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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.
-------------------------------------------------
- 212 -
I've been feasting on berries all week. It seems everywhere I go there's a
bramble or two bursting with sweet, fat, juicy nuggets. I got the scratches
and scrapes to prove my effort. At least I don't have to worry about any
competition from bears. Whilst living with the Crees up in northern Alberta
many moons ago, it wasn't unusual to have Injuns working one side of a
berry patch while black bears worked the other side. You could smell the
buggers from a mile away. Especially in the summer when they work up a
sweat, bears really stink. The two parties had apparently worked out some
sort of inter-speices agreement millenia ago to share the patches. Being
honorable critters, both sides have been good for it ever since.
How ironic. Iraq has been without electricity ever since we "liberated" them
back in May. Not a peep about it from our News Nazis. But the lights briefly
go out in New York City for a few hours and it turns into a non-stop Whine
Fest. It was no accident that brought down that system. Given its economic
importance it's safeguards were far too sophisticated and full of redundancies
to allow a total system crash. Only a technological illiterate could imagine
otherwise. Like err...President Yellowbelly and about 99% of the population
of the United States. Whoever did it, pulled off the Hack of the New Century.
Since government's natural inclination is to lie its ass off about everything,
it's safe to ignore any 'official' explanations.
The South African brother was back at his familiar spot across from the Bank
of America on The Ave this week hitting on passers-by for spare change and
a little loose conversation. Seems his recent absence was on account of he
got arrested for having a beer in a back alley. Apparently because he's a
man with few visible financial underpinings, the sports bars aren't anxious
to have him hang around. So to be a good citizen and not offend anyone's
delicate sensibilities, he took his beer in the back alley. What the hell...
it was hot and there was some danger of him going into heat stroke. The beer
was strictly for medicinal purposes eh. The cops busted him anways. The kind,
compassionate judge, far more anxious to suck up to the local Chamber of
Commerce rather than engage in the confusing complexities of jurisprudence,
casually brushed off the brother's explanation and gave him a choice: $50
fine or 2 days in the Hoosegow. Living on a hand-to-mouth disability check
and only partial housing aid that forces him to beg on the street to make
up the difference, the $50 was out of the question. It might be lottery-ticket
money to the judge but it was a month's worth of groceries to the brother.
So they threw him in Tuberculosis Manor - the King County lock-up. He said
it was a big, smelly, dirty, cold cell loaded with many unfriendly scoundrels
and lay abouts. He didn't make any friends and hated every second of it. I'll
bet those two days in the Slammer cost the taxpayers a helluva lot more than
$50. You don't have to be a retard to be a Hooterville judge, but you get
bonus points if you are.
HOOTERVILLE HISTORY...
The annual Hempfest is held each year at Myrtle Edwards Park overlooking Elliot
Bay just off the north end of the downtown waterfront. In fact I think it's
coming up this weekend. Too bad President Yellowbelly, a big fan of Bud back
in his Frat House era, will miss it by a week. Since he's talking to God these
days, he's obviously using something a tad stronger anyways. Glue maybe? I can
just see him huff'n on a baggie in the White House bathroom. Probably tells
his wife the glue's for his model airplanes. It would explain the brain
damage eh.
It's a sad irony that while everybody's getting ready to Do The Myrtle at the
Hempfest, today is the 34th anniversary of the death of the park's namesake:
City Council member Myrtle Edwards. Quite possibly the most popular Council
member the City has ever had.
An immigrant from America's eastern shores, Myrtle headed west with her new
Hubby back in WW-II days. They tried California first. Yuck! Too much sun!
So they headed up to Seattle and found our dreary, rainy but prolifically
green habitat more to their liking. Hubby found war-time work and Myrtle set
about hatching her eggs. Everything went smashingly well for both them. We
won the war and the Edwards put together a classic American post-war middle
class family. Just like Ozzie and Harriet Nelson or Ward and June Cleaver.
But then the kids grew up and went off to start their own lives leaving Myrtle
and Hubby at loose ends. Their biological imperative fulfilled, like a growing
number of couples at that time, they decided to split and pursue their own
dreams. It was a friendly seperation of the ways. The lawyers had little more
to do then shuffle the official papers.
Hubby had his career but what did Myrtle have? Not much demand for retired
housewives, then or now. At a time in life when most women might have been
inclined to descend into a deep funk or settle into their rocking-chair in
front of the fireplace at Geezer Manor to while away their Golden Years
knitting booties for the grandkids and blowing their Social Security checks
on their weekly poker game with their gal-friends, Myrtle had other ideas.
She started Myrtle Edwards - The Next Generation. She headed over to U Dub
and became an undergrad as she set her sights on a degree. Then she started
joining every club in sight. Birds had always been a special interest of hers
so she got involved with some bird-hugger outfits. Local politics sort of
interested her so she signed on with some municipal political groups. In
between cramming for exams at the Dub and searching for the pink-bellied
northern spotted-penguin in local wetlands, she stuffed envelopes and licked
stamps for her favorite canidates. She wasn't ready for the funky monkey or
the rocking-chair yet.
One thing led to another and before you knew it people were asking her to run
for City Council. Sounded spiffy to her, so she did. And, much to her surpise,
she won. It didn't take her long to focus on Seattle's dingy appearance. It's
all well and good to Save The World, but if the place looks like a dump nobody
will be happy. So she set about beautifying the city and got quite a reputation
nationally along the way. Even the White House took notice of her efforts here.
Everybody was crazy about her. She won re-election in a breeze. And still found
time for bird-watching. This "New Life" stuff was working out quite well and
those public-admin courses at The Dub came in handy.
But just at the height of her new-found fame and even as rumors began to spread
about what a great Mayor she might make, tragedy struck. While driving downtown
she got in an accident and she died. The magic ran out and the fairy tale ended
abruptly. Years later the City named it's new waterfront park after Myrtle. It
appropriately arose from the debris of a previous existence as an industrial
area. She would have appreciated the symbolism I'm sure.
Ever since then, Seattlistas have been Do'n The Myrtle. Though the trees are still
small and don't provide much shade or shelter, it affords a lovely view of Elliot
Bay and sports an uncharacteristic plethora of benches. It also has a nifty fishing
dock nearby complete with its own bait/snack bar. And its a good spot to watch the
harbor tugs to-ing and fro-ing between Harbor Island and the Magnolia docks. It
even has a mini-beach about 20-feet long...at low-tide only of course.
Being pretty much on a Natural High, she probably didn't indulge in things like
Wacky Tobacky, but she was sort partial to herbs so I guess it wouldn't hurt to
take a hit or two in her memory.
WEASEL INVASION...
For the past couple weeks a big Secret Service Sikorsky chopper has been cruising
our local skies as the Boyz prepared for the visit later this week by our Executive
Lying Hillbilly - Generalisimo George W. Yellowbelly. Yeller's a little too much
of a coward to actually appear in public. His life expectancy would be measured in
minutes if he tried. Like anybody is crazy enough to give Veep Dick-Him-Before-He-
Dicks-You Cheney the leg up. And the Al Qaida guys would be at the back of that
line-up. Yeller's just here to 'fleece the sheep' of their spare coin. President
Bubba Jay used to drop by for the same purpose but he showed up much more often.
He wasn't afraid of us . Our Pollock Gestapo Chief will take full advantage of the
situation to fluff up his bona fides for that Homeland Security job he's aiming for
by having his thugs rough up anybody who protests the visit. Cops don't protect our
freedoms, they only protect the privileges of the powerful few.
Parachuting in ahead of him is Presidential Wannabe Dr. Howie Dean who appeared at
the park across from Westlake Mall on Sunday. I wonder if he lets his son drive his
limo? He didn't do half bad driving the get-away car in that liquor store heist a
while back. Though getting caught likely complicated his employment prospects. I'd
go for a chauffeur experienced at fast getaways. Recently annointed by our News
Nazis as the Official "Good Guy" opposition to 'Ol Yeller, Dr. Howie drew a pretty
decent crowd at what is a busy location anyways. The cops chased away all the bums
and spare-change artists who normally congregate at the park. Lost the Bum Vote
right there.
MARS SCHMARS...
As I'm sitting in the coffee room at work I can't help but overhear a couple guys
from the sales department chatting nearby. One of them asks the other if he's seen
Mars yet. He answers, no, he hasn't but a friend of his has, and, boy oh boy, he
said it had a BIG tail on it. Then a day or two later a couple comrades one or
two Cubes over start discussing Mars. One guy asks the other if he's seen it yet.
The other guys says you need a telescope to see it and he doesn't have one.
I really enjoy astronomy. More than most people probably. I spent a couple years
at an observatory, not as a professional astronomer but as technical support. They
even used to let me operate the telescope - swing it around to various targets
during the course of a night's research. That was way cool. I've volunteered to
lend a hand on various telephone 'hot lines' when things like Halley's Comet were
up there and visible. And I did a summer road trip once visiting various parks with
two humongous portable Dobsonian 18-inchers and giving astro lectures to bored
campers. Yes, I met John Dobson too. He was in his 80's then bopping around the
countryside in a beat-up old van with his 12-year old son. Astronomers are very
romantic guys. Night work and Heavenly Bodies are their specialties.
It isn't that I mind these periodic Astro Gee Whiz jobs our News Nazis occasionally
do - stuff like this Mars-is-closer-than-in-a-Zillion-years thingee going around.
What pisses me off is the lousy job they inevitably make of it. Somehow they always
manage to work it so that people are as ignorant about astronomy after one of their
Gee Whiz episodes as they were before the same. If they were teachers, they'd get
fired for being incompetent. I suspect it's because your average newspaper/TV/radio
journalist is a third-rate Arts major who don't know squat about anything. They like
to pretend they're experts without going to all the trouble and bother of actually
becoming one.
Being an arts major is roughly the equivalent to what being a high school grad was
20 years ago. It's minimal credentials. It's strictly for lazy, stupid people who
ain't bright enough to get a real degree. Just like ROTC Nazis are the drunken off
spring of the rich who were too stupid to qualify for university on their own merits.
They had to sneak in the backdoor provided for the military retards. Uncle Sammy
generously picks up the tab on their tuition so Daddy War Bucks can put Jethro in
a frat house where he can learn how to become a socially successful drunk.
With all the pissing and moaning about minority students without full accreditation
getting a pass into university, how come there isn't any pissing and moaning about
these Rich Boy ROTC Freeloaders and make-believe 'experts' with Arts degrees?
Because the arts majors are writing the news and the ROTC Nazis daddies are paying
them to do so. That's why.
BTW - Mars doesn't have a 'tail'. Comets have tails. Jackasses have tails. But Mars
doesn't have a tail. Take my word for it. And you don't need a telescope to see it.
It's plain as the nose on your face.
WORLD CUP SEATTLE...
Whilst daydreaming on a stroll down The Ave this week an odd poster caught my eye.
It was something about a "World Cup Seattle". It's a bunch of teams made up of
locals who are from foreign lands. They organized themselves into "National Teams"
and are staging a "Weekend World Cup" to see whose ex-pats play the best Footie.
It starts Saturday the 23rd at 9 a.m. sharp at Ingraham High School Fields,
1819 N. 135th. The Grand Finale is on Sunday.
So far they've got teams from Vietnam, Japan, Ethiopia, Tanzania, China, Somalia,
Honduras, Brazil, Mexico, Romania and Denmark. Oh yes...and the Good 'Ol US of A.
What? No Canuks and Rooskies? I used to watch a bunch of guys from Thailand play
on U Dub's campus every week. I guess the local Limies and Scots are also steering
clear of heavy competition like this. Or maybe they're just scared.
Seattle is loaded with foreigners. We're up to our ears in Limies, Micks, Krauts,
Frogs, Pollocks, Rooskies, Bohunks, Zhongo Ren, Nips, Philipinos, Vietnamese and
Cambodians. I even ran into a genuine Wop from Milano last month who's doing
research at a local lab. He said moving to Hooterville was like moving into a
convent. He wasn't too impressed by our tight-assed ways. And he really missed
going to the Juventus games on Sundays after mass.
For many of these foreigners, football means soccer, not the American-rules rugby
that we call football. And in their spare time, they like to kick a ball around
with their fellow ex-pats from the Old Country. Many years ago while staying in
London, I used to play in what was grandiosely referred to as the "Sunday League".
Me and my Limie buddies used to play against various pick-up teams on Sunday
mornings in a nearby park. THEY played; The Yank just just kind of wandered around
running into people in an attempt to slow them down. I was still learning the game.
It was very informal. We showed up and kicked the ball around a bit. Then some
other guys would wander by and ask us we were up for a game. And away we went.
There was no schedule. And no way of knowing who would wander by. Sometimes it
was a bunch of Hungarians or Czechs fresh from slipping across the Iron Curtain
to freedom. Usually it was just a bunch of local Yobs or university pansies.
The one thing they had in common was that they were a helluva lot better than we
were. Our one slim hope was that they hadn't made it home yet from their Saturday
night pub-crawl. Even with hang-overs they often kicked our asses. But it was
great fun. Winning loses a lot of its meaning when nobody keeps score.
I guess this Seattle World's Cup thingee is sort of like that only better organized.
It's a snazzy idea and one I hope does well.
WETBACKS...
This week for the first time, the amount of money Mexicans working in America
shipped home exceeded investment by American companies in Mexico. BILLIONS of
Yanqui Bucks find their way home to Mexico every year on the long shirt tails
of Mexicans working, legally and illegally, here. For all our whining about
the Wetback Invasion, we've now made it perfectly clear: if they want to make
any money they better come up here to get it because we ain't gonna invest enough
in their country to make it possible for them to stay at home and make a living
wage. We made our bed, now we can sleep in it.
....................................................................................
in spring I search the scent of bamboo
flowers by a stream, and drink
in summer sail through lotus blossoms
by a willow-shrouded shore, and drink
in autumn climb the aster path
to sit within a maple grove, and drink
in winter snuggle by a rosy stove
in cozy hall, and drink
oh happiness, oh happiness
all four seasons, lovely scenes
and suitable for drinking.
Chou Wen-Chih
14th Century Chinese Poet
from: "The Wine of Endless Life -
Taoist Drinking Songs
From the Yuan Dynasty"
Translated by Jerome P. Seaton
White Pine Press, 1991
ISBN 0-934834-59-8
Abe Used Books - better than Amazon
.....................................................................................
GOD TECH
It's blasphemy in this modern, no-nonsense, secular age to suggest such a thing,
but the simple fact is: God's technology is orders of magnitude beyond anything
humans have been able to come up with. We're not even close. Forget about alien
exterrestrial technology, we don't even understand the God Tech we got right
under our noses. Just to rub it in, virtually all our 'science' is basically
aimed at reverse-engineering God's creation. And we aren't even close. Our high
faloot'n scientific geniuses are not even capable of making something as common
and simple as a tree leaf let alone bio-tech of the sophistication of a house fly.
They wouldn't even know where to begin. The best they can do is fiddle with the
pieces that are already there, and they aren't even very good at that. Little
better than monkies whacking away at typewriters. Like the monkies, they hope
to eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. I wouldn't
bet on it. Their arrogance and exaggerated sense of self-esteem are grossly
misplaced. Only a handful of the better of them, like Al Einstein, were properly
humble. Humility and insight seem to be proportional.
I think of what we call 'science' as a form of prayer. By understand God's
creation, we come closer to understanding God. Surely the Creation mirrors
the Creator. The wonder and marvel underlying science produces a subtle form
of communication between created and Creator. Given that one of the entities
involved in this 'conversation' is unimaginable and transcends both time and
space, it's understandable that the communication isn't entirely explicit.
While I not only believe in God but consider myself a Christian within Catholic
traditions (much to the Pope's chagrin, I'm sure), I'm not a Creationist who
opposes evolution, nor am I a Fundamentalist who believes the Creation occurred
exactly as set out in Genesis. That sort of simple-minded garbage is for Bumpkins
and Hillbillies too lazy or stupid to seek their God. The same wacky crowd that
delusionally imagines God speaking to them as if they were capable of vaguely
understanding such an unimaginable entity in the unlikely event such a thing
were to occur.
Everytime I look at a tree it makes me wonder at what a stunning piece of
bio-tech it is. Who would even think to invent such a thing? Like our bodies,
it is a biological machine - a temporary thing, in itself, but a thing capable
of regenerating distinctly new copies of itself. What gets regenerated isn't
the individual, but rather, an updated version of the pattern the individual
follows. Just as kids aren't copies/clones of their parents - they're distinctly
new, updated versions of the human pattern. Unique new beings who use their
experiences to 're-invent'the universe from scratch. The pattern is what is
important. It is eternal. It never dies. The individual is a disposable,
temporary version of it. When the individual ceases to function, it is broken
up into its constituent parts and they are redistributed for use elsewhere.
Just as today's Nissan is yesterday's Ford, today's baby is yesterday's old
Geezer. The iron atoms at the center of my blood's haemoglobin likely began
light-years away billions of years ago in an obscure star that went super-nova.
Over the years it slowly made its way here through many forms. It has travelled
far to become part of what I like to call 'me'. It's journey is far from over.
The pattern goes on. God is partial to patterns, not individuals.
As with all living things, the basic building blocks are cells - tiny, subvisible,
highly sophisticated chemical factories. Our bio-tech industry is incapable of
making even crude, simple cells. And certainly incapable of designing them to
regenerate. The best they can do is use an educated-guess to jiggle around the
parts of existing cells in the hope that they'll do something novel. Like cure
someone of an illness and/or otherwise make a ton of money for the scientist.
Somehow each cell is capable not only of morphing itself to perform specific
tasks, but it also contains within itself the complete instructions for making
the entire pattern of which it is a part. It would be like one of the screws
in a car having all the blueprints for making another car. At least you can see
screws. You can't normally see cells. Regardless, we know darn well what a screw
is. We have only a crude/rudimentary understanding of what cells are.
Trees are designed to absorb carbon dioxide and give off oxygen. Not really,
but that's the important aspect from our perspective. Since we're just the
opposite - taking in oxygen and giving off carbon dioxide - they complement
us nicely in that respect. To that end, they are basically composed of two
interconnected systems: a root/stem system to absorb water/minerals from
the dirt in which they're embedded and a leaf system to produce the 'fuel'
needed by the tree to stay alive and grow. The whole thing primarily seems
to work off of pressure gradients though there are other poorly understood
processes going on as well. The ring of xylem that extends continuously
throughout the roots/stems sucks water/minerals up to the leaves. The leaves,
ingenious little machines in their own right, use the photons of sunlight to
break the carbohydrates down into energy enriched glucose. Which is then
distributed by the phloem piping-system as gooey sap, to where its needed
and for storage in the roots. Both xylem and phloem eminate from a ring of
cambium in between them. One side of the cambium makes new xylem and the
other side makes new phloem. Simple as that. No pumps. No moving parts at
all. Not even any fuel tanks. Then once a year, they produce Zillions of new,
copies of themselves and give them away for free in hopes they'll find a
loving home somewhere. If they don't, well no harm done. There's plenty
more where they came from.
It really is quite remarkable. We have no machines even vaguely like it.
Ours are dead things that begin falling apart as soon as they are built.
Things like cars, inefficently convert only about 10% of the energy from
their gas/fuel into motion. The other 90% is wasted. While everyone looks
at the powerful engine, drive-train efficencies remain exceptionally low.
It's good for business. And if you want a new human-made machine, it'll
cost you. No free lunches. No point in even mentioning the cancer-producing
carcinogens those suckers spew out by the ton. They are crude, inefficent
and poorly designed to meet a narrow need while ignoring their effect on
everything else around them. God doesn't design stuff that way.
Though God is rather extravagent. Many times sitting near the salmon-return
pond at U Dub I notice clouds of little bugs swarming around in a mating
frenzy. At least I think that's what they're doing. They'll only live a
matter of a few days or weeks maybe. Yet each has been fully-equipped with
a high-sophisticated array of nano-tech sensors and endowed with the magic
of wings. God really doesn't mind blowing his budget on the Little People.
Their lives may be short and a bit brutal but there's no scrimping on the
details. They get the whole Shebang. And why not? It's only temporary and
today's little human baby may be, in part at least, yesterday's little bug.
It's all interchangable. What goes around, comes around - eventually.
In my mistier moments, given my proclivity for imaginative, irrational
modes of thought, I'm inclined to see my fellow Earthlings - trees, bugs,
ravens, flowers, salmon, etc - as God's earthly angels. Each has been
assigned specific tasks to perform in the maintenance of the Creation.
It is why God created them - to serve the Divine Will. This doesn't prevent
me from eating them or using them to make my shelter. Nor does it exclude
them from repossesing my carcass when the time comes. Ultimately we are
all children of a common Father, or Mother if you prefer - the entity we
call God. As that old rascal King David once said, "The beginning of
knowledge is fear of HaShem." Fear in the sense of respect for God's
awesome power and stunning intelligence. Fear in the sense of knowing
enough not to try shaking-hands with a high-voltage line.
...............................................................................
'OL YELLER'S TWAT
(aka The War Against Terrorism)
American blood continues to drip, drip, drip as the Iraqi Freedom Fighters bagged
their limit, sending more body-bags home for grand military funerals. Ignored and
unmentioned by our News Nazis are the many others shipped off to VA hospitals minus
arms, legs and other body parts. They, and we, prefer our heroes dead. Living ones
are embarassing and send the 'wrong message' to potential recruits. It's better to
warehouse them quietly away - out of sight, out of mind. Even the VFW Hall drunks
cooperate on that deal. You won't hear them squalking to their Draft-Dodger-In-Chief
about the treatment their comrades in the VA hospitals get. It might make him look
bad. With comrades like that, enemies are almost preferable.
The Afghani Freedom Fighters moved way ahead of the Iraqis in the body-count this
week as they bagged a couple dozen of our whores. They've really upped their game
considerably in recent days. As have the Chechnyans. Indonesia's bombing though
was likely just that government's attempt to weasel a few million Bucks of
anti-terrorism money out of the Pentagoon. Just like that Skank in the Philipines,
they'd happily stand atop a pile of their own dead citizens to get at the money.
With much of the country still without clean drinking water and minimal electricity,
we're really sticking it to those Ragheads. They thought the invasion was bad? Ha!
We're showing them what it was all REALLY about now: cities run by mob rule, babies
dying of dehydration, our Stormtroppers kicking in their doors in the middle of the
night, filthy concentration camps, our soldiers ripping off whatever catches their
eye - from their daughters to their money. This is America's Revenge on the Ragheads.
Who cares if Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11? They're Ragheads - that's all that
counts. It is very intentional. This ain't no 'accident' of bad-planning. This is
deliberate. We want all the Ragheads to see what we're going to do to them if we
ever get our hands on them. And no one, from the UN to the Euros, has the balls to
call our bluff. They're as afraid of Yeller as they were of Hitler and his Nazis.
At least Hitler wasn't retarded enough to ask for their help. He didn't have to
ask the Pollocks. They volunteered.
The Brits BS about what a model city of occupied bliss Basra is blew up in their
faces this week, as did Basra. They aren't any more 'civilzed' in their ways than
we are. A Tommy or two got shipped back to the White Cliffs of Dover is a plastic
bag to press the point. Oh well...plenty more Yobs where that one came from.
Our Chumps In Uniform are getting it from both ends. Not only are the Iraqi Freedom
Fighters pick'n 'em off one-by-one, their Draft-Dodger-In-Chief is hang'n them out
to dry. He's got them living in dirt and eating garbage to save himself a couple
bucks. Just his way of saying "Thanks suckers!" Supply & Support used to be handled
by other soldiers who had some appreciation for the consequences of their actions.
Not any more. General Rummy has private contractors doing the job now. Actually
the problem is the contractors aren't doing their job. Iraq is a combat zone. The
logistics civies said no way they're going into something that dangerous. So they
didn't show up. Ergo, no support and little supplies. Ergo, mail's months behind,
the air-conditioning is bagged, the food tastes like it came out of a dumpster,
and laundry facilities are primitive. Don't expect DoD to yank their new contractors
chain. DoD is too stupid to even figure out which ones are responsible for what.
They just hand out the money to Rummies buddies, they dont' account for it. The
Central Command Brass in Bahrain meanwhile, has got plenty to eat, get regular mail
and enjoy all the comforts of modern air-conditioned comfort. Screw the troops.
What can you say about guys who are too stupid to know when they've been had?
The pay cut thing is pretty rich. It amounts to $70 a month. That's what Congress
voted to give them for 'imminent danger' pay. Is that a joke or what? A stink'n
lousy $35 a paycheck for risking your neck. What kind of hillbilly retard would
fall for something like that? No matter. Yeller just took it away from them. And
they wonder why everybody thinks their saps and suckers. Duh! Because they ARE.
We didn't ask them to go over there. Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11 and they
rode in on a pack of lies. They ain't doing us any favors. We were left completely
out of the loop. They're strictly there to help Yellowbelly steal Iraq's oil and
stick it to the Ragheads. No other reasons. They don't like their circumstances,
whine to Yellowbelly don't whine to us. We can't be bothered.
....................................................................................
"The Church in recent years, has had thousands of children paraded across the same
television screens telling horror stories of how their lives have been shattered
by the abuse they suffered in Catholic-run orphanages and residential schools. I
think that the hierarchy of our Church has lost the moral ground to make judgement
on how best to raise children."
Fr. Paul Lundrigan
St. Kevin
Gould, Newfoundland
in a sermon on the hypocracy of the Vatican's stand on Gay marriages
and adoptions, just before getting a standing ovation
.....................................................................................
MONDO VATICANO
Fr. Guido Sarducci, the official Vatican rock critic, threw his biretta into the
political ring this week. He announced that he's joining the crowd and also running
for Governor of California. In an apparent effort to throw off Cardinal "Ratso"
Ratzinger of the Office of the Holy Inquistion and avoid the fate of Fr. Bob Dornan,
the former Congressman from Massachusetts, Guido's running under the pseud of "Don
Novello". Fr. Bob was forced to resign by the Vatican. He was a Democrat. The Old
Pollock don't like Democrats.
It only took Fr. Guido a few days of hanging around out front of his local Safeway
to work up the 65 signatures needed to qualify. Soon as he opened his mouth people
knew immediately who he was and eagerly signed on the dotted line. Pretending he
was chatting on his cellphone with Mick Jagger didn't hurt either.
For the culturally deprived: Fr. Guido really is Don Novello. He used to do a neat
schtick on Saturday Night Live in which he played a chain-smoking, hip priest in
pink-shaded glasses with a preposterous Italian accent who claimed to be the rock
critic for Observatorio Romano, the official Vatican newspaper. Pope Bill at the
Catholic League would likely have a fit but it was all in good, clean fun. Guido
reminded me a lot of Fr. Fritz, my old dorm-master in the seminary. Fr. Fritz,
though he was German, would have gotten along very well with Fr. Guido. A couple
of real Hep Cats. Come to think of it...Fritz was a chain-smoker too.
+
The Marian Days celebration held each year in southwest Missouri draws pretty
good crowds. It's probably the biggest annual gathering of Vietnamese Catholics
in America and means much to the entire Vietnamese community. They really whoop
it up and put on the dog for this thing. Over 50,000 people flood into a little
town of 12,500. Most bring tents and the celebration organizers provide toilets
and showers on-site for them. It's a very family-oriented affair and while the
cops patrol the area, everyone is usually on their best behavior and there is
little in the way of serious trouble. It is, afterall, a religious festival.
This year's effort though resulted in tragedy when a young Vietamese man died
in a gang fight during the festival. He got stabbed in the chest with a knife.
It seems it resulted from a confrontation between a small group of young guys
from Omaha or Wichita with some of the local Vietnamese. It didn't involve
non-Vietnamese outsiders. The Vietnamese are understandably somewhat in shock
about the whole thing.
+
The anti-semitism hook finally kicked in for Mel Gibson and his new movie
about the life of Christ. His Gay Bashing was roundly ignored by the
homosexual crowd, but the Jews went ballistic. Subscribing to his daddy's
wacko neo-fascist version of Catholicism, Mel's take on Jesus tends to
downplay the Prince of Peace angle and go for the gusto - lots of blood
and guts. All with a dialogue of Aramaic and Latin. Though he apparently
has changed his mind about subtitles. He will use them. Like anybody would
have vaguely understood much of what was going on without them. The gals
haven't made much of a fuss about his female Devil yet. What can you say?
It's got it all: Gay Bashing, Jew Bashing, Anti-Feminism. Mel touches all
the bases with this baby. It ought to be Boffo Boxoffice amongst the bigots
and goose-steppers.
While I would hardly be thought of as a 'traditional' Catholic, I do have
the highest respect for the old Latin Ordo of the Roman Rite. To see it
referred to as 'nostalgic' always gets my goat. It had centuries of
historical evolution behind it and was vastly superior to that watered
down Novo Ordo crap presently performing at your local parish. For the
two-faced old Curia Queens to pretend to support it while looking the
other way as their bishops ignored and outlawed it, was sheer hypocracy.
Their failure to preserve and protect our traditions is as profound as it
is deep. It is nothing short of betrayal. Guys like Mel and his goofy
father do little to enhance the old rite's value. They just encourage the
Vatican's winking characterization of it as the stuff of Geezers and
screwballs. Thanks for nothing Mel you frik'n jerk.
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This whatever-it-is operates under the patented Daily Bleed
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my imagination, I retain full pecuniary rights. You make any
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Viking, Dr. Yoshi Rasmussan LLD, anxiously awaits the chance
to rat-fuck you and your heirs unto eternity if you even think
of trying to screw me over. Otherwise, help yourself.
~---------------------------------------------------------------
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