The old Pollock briefly roused himself 
 from his senile slumbers to express his outrage. Not directly of course.
 That would be too crude. He did it through Catholic moral theologian
 (surely an oxymoron these days!) Fr. Gino Concetti. What''s his problem?
 He want little boys instead of women?

 The photographer says there's nothing obscene about a naked female 
 body. His intent is to express innocence, desperation, pain and suffering
 not blasphemy. Future-Super-Saint JP-2 and the Curia Queens ain't buy'n
 his line though they seem to have snatched up almost every copy of his
 calendar. I'll bet every Curia office in the place has one hanging up
 on the wall.

 So far the calendars of Elisabetta Canalis and Luisa Corna are vastly
 more popular and Senor Magliozzi's naked Catholics ain't drawing much
 interest outside of the Vatican.

                                  +

 Suspended priests are making the news everywhere this week.

 Suspended Canuk Fr. Nick Gruner, a big fan of the Fatima visions, hit
 the road and went to Rome to say he figgered the Pervert Priest scandals
 are a sure sign of End Times. Timidly half-a-mile from St. Peter's 
 Square he held a press conference to say that God was going to kick
 all our asses real good because the Pope didn't properly consecrate
 Russia to the Virgin Mary like she asked him to. The Curia Queens said
 he was full of it. They claim JP-2 did just what he was told to do.
 Fr. Gruner says, "Oh yeah? Then what about the all the priests who've
 been turfed in America for diddling little kids and all those priests
 who got the boot from Russia recently just for being Catholic? Huh?"
 The Vatican was mum and had no snappy reply to offer. Fr. Gruner's
 got a point. It looks like the old Pollock even managed to screw up
 a simple, straight-forward thing like this causing no end of human
 tragedy as a result. Of course maybe it has something to do with him
 being of questionable moral character.

 Croatian Franciscan Fr. Joco Zovko got the boot from the phony vision
 site at Medjugorje. Little more than a religious-hoax designed to
 squeeze money out of the gullible, even the Vatican finds Medjugorje 
 too phony to classify as genuine. Fr. Zovko is one of the main
 scam artists. But it didn't stop his Franciscan Superior-General 
 from backing him up. The Franciscans are the same scumbags who ran
 a money-laundry operation for the Nazis in Croatia in WW-II times. 
 They are being sued by a number of people for those activities and
 are claiming diplomatic immunity as 'represenatives of a foreign
 state' - the Vatican. Ain't that cute?
 
----------------------------------------------------
 The above is copyright material. You want to use it,
 ask. You want to make money off it, gimme some first.
 I'll let you know if it's enough. You want to steal it,
 I'll sic my lawyer Yoshi 'The Proctologist' Rasmussen
 on you baby. He'll teriyaki your sorry butt and turn
 it into Lutefisk.
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