Category Archives: Christ

ANENT THE TALKING HEADS (and other fools who believe too much in themselves.)

There was no such thing as a Government Plan when I was a much, much younger person. 

One’s eyes, one’s hopes, were not directed toward the SOG wherein all hope is now supposed, perhaps soon to be required, to be placed.  No such thing was bethought as cradle to grave care from it.  It all began to change shortly before my arrival when two cars, garages, pots and chickens were first promised us, and it was hinted in speech and song that woe, worry, sickness and ignorance would give way to Heaven here at last. 

Happy Days!  But, not quite yet.  We had not that what? That purity, the “election”for the gifts to be ours ahead;  for that thing called Health Insurance, or Auto Insurance, or, for almost every family I knew in my part of The Bronx, Life Insurance. Nor were the thought to be quite needed by most.  We still had feet to walk with, hands to work with.  But, we would learn.  We would learn…and want.

Not that it matters, but I remember as a young fellow first hearing the term Life Insurance and being confused.  You may think about my reason for confusion.

Bank accounts, if they existed, rarely amounted to more than a few hundred dollars. Shoe boxes under the bed, or in your mother’s bureau was what mattered most when it came to family finance. And, as far as I knew when compared to now, problems were fewer. I wonder why, sometimes.

Now, the shrill voices of discontent and the fraudsters (and people beaters) of progress, the elevaters, the redeemers, of the race, the species, the world, the cosmos, by God (those among them who believe there is one), like wild horses in a Western (are they still made?), stampede ahead on, to take a line from a once popular Irish song, “on the road to God knows where…”  Driven by only God knows what.  Though I suspect it is the conviction that they are god.  And most of the grimy believers in the dry dust behind plod grimly on.

I read a short thing the other day, a kind of comparison between how two Englishmen thought the world might turn out: the guy who wrote 1984 and the one who wrote Brave Knew World. The one looked into the future and saw what the Soviets were doing; everything in shades of grey, way beyond 50, which has been realized in North Korea,  in China.  Other forces proceed in their own strange way to their own version of a parousia places like Afghanistan, where that strange and terrible phenomenon called islam has taken hold; and whose thousand years plan is to take over everything, or kill it.

That other was perhaps a bit more correct, seeing into a future like ours, a place where no one matters but “ME”. but with a much more invasive and evil genetic twist, which we seem to have changed into simply medically induced death at both ends of natural life. And that, for no other reason it seems than “Because”.

I am about a third of the way through a book by a little, old and frail German fellow, Joseph Ratzinger. He’s a a good fellow, sharp as a tack, who dresses funny. That may be why a lot of folks don’t take him seriously. But, despite his decidedly Medieval sense of fashion, as is said, “Good things, etc.” This book I mentioned?  This little thing is good. It’s full of stuff some people call, “Money Quotes”. Here is one. It’s near the beginning. Hell, everything is near the beginning in this book. You could take a flight across the country and you’d be finished before you reached Illinois. Anyway: “From the very beginning Christianity has understood itself to be the religion of the Logos, to be a religion in keeping with reason. When it identified its forerunners, these were primarily not in the other religions, but in that philosophical enlightenment which cleared the road from the various traditions that cluttered it in order to turn to the search for truth and to turn toward the good, toward the one God who is above all gods. “

This whole thing, this “mishegoss” which is a polite Jewish word for the madness, or better yet silliness, now going on, which most of us think is civilized behavior, began a couple of hundred years ago in France with the Enlightenment and such silliness as that very stupid little slogan about us and how many things we can measure. Every time I think of it I get a picture of five year old boys out behind the barn measuring their “dinkies”.

It is exactly the same thing as is taking place today in DC, and in every other legislative body in the country, at any level, especially the lower ones; but most publicly, and tragically in the SOG because of its influence and effect on the rest of us. And, neither do I wish to pass over the, what were once called for some too long ignored good reasons, the institutions of higher education; and our information sources, all of them which, with the exception of a few dozen Catholic schools and publishing establishments have relocated to Gommora, and are, in the very same way a totally drunk idiot may be said to be doing it, printing junk.  And teaching it..

This ain’t a Gloomy Guss talking. Nope, it’s me who has seen and been in the middle of, for my working life, the incredible mess we are in. The only way out is what the little German guy suggests at the end of his book: “Begin with the folly of faith, and you will attain knowledge. This folly is wisdom, this folly is truth.”

The only truly happy, and wise people I have ever met are former drunks, former drug addicts and and former Democrats.  They may be best compared to the folks who made it into the lifeboats as the liner went down; or had decided on a walk in the country the day the bomb fell.  That kind of happiness is more than happiness.  Thankfulness.

What Did Jesus Do!!!???

A friend sent me a kind of poster today and suggested that I may share it with whomever I wish to share it with.  It says:

Jesus regularly ate dinner with thieves and prostitutes but you’re telling me it’s against your religion to bake a cake for a gay person?

I do not understand the point of the poster.  I also do not think that thieves and prostitutes were the regular dinner companions of Our Lord.  But, I quibble.

In any event, I wrote the following letter to my friend whichhas been edited for this appearance:

Dear M,

I have been told by others that the man who introduced me years ago to the lady I would marry is a homosexual.  We have been friends a long time.  And the subject of his sexual attraction, or mine, never entered in any way into our friendship.  As far as I know, he has lived a celibate life. I would bake him a cake, but he is an excellent cook. He is also an expert gardener, and an accomplished, self taught, artist. He is a deeply spiritual fellow, too.

Another friend, one of the strongest and fiercest men I have ever known, I was told was a homosexual, too. He died young; from alcohol and drug abuse. He had a troubled childhood, but no more troubled than anyone I knew in my neighborhood. The only difference between him and my other friend was, as I learned much much later in my life, he was actively homosexual.

There was another friend of my youth who, when we were in our mid-teens, suggested that we engage in a common homosexual practice together. I declined, politely but definitely too. This person really never had anything to do with me after, and soon disappeared from the neighborhood.

I wrote a little essay about that incident, and one or two other similar incidents, which was published in a local on-line journal. For the next several weeks I was labelled a homophobe and my cruelty and hatefulness analyzed and criticised by many people, none of whom had the slightest idea who I was. I was amazed and amused. But, I concluded that their motivation was hate and their purpose was to silence me, and anyone who thought as I did, or dared discuss similar experiences.

I have been groped by homosexuals, and propositioned; not often, but it has happened. Thankfully, that no longer happens…at least not in the last twenty years; the last one to do so was a Catholic priest. I regularly pray for him.

I do not know where you may have conceived the idea that I think it against my religion to bake a homosexual a cake. I have had homosexuals in my home as guests on many occasions, and cake has often been among the things available to eat; sometimes, even, cake that I baked.

In addition, like Jesus I have eaten dinner with thieves and prostitutes. I have dined, too, with capitalists and bankers and tax collectors and attorneys and soldiers. And, since I have been a cook from time to time, baked a cake for not a few of them.

Now, I know that the little thing above is something designed in opposition to the recent law passed in Indiana. It is, as are most things of its type, a silly simplification of the argument against the law. Besides its silliness, it gets it wrong, completely, and like the folks who hatefully labelled me, misrepresents thereby the reason and purpose of the law, and, I think purposefully and maliciously so.

I have no doubt that Christ ate with homosexuals while here on earth. We know for a fact that he was in contact with adulterers. And we have evidence that He convinced at least one adulteress to reform, too. Perhaps, in those possible meals with homosexuals, he convinced one or more of them to reform their way.  But, what the Savior’s dinner company has to do with a law designed to support the free exercise of religion puzzles me, very much. I do not attend any celebrations of so-called “Gay Pride” for reasons which have to do as much with my faith as with good taste, decorum and decency. I suspect that Our Lord might not either, though I do not come across any posters similar to the one above questioning our motives for not standing in the crowd waving rainbow flags while half clad, or unclad homosexuals parade by, pridefully, while suggesting that because Christ ate and drank with sinners we should watch homosexuals parade.

Indeed, I can envision a time, given the way things have been “progressing” when attendance at such bizarre and barbaric displays will be mandatory. Such things are what this law seeks to protect us from; and I think it a great sadness that we need a law between a God given right enshrined in our founding document as the first right and those who would forbid its free exercise. I thank you for the invitation to share this document, but I honestly do not know anyone who I think would welcome or benefit by it.


PS: In no way did I mean to criticize or demean the priest I mentioned above. I still attended his Masses, still received the sacraments from him. He still heard my confessions and gave me absolution for my sins, and I prayed then for him as I do now. I like what St. Thomas More said: “Pray for me, and I will pray for thee, that we may merrily meet in heaven.” I see no reason why we should not. Perhaps, if that were the case, universally, people might respect the faith and religious beliefs of other people and not demand of them things which would cause them to violate them. I think Jesus would like that.


I just finished reading a book. I recommend it to you, especially, to read during these forty days (not too many of which are left…) The nice fellow who wrote an introduction to the book said: “The thinkers examined in this book have all grown unbearably uncomfortable with the current metaphysical arrangements. Each reimagines the Judeo-Christian epic in global, transcultural, and macrohistorical terms and in the process refigures our relationship to God and our place in the cosmos.” (Goodness! One of the ways to know you are quoting from a brainy tome these days is to look at what your spell-checker doesn’t know.)

Father O’Sullivan, may he rest in peace, used to recommend me to the care and protection of Our Lady of Divine Discontent when as a young man I would sometimes sit with him and grumble about structures and strictures, position and privilege…and stupidity. He liked a letter I wrote which was published in my college newspaper; and smiled at me.

In that letter I had grumbled about buildings and busyness, rules and rites, walls and wished for no walls at all before finishing by writing: “I would have no church at all.”

Along with one of my teachers the long suffering priest said, “You are young, Peter.”

Now I know that without walls there is no way to have windows to open.  Or, to have windows to break.  Without walls what use is a portico?

Towards the very end of his book (proof that I read that far) the author writes about something he calls “ontological dissent”, and quotes some fellow who goes on a bit about “rules” of one kind or another which he he uses to argue that we should finally consent to only one rule: “the rule of the way of the world.”

Fine, I supposed.  “What is that?”

The author doesn’t say.  What he does say is this:  “The thinkers here would undoubtedly agree, but they would point out that there is another rule: the Rule of St. Benedict.  And that in the monastic life, we see a synthesis of distributist economics combined with a metahistorical critique.”  He could have saved the jawbreaker words and simply said “it’s common sense.)

My spellchecker needs a check-up.

Let me know if you would be interested in reading the book, and I will tell you its name.  There are no pictures.

Of The Father’s Love Begotten: On the proper keeping of Christmas

We traveled to Coventry, Rhode Island, last week and spent several hours at the home of some lovely people whom we had never met before in the flesh.  One can do that, now, much more than was ever possible with the growth of that thing called “social media”.

We were invited to join them and as many of their friends as would show up after the first heavy snow of the year for an evening of singing carols and feasting in a manner one might read about in a novel by Dickens, or Trollope, or Austen.  Everyone from children to folks almost my advanced age joined in, and we sang for the better part of an hour carols old and new in several languages.  It was great fun for all, the most we’ve had for a while, wanting only a sleigh ride all the way home to make of it a true Currier and Ives evening.  They even served a steaming mug of mulled cider if such was your taste.

There was much calling out of numbers from the specially prepared booklet of carols; favorites were debated, voted on and voiced with enthusiasm and, especially the ones in Latin, German and Swedish, sometimes very amusing fracturing of pronunciation or momentary silence as a phrase sliding by under knit brows, around confused tongues, took place.  I sat next to a young fellow whose bass voice was a deep delight to hear rumbling under my old tenor.

My Grandmother Gallaher, from Ireland, used to say we should never arrive as guests at someone’s home with our two arms the same length, and we’ve tried to follow that advice.  Our hosts that night must have had advice of a similar kind from their Grandmothers.  As we left to go home our hostess presented us with homemade delicacies to enjoy in the weeks ahead.  Walking down her steps to our car with our arms more full than when we arrived I said a little prayer of thanks for a wonderful evening; among strangers really whose open hearts and home had been a near occasion of grace gladly accepted.

Why not more of that, I wondered, on the way home?


Yesterday we went to work at the Mall for a few hours, doing what we get paid to do.  The work is simply that.  The people with whom we work and the customers make it what it is, though, and the thought occurs often it would be just as much fun to do it for nothing.  I call it My Very Important Post Retirement Career.  I work for Chick-fil-A.  All I do is stand in front of the counter and give passers- hurrying-by a little sample of the stuff we cook and sell there.  Well, that’s not all.  I smile at babies and little children, ask them if they’ve been good, or if their Mommies have before I give them all something.  I annoy teenagers, or ignore them with a hard look, and then tease them before they get a sample and a smile.  I joke with the guys and flirt with the ladies of a certain age from four to seventy.

And, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

Some people answer me with the same words.  Not many, but some.

While doing all of that (and it wasn’t really much) I sang some of the songs we’d  sung at that gathering.  I sang softly, and don’t think anyone else heard me as they rushed past in every direction; as the hum from the Food Court guests got louder and louder; as rock videos on the big screen TVs hung around it kept playing; as the sounds of “Christmas” music down the hall where the work of Christmas took place in deadly earnest added to the chaos of Christmas Coming; the modern Advent preparation…for what.  I even sang a line or two in German: Stille Nacht and Es Ist Ein Ros Entsprungen.  No, no one heard.  But I wondered what might be the result if they did hear?

Would they join in?  Would you?

At one point I walked across the Food Court to the rest rooms.  Entering the little foyer like space before the lavatories one could hear what  passes for Seasonal Music now that Christmas the Feast is all but gone.  Some fellow was shouting a kind of blues tune, repeating a line that went something like, “Santa Claus is coming tonight, yeah!”   Whatever needed doing could be done later I decided and executed a sharp about face.

As I was getting ready to leave work a little while after, some of the young people working there wondered if I would be back on Christmas Eve.  “Would you dress up as an elf?”  I’d have no objection to that was my answer, and thought about bringing along a booklet of carols to sing.  No German, though.

But, I’d rather take the day and spend it quietly at home after Mass.

In a couple of weeks when Christmas everywhere else is long gone and Summer has arrived in all the stores I will continue to wish the little ones and the big ones who pass by a Merry Christmas.  Then I may sing out.  Perhaps some will remember what I said, hear what I sang and wonder why; a small crack will have opened, then…maybe.


I remember singing carols in school and at home when I was a kid.  Both Mom and Dad had lovely voices.  Those times, as well as the frantic scenes at the Mall yesterday went through my mind mingling with the sights and sounds of the evening “over the hills and through the woods” last week.  Two of them seem so right, so homely in the old sense of the word.

The other?

Alas, the other seems a poverty.  If I was a smarter fellow perhaps something would present itself to me to describe by analogy what I mean, but don’t you all know it anyway?  We have spilled out the wine of Christmas..and of most else, too..and replaced it with vinegar and gall.   And we have let ourselves be persuaded that it is better drink.  And we are wiser, happier to drink it.

This morning as we prayed the office we were offered a number of hymns to sing. One of them is an ancient meditation on the Birth of Christ: “Of The Father’s Love Begotten.”  We sang that, but all of then were very beautiful, moving, apt and joyful; though tinged with the truth of that Child’s reason for being here.

Is that why we have rejected Christ Mass; tossed the charity and love central to the feast and substituted a month of Black Fridays?

I wonder.

Here, for your thoughtful appreciation are some truly Christmas hymns, carols; my little homage to the feast and it’s true reason (no German):

That is the English version of Praetorius’ hymn

Here is Silent Night (Stille Nacht):

Now, rest in this:

The lyrics are listed in the remarks.  You may wish to read them as you listen.

Merry Christmas From The Ghetto!

Get Ready, ‘Cause Here I Come!

Down at the mall where my love and I work about once a week I walked through the doors to the food court on the day after Halloween a week and a little while ago.  Passing into the food court I heard playing in the background something from the 60’s.  It was a kind of Mo-Town recording of Frosty the Snowman; something like that, up-beat, smiley, guaranteed to put you in the mood…the mood to spend money.  That is after all the only reason to go to the mall.

It was the first day of November and Christmas was already here.  Or should I, out of respect, call it XMAS, and let it signify something entirely different than the old feast.  It is the last place, I suppose, outside of a few churches, where one will be able to remember the fact, and observe it after a fashion, that Christmas has once again rolled around.  The columns around the food court were decorated with colorfully lit wreaths.  Santa’s little perch in the middle of the mall where he will sit in state and dandle little kids on his knee for $25.00 a pop was already in business.  The Christmas Shop, in the space only a day before occupied by the Halloween Shop had garlands of phony pine needles, sparkling ornaments and yards of lights hanging where a scant 12 hours before hung goblins and mummies.  Walls now dripping with gay decoration only a day ago dripped with bloody horror for sale; another modern marketing sacrilege against an ancient and respectable remembrance, a time set aside to pray for our beloved dead.

The pace will accelerate, the fever will grow, the music will continue to batter the mind and ease the will into the right disposition, a mixture of frenzy and fear, frenzy to get and fear that it may not after all be able to be gotten, to satisfy the equal hunger in the heart of the recipient to receive; a hunger for the bright, the new, the perfectly engineered obsolescent machine, the momentarily stylish garment, the magically soon to be un-popular  film, game, cd; the breakable toy, the perfect gift; the one that cannot last.

Be not afraid.  Though it last what may seem an eternity of anxiety, frantic hurrying, grasping crowds, angry waiting, immense traffic jams, this season of worry and false cheer, the season of Xmas, it will end soon enough, sometime in the early afternoon of December 25th.  That is the time when the Community of Man, having feasted as few may have feasted in the million or so years of our presence here (except for the community meat frenzy around the occasional ten ton wooly mammoth, or the Neronic wallow in hummingbird tongues and other gustatory delights), gathered as one people before the Eye will enjoy The Games.  That is the climax of what used to be the celebration of the Birth of Jesus Christ, God and Man, in Bethlehem, in a manger, warmed by animals, sung by angels, adored by rough shepherds, held by His Virgin Mother Mary, watched over by His foster father Saint Joseph the peasant carpenter.

You will not have heard the name Jesus mentioned, or all the wonderful story of His birth retold in any mall, or sung in any song played there, in all the year; and especially not during this long season of the New Observation of the feast.  The primary desire is to keep one from thinking about all of that, about sacrifice, about Love, about salvation, about worship, about Beauty, Truth and Good.  You are meant to think about haste, about frenzy, about exhaustion, about anger, about excess of every kind.  That is the spirit of Xmas.

The first toy will break by 11:00am on Xmas morning.  When, the next day, you visit the Mall to bring back all that could not fit, was not wanted or was broken on opening the music will be a pleasant blend of “recent hits”, the Santa set will have been struck, the decorations gone, the wall bare, the Christmas store closed, its windows papered over.  Only business will be conducted as it should be, conducted with surgical efficiency and speed.


Perhaps I should let that be what it is and stop.  But then..

Yesterday was the Feast of St. Albert the Great the Dominican philosopher, scientist, teacher of St. Thomas Aquinas.  He believed among other things that the world around us shone with the glory of God and part of the work of his life, his scientific explorations and discoveries, was in the service of demonstrating that belief, making it plain as day; the world is Good, and True, and Beautiful.  His mortal remains lie today in a humble crypt beneath St. Andrew’s Church in Cologne, Germany.  Not long ago my wife, Mariellen, and I were there.


St. Andrew’s Church, Cologne, from the tower of Cologne Cathedral

It’s a lovely church just down the street from a magnificent structure, the Cathedral, built be people whose beliefs, if not as sophisticated or scientific as St. Albert’s, matched them.  You should make the pilgrimage, perhaps at Christmas time.  It will be unlike any Christmas you may have spent since you were a child yourself.

The Gospel yesterday told of Jesus’ conversation with the folks who want to know from Him when the world will end.  That short passage was one of the things that got me thinking about all the preparations now underway for Xmas across this wide land in malls and stores and in many homes and many minds; certainly on every TV channel, newspaper and radio station.  “How many of them are thinking when the world will end?” ran across my consciousness like a ticker tape.

He answered them this way: ““The coming of the Kingdom of God cannot be observed, and no one will announce, ‘Look, here it is,’ or, ‘There it is.’  For behold, the Kingdom of God is among you.”  Even at the mall.

But, He also said: “The days will come when you will long to see
one of the days of the Son of Man, but you will not see it.  There will be those who will say to you, ‘Look, there he is,’ or ‘Look, here he is.’
Do not go off, do not run in pursuit.  For just as lightning flashes
and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day.  But first he must suffer greatly and be rejected by this generation.”

I thought of the last sentence above while thinking of the Xmas celebrations now taking place across the country.

Yesterday I thumbed through the latest issue of that Journal of Mere Christianity, Touchstone which arrives regularly in my mail.  Prof. Anthony Esolen of Providence College in Rhode Island is a Senior Editor, there.  In a lead editorial he throws a bomb over the transom into the kind of place the world is becoming.  But, he’s got another article at the back of the book, something about a lovely hymn written by Charles Wesley, “Lo, He Comes with Clouds Descending.”  Professor Esolen’s short article on that hymn served me perfectly as commentary on the yesterday’s Gospel.  He wrote, about the “light” descending, the Light of Christ: ” So in the dark night of Advent we await the coming of the true light that enlightens every man; yet we should remember that light is cool, refreshing waters for those who love the light, and like the glare of an enemy to those who hate it. (Emphasis added.)

He points out through the rest of the article, with quotations from the hymn “this stark ambivalence” in us so masterfully expressed in what he calls the “most majestic of our Advent hymns.”  Just a short excerpt should suffice as an example of what he means about the glare.

Every eye shall now behold Him
Robed in dreadful majesty;
Those who set at naught and sold Him,
Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
Deeply wailing, deeply wailing, deeply wailing,
Shall the true Messiah see.

Every island, sea, and mountain,
Heav’n and earth, shall flee away;
All who hate Him must, confounded,
Hear the trump proclaim the day:
Come to judgment! Come to judgment! Come to judgment!
Come to judgment! Come away!

The Advent of the Malls, the long Xmas orgy, is designed precisely to prevent such things from entering the mind of people who really don’t want to think, and who believe the Little Tale of Bethlehem is sentimental foolishness.  Yet, they will sit on several days in the next few weeks and watch wrapped in sentimental foolishness, for the thirtieth time perhaps, The Grinch, Frosty the Snowman, and how many others; ignoring once more heaven’s smallest and heaven’s greatest gift.

Who designs such things as that?


Perhaps you may wish to think about that time, you don’t know when…maybe in the middle of a song while at the mall?, when He will come with clouds descending:

Another version, sung more clearly:

PS: It strikes me a little in my funny bone to know that Providence College, of such a happy name, where Anthony Esolen, whom I think such a happy fellow, is a professor in a Dominican school which without fellows like St. Albert the Great, who was probably great company, would probably not exist.

Businesses, Brotherhoods and Babies

It is snowing outside.  We’ll get three to six inches today if the liars at Weather Central (All Disaster, All the Time) can be believed.  So, instead of going over to the gym to get ready for the beach this summer, I am sitting here in The House With No Heat, myself rapped in buffalo skins reading stuff on the internet and occasionally saying a prayer for people who have neither homes nor buffaloes to robe them.

I’ve done what I usually do when bound up inside by the weather.  I have read.

So far this morning I’ve read that our goofermint, as someone I know refers to it, wants the new president of Egypt to say he was a jerk a couple of years ago when he told folks over there to raise their children to hate everyone not them.  So far, it looks as if no one over there in sand castle land is listening.  But, when they do hear the whispers, perhaps Mousi (no relation to our kinder, gentler Mickey) will grunt something or other.  The guy deserves at least a dope slap for what he said.  But, what  can you expect from someone who hangs around with a bunch of cruds who think strapping a dozen or so pounds of dynamite on a kid and sending them into a crowd of weekend shoppers is the Muslim Brotherhood equivalent of Little League?  Over here the Big Brothers try to teach a kid to be a good person.  Over there, you’re a kid and you get one of Mousi’s friends for a big brother, you’re sure to be taught how to be one of two things, a murderer or a “martyr”  (which is the same thing for those whackos); probably both.

Then, I happened on an article about my favorite women’s organization, Planned Parenthood.  Now the first time I heard the name, which was a long time ago I have to confess that I thought it was some kind of place, maybe like Triple A, where they give you helpful travel trips, make reservations and stuff,  sell you plastic water bottles.  You know, stuff you never thought you needed, but can’t live without now that you know it is there, and cheap.  I figured you walked into a Planned Parenthood store and got deals on bassinets, formula, diapers, stuff like that; and there were these nice ladies with shawls on and wire rimmed glasses sitting around knitting booties and little blankies ( a different kind of B&B) the place painted in shades of pink and blue.

“Divil a bit of it!” my Grand-Mother Kate Fanning Gallaher might say, her lips curling and a curse against them forming.  I found out it was another kind of place.  Scary, really.  Well, you know.  It’s the last place someone wants to be when planning their parenthood.  Planning for Un-parenthood?  That’s a horse of a different species.  They got, umm, slicers, dicers, choppers, hoovers, pills and potions and are ready for you 24/7, with, I bet Early Bird specials:  In by eight, out by ten anytime before little Janey or Junior’s  ten weeks along.  Or, something like that.  Maybe, if they get your e-mail, they send you coupons and 2 for 1 specials, and you can like ’em on Facebook.  It’s good marketing, you know.  And, if you don’t know yet, Planned Parenthood is a business, just like some of those big deal sausage factories, like Jones and those others.

And this smoothly segues into the second article I glanced at this morning, the one that explains in sordid detail just how Planned Parenthood is a business, perhaps the bloodiest business this side of an abbatoir (a fancy French word for a slaughterhouse).  Only they deal in killing kids, not cows.  Last year they set a record, the article says, and manage to kill more than 300,000 little human beings, none of whom asked for it.  In a really cool concatenation of events and circumstance those of you who read the article (have strong drink at hand…or anti-nausea meds) will learn that that number matches almost perfectly the dollar figure for their daily profit.  And, mirabile dictu, both numbers are all time universe wide records!  Imagine, most babies killed in a year and most money made per day for a year, and they occurred together!  There’s a pair that’ll beat a full house anytime.

But, it gets better, because 45% of this loot comes from you and me, the American taxpayer.  Yep, we gave the country’s busiest and biggest house of death about a million samoleans a day between June, 2010 and June 2012.

After I had finished in the bathroom and washed out my mouth, I came back here and found something different to read, a short essay on something called The Catholic Education Resource Network by a fellow named Anthony Esolen.  The essay has a very simple title.  Its title is “The Child”.

Now, in all fairness I have to say that I have been in the same room as has Anthony Esolen at least once.  I know that because I heard someone say his name and , at the same time, point to him.  But I have never met him.  I would like to, and the first thing I would do is ask for his autograph.  I know that this frosts a lot of peoples’ pumpkins out there, but the guy is a good Catholic, and a good teacher, to boot.  And what he writes and what he says, and, I have no doubt, what he teaches about is thoroughly Catholic from the first word to the last.  So, if you are the kind of person whose goat is got by the things Catholics say and believe you may want to save yourself some agida, and maybe a trip to the ER, and not read the article.

Because, you see, Dr. Esolen’s article starts off in an entirely Catholic way, an authentically Christian way.  It starts off in the kind of way which I know grates on folks who think Planned Parenthood, even if it is a lousy business, is a good thing; the way sewers, I suppose, are a good thing…only a child isn’t supposed to be in a sewer.  It starts in the kind of way which I know ticks off people who think that Mousi and his fellow Muslim brotherhood members, and every other person who wants kids to grow up hating, are just teaching kids the facts of life, and that’s a good thing…like suicide bombers are good things.  Only a child has a life before him.

Here are the first couple of sentences  from Dr. Esolen’s article,  “Everywhere outside of Christianity, wrote Hans Urs von Balthasar, the child is automatically the first to be sacrificed. Only for Christians is the adult the imperfect child. Everywhere else the child is the imperfect adult, and falls subject to our lust for domination.”

I Will Make You Ready

I Will Make You Ready

Read it.  And, maybe shed a tear for children all over the world, children who are  sacrificed every day to Moloch, perhaps more alive today than ever and closer to us than we think.  Which way shall we go?

Going My Way?

Julia In Dublin

And after you read it come back here and listen to the music below.  I used to play it sometimes and remember a little poem set to the opening theme that I sang to my daughter when she was a child:

When at night I go to sleep,
fourteen Angels watch over me.
Two my head are guarding,
two my feet are guiding,
two are on my right hand,
two are on my left hand,
two who warmly cover my head
and two who will guide me toward Heaven.

Much better, so, don’t you think than businesses and brotherhoods?

A Chance to Win Something

OK, everybody? Listen up.  Over in the land of windmills and tulips they are steadily taking leave of their senses.  You can smoke dope out in the open.  You can buy yourself a whipping or a skipping or whatever you have the money for, now.  As a matter of fact, about the only places that aren’t red light districts are the ones still under water, and  you might, for the right kind of money work a deal there.  And, most disturbingly, you can hire someone to “off” your own sweet self for just about any reason you can think of.  This ain’t Oregon where they do it right so no mistakes are made with panels and reviews, and stuff, you know.  Although out in Oregon I understand that they’re trying harder than Avis to out kill the Dutch.

Anyway, I read this morning that some old dame in “Tulipia” was recently relieved of life because, as the article will tell you:  “she was suffering from being alive.” WHAT???  Who doesn’t from time to time?  Well, actually, she was “suffering” from failing eyesight, specifically macular degeneration.  You want to know something?  The last person I knew with that condition died a natural death at the age of 99 after having lived a full and active life all those years.  You will read that the lady so kindly treated to a dirt nap in what has to be one of the most lucrative places in the world for an undertaker, herself was an intelligent and cultured person, and interested in what was going on around her.  Oh, well.

I wonder if she called for bids.  I wonder if the yellow pages in the Dutch phone books, where Dopers and Escorts have got to be a big item, have a section now for Easy Exit Assistance, or some such.

Of course the stupids in the Netherlands (so aptly named, eh?) are guilty of the sin of murder. But, that’s not a Capital (or Deadly) Sin. There are seven of those, children.

I will give a Holy Picture of Jesus on the Cross to every one who can identify and explain which of the Seven Deadly Sins have been committed by:  The People of the Netherlands who have adopted this policy, the “ethics” dummies who figured out it was just fine thank you to off yourself, and get our happy help to do it, and, finally the doctors and nurses who actually juiced the old broad,and are only too compassionately interested in doing the same for anyone else  “suffering from living”, sick kids and , well, just about anyone who wants to, for any reason they want to give, or none at all.

There’s a reason for this particular prize.  You see, aside from my rather hard edged and crudely insolent, sarcastic and cynical presentation of this really tragic and disgraceful little story I am horrified by it, frankly.  You will read that several thousands of people were murdered in Holland last year, and the people over there thought it was good that that happened.  They are actually thinking of more ways to do it…as they are in Oregon and several other places over here.  I think about that and I see the monster Satan rising from some hole to devour them, and I want to weep.  I really do.  I am afraid for us…and you should be too.

I think the answer to my question is all seven of them: Pride, Anger, Envy, Lust, Avarice, Gluttony and Sloth.  But you may not agree.  In which case work away. But quickly.  You do not know the hour.  Unless you live in the so chillingly named NETHERLANDS.

I think I need to pray, now.  Will you join me?


I didn’t know that one of the members of the Dutch Royal family was seriously injured in a skiing accident in the Alps a couple of weeks ago; buried in an avalanche.  It seems that he is in a deep coma; possibly never to recover.  If that happens, he will spend the rest of his life in a PVS..a Permanent Vegetative State; like a cabbage, maybe, or a potato, or a tulip.  In the Netherlands these days it  not the common practice to allow anything but cabbages, potatoes and tulips to remain that way.  Pussycats, puppy dogs and people are allowed to die.

Unless your family has the money to put you somewhere else; a place where the people don’t suffer so much from moral macular degeneration and life.  In this case the Prince is in England, where the blight has not yet reached.