Tag Archives: Stupidity

The State of The Nation #3478.02A


The State of The Union, #3478.02A


We need some structural work, and can’t find a good carpenter.  We need the plumbing re-done; a new hookup to the sewer.  Well, we need a sewer, because the leach field out back is poisoning the corn field down hill of it.  Been that way for two years, and the public was supposed to do something.  And, guess what, we can’t get a plumber, and the DPW  don’t answer the phone anymore.

We need the road outside paved.  That was promised years ago.  And I think Jasper, the guy over on the other side of the hill?  I think his pickup’s still in the hole where the road washed out last March.  Ain’t no glass in the window, and the electric’s been out for six months since the creek took down the bridge and the feed from the power company. Killed most of the trout up and down for a mile till someone down there cut the switch to up here.

Ain’t got no phone. That went with the electric. The old man lost his job cause the bridge went out and he couldn’t get acrost the creek.  Tried beaver and muskrat trapping, but he can’t get out in the water with no boots, which he gave up when he got work in the town, and the boat got crushed by the bridge fallin’.

Got no firewood.  We was countin’ on Uncle Dan to deliver us a load, but last we talked, he said he can’t get enough for himself, and there ain’t no coal left since the mines was shut down..  Besides, creek’s to wild to walk it across since the damn cracked and flooded everything upstream last year.

But, what the hell.  Winter’s still three or four months away.  We don’t starve first, when it comes real strong we’ll freeze to death.  That’s a good way to go.  Painless, kinda easy, happy like.

Tommy, the oldest one, set out yesterday to walk across the mountain to see if there’s anythin’ them folks can do in North Valley.  He took the last blanket, a cook pot and some coffee.  Not much else.

If you’re readin’ this, we’re dead.  Bury us upland of this place.  We always like lookin’ at it, an’ hopin’.


Just Say No!

OK, ABC and Disney, Hollywood, Pepsi,the  Democratic Party, MSNBC, CNN, Fox, the other two nets, every newspaper in the country, and anyone who advertises in them or on TV, medical insurance, auto insurance, insurance insurance. It all stinks like fish gurry.  That’s what we’re being fed, and we think it’s filet mignon.

Are we really that stupid?  Have we really been such lousy pushovers?  Is it really the truth; that these guys have figured out that all we are is a bunch of stomachs, sexual organs and fat butts?  Seems like it.

No you say?  Prove it.

Don’t give them any of your time, and don’t spend any of your money on them.

Did I leave out anything?  Oh, yeah, the cable and satellite companies that carry alla that garbage into your home. Stop it all.  Cut it all out, the noise, the flash, the bling, the fly, the whatever the hell they come with next to make us forget that this is all a big swindle.

That’s gonna leave many of us with a lot of loose change and an awful lot of time on our hands. Try reading a book.  Try reading a good book.  Take a walk.  Actually have a conversation about something other than baseball or your nails and hair.  Put the money in a shoe box or a bank and forget about it.

Hey!  Here’s an idea.  Why not spend the time saying a prayer for the state of the world, these Untied States and our own poor selves.  And, another idea just occurred to my mind.  Why not use some of that new found money to help some folks; like folks with time on their hands because they have no work to do.  Or, folks with time on their hands because they never had any work to do, or because they can’t work…or hungry folks…or sick folks.  You know?

And, if or when the suits in the big buildings wake up and find everyone’s left the room,  and they come outside and say, “Hey!  OK, we screwed up.  Sorry.  Come on back.”  And their hands are out in supplication, and they’re smiling pleadingly, why not everyone say, “Nah, find another sucker.”  And, try finding an honest job while you’re at it.

‘Cause you know what all of this is, don’t you?  It’s “Bread and Circuses”, where the Big Deals figure out how to keep the lid on, keep the schmucks (that’s you Mr. and Mrs. America) happy so they never figure out how lousy life is; they never figure out that they are owned, bought and paid for in the greatest swindle since the original Bread and Circus deal back there in Rome.  Did you see the movie Matrix?  You’re in it.  I’m in it.

We’re all in it.

Wake up.

Walk away.

Just sayin’.

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.

Nah, That Can’t Never Happen Here —. You Think?


Abortion is largely accepted even for reasons that do not have anything to do with the fetus’ health. By showing that (1) both fetuses and newborns do not have the same moral status as actual persons, (2) the fact that both are potential persons is morally irrelevant and (3) adoption is not always in the best interest of actual people, the authors argue that what we call ‘after-birth abortion’ (killing a newborn) should be permissible in all the cases where abortion is, including cases where the newborn is not disabled.

This is an abstract from something called The Journal of Medical Ethics.  I have long ago reached the conclusion  that the proper and legal definition of an ethicist of any stripe is : “A person who, for a nice fat fee, will tell you that whatever you wish to do, no matter how bizarre, repugnant, illegal, immoral or fattening, you may do. ”

“That?  Sure, you can do it.  That’ll be $250.00.  Pay my girl Nausea on the way out.  No checks without two forms of picture ID, please.  Next!”

There’s an article here.  You can read a bit more about the story…if you have the stomach for it.  But, all you really need to know is contained in the abstract from JME.  These guys love acronyms, and I want to please them.  At my age, I figure I’ll be next to be okayed for the trip to the Release center.  Oh, wait, I already have that “right”.

It would take a more sober, reasoned and smart person than me to look at that abstract and take it apart bit by bit; exposing it for the outrageously smug, insipid and stupid thing that it is.  I simply want to blow it up, and punch out the authors, the editors and anyone vaguely connected with the thing.  I can probably get a bunch of ethicists to tell me that it’s the epitome of ethics to do so.

But, I won’t do that.  For one thing I haven’t got the plane fare to Australia.  I’m wondering, now though, if its ethical to ask for donations.  Hmmm.


While I was sitting here trying to get the best of my gag reflex a couple of things occurred to my mind.  I imagined a couple of scenes from the near future:

The first is a quiet little corner in Portland, OR, the place first in love with death here in the Untied States.  It’s about 6:00pm on a lovely day in May.  The sound of a garage door closing is heard and then the door opens into a bright, neat, modern kitchen.  A young woman stands  at the central work station obviously preparing something for the evening meal.  She smiles as a tall slim fellow walks through the door and gives her a hug and a kiss.

YW:  Sorry, Brutus, my hands are so yucky.  I’ve been working all afternoon on this.  I thought we’d have something special.  I hope you’ll like it.

YM:  That’s just fine Gladiola.  I’ll fix us a drink.  Where’s Benjie?

YW:  Oh, he’s probably asleep on the rug inside.  He had a busy day outside today running around chasing butterflies.

YM:  I love that little fella.  So, what’s for supper?

YW:  Well you know we had to decide today…

YM:  Oh, yes.  So did you?  I would have been happy to stay home, but BIFFING Steel has this big job they were interested in having us handle and Smothersworth wanted me to look it over.  I was out there all day.  Sorry I’m a little late.  Anyway, it looks like we’ll take it, and you know what that means.”

YW:  Oh, now we can go to Fiji for my sister’s wedding t0 Allred.  It’s her 7th and it means so much, and I can wear that lovely thing I have been so wanting to ever since..”

YM:  Honey, isn’t that sauce…?

YW:  (Looking over at the stove.)  Oh, no, everything’s fine.  I’ll just need you to get the lumps out later.  Anyway, I really didn’t need you today.  I spoke with Polonia across the street.  She said I could do it myself, everyone does these days.  So I did.  It was so easy and kind of fun.

YM:  Oh, here’s the dog!  Hey Benjie, you lucky guy.  I wish I had your life chasing butterflies all day long.  C’mere you little dickens.

YW:  Anyway, afterward, I cleaned it and prepared it for tonight’s supper.  I used Polonia’s mother’s recipe since you liked it so much when we had it over there for the 4th of July last year.

YM: Great!  I’ll make us a drink, now and get outta this straight jacket.  Hey, what are you gonna call your version of the dish?

YW:  Well we were going to name it Bobbie before we decided it would really be funner in Fiji, so I’m calling it Bobbicued Kid.

YM:  (Laughing and petting the dog)  That’s great.  I love your sense of humor.  I hope we have plenty of leftovers.


And, here is the second scene:

“Good morning, East Bluegill Public Works Department.”

“Hello.  Is this where I arrange for a trash pickup.”

“Yes, Ma’am.  What is it?”

“I have a dead kid in my refrigerator.  I did it this morning, and I want it out.  I’ve got some shopping to do this afternoon and need the room.  I checked and I can’t bury it out side where we put Sniggles last year.”

“No, your right.  Besides raccoons might dig it up and leave a mess.”

“I don’t want that for sure.  When can you come?”

“Just wrap it good in some plastic and leave it by the curb before 6:30 tomorrow morning.  Or, if you want, you can bring it to the dump before 5 this afternoon.  Anyway.  Whatever’s easier for you.”

“I think I just leave it at the curb.  Thank you.”

“No problem.”


You may want to write to the JME, I don’t know.  I though of doing so and asking if they had any good recipes.

Camel Couture (Rated PG)

The other day I visited a lady who told me that her nephew worked down in The City for Ralph Lauren’s company.  His job was to think up things other ladies could put on and look good in; if they were all 5′ 10″ , weighed 98 pounds and were named Barbie, and you had a lot of money lying around.

She tells me that once he called her to say one of the bosses phoned him to meet her at the airport on Friday night.  They were going to Paris.  They land in Paris and hit the ground running.  For the next 48 hours they hardly sleep, buying cloth and thread and baubles and bangles to go back to some ugly building on Seventh Avenue in The City and make stuff for skinny rich ladies that they’ll wear once and throw away; after paying a few large for the privilege.

I am thinking about this guy and his boss when I read about what happens a couple of weeks ago in Massachusetts.  Down there, in the People’s Republic, some lady who is Dean of a College of Pharmacology, puts out the word that no one can wear something called a “burka” or something else called a “niqab” on the campus.  Both of these things are stuff that ladies wear when they are Muslims.  They help to cover up everything.  This is so that Muslim men won’t be tempted.

I am wondering something, now.  I am wondering if, since most Arabs are Muslims, and most Arabs like camels, whether or not Muslim ladies wear these things because they look like camels and don’t want to tempt the men.  Don’t get me wrong, here.  I’m not disrespecting Arab or Muslim women at all; or camels.  I mean, this stuff is all in their book, about ladies being covered up and stuff so the men won’t be tempted.  For all I know they could be really good looking.  I mean don’t boy camels like girl camels?  The normal ones, anyway.  Last thing I need is some angry Arab guy showing up on my doorstep with a big lump in his underpants ready to light the fuse and blow up the neighborhood.

Anyway, if I have my facts correct, Muslim ladies dress like this because God wants them to.  Maybe because he knows Muslim men.  I understand lots of ladies in places like Denmark and Sweden know Muslim men.  Rapes are way up in Sweden and Denmark, and a lot of the rapists are Muslim men  and some Imams (that’s Muslim guys who know the book God wrote about women being all covered up) say its because the women ain’t; covered up or camels, I think.

It’s right there in the Koran like I said, which is the Muslim manual, written by God.  Most of the stuff Muslims do is done because God wants them to; like blowing up planes with bombs in their underwear; or shooting up mosques and throwing bombs into markets and hotel lobbies to kill people who are either praying, trying to have a good time or looking for something to eat.  Maybe praying, trying to have a good time or buying groceries is something God doesn’t want done.  I mean he doesn’t want Muslim women to look too much like camels.  Right?  Go figure.

So, this place in Massachusetts which says that students can’t walk around all covered up anymore  used to have a student there who is a Muslim.  His last name is Mehenna.

That rhymes with Gehenna.  Funny, ain’t it?

I don’t remember what his first name is, but call him Mohammad.  That don’t rhyme with much.  Seems like every other Muslim guy’s named that anyway.  He’s in jail, now, waiting to go on trial for trying to blow up something or other, which I suspect he read was one of the ways Muslims get to heaven.  They don’t have a Fifth commandment.  And, after he gets arrested for trying to be a good Muslim the Dean of students at this college makes a rule everyone’s got to look and dress normal, not like they were trying to hide something; a camel’s hump or underpants full of  dynamite.

I figure this rule, which is really only common sense, will last about as long as the average rule which says Mom and Dad get to know if their twelve year old daughter is going to get an abortion lasts; which is about as long as it takes the ACLU lawyers to get across the street to the courthouse and yell, “Time out!”  What’s common sense got to do with keeping people from killing other people?

Well, common sense or not, I figure my friend’s nephew is going to be making an awful lot of hectic weekend trips to Paris if this no “burka and hiqab” if thing does last and catches on; all of them uncovered oil princesses will need to buy dresses. The “burkas and hiqabs?  Give ’em to the Swedish and Danish ladies who ain’t been raped yet.

I ain’t too worried about the men.  There’s still all them naked camels.

Underpants Bomb

So, if this guy Abbadabbadoomullet from Nigeria sets off the bomb in his shorts about 250 people…and him…don’t get to have a Merry Christmas.  But, it fizzles.  There’s a thousand jokes in that pair of shorts.

Now, there is.  But, what if…???  Well, it rains body parts all over Detroit.  They get a red Christmas instead of a white one.

I read a story that a nice couple were on that flight on their way home from Ethiopia with two kids they’d just adopted, and their natural daughter is coming back with them, too.

“So sorry, kids, but I gotta catch a plane to martyrdom and my 77…or however many..virgins.  It’s all about God, you know, and getting straight with my personal, umm, savior.  Yum.  Yum.”  In the story I read, the Mom says they held hands for a few minutes there when things looked like it was for real, and prayed, and stuff.  They even sang a hymn while awaiting being blown out of the sky.  “We were ready, ” Mom said, “but I thought how sad it was for the children.”  What else could you expect.  Christian martyrs pray.  Muslim martyrs commit murder.

Our Dummy-in-Chief seizes the moment after the news hits the fan to say he’s ordered everyone to look alert.  This is the guy who thinks that these crumb-bums are merely criminals and should be tried in federal court and allowed all of the protections the Constitution gives crooks.  “Don’t worry about a thing, Muckdope.  The Imam knows the American president’s heart.  You’ll get a nice cell near the court house, a quick trial and we’ll get you back in a year or two, when they figure you’re just a misguided youth.  Back here in Yemen, we know different.”

Yemen’s  what some folks are calling the “new Afghanistan”, and not because opium is a cash crop in Yemen.  The two guys who head up the group who sent the Underpants Bomber on his mission graduated from Guantanamo.  After their graduation, thanks to some sharp lawyers and dimwit federal judges, they went home to Yemen and took up their profession which is killing people.

You remember Guantanamo?  That’s where we put the most vicious bunch of …( well what I think they are I am too polite to say.)  But until the Prophet of Hope got into office we used to know them as terrorists and enemy combatants.  Now, they’re defendants.  And, guess what, you’re paying for their defense.  Anyway, we had them all where we wanted them in Guantanamo.  Until January 20, 2009, that is.

Now, we are about to give them the very best that money can buy in the American legal system; the few we haven’t already determined are safe to return home, like the two camel jockeys who sent Abbadabbadoomullet on his ride to glory.

Who cares if we lose a plane and a few hundred taxpayers here and there? We got three hundred some odd million here, don’t we?  Who’s gonna miss ’em?

The other thing President Chicken Neck says is that he wants an “overhaul” of security measures, and that he wants everyone to know we’re gonna “strike back”, whatever that means.  It’s all part of sounding presidential, I guess.  I’m impressed.  Ain’t you?

Someone mentioned in one of the articles I read about the Underpants Bomb that about the best defense against this thing is one or both of dogs or x-ray cameras.  You know, dogs sniffing your, umm, naughty bits, and cameras taking pictures through your clothes.

Oboober wants us to tighten up.

Fat chance!  The ACLU is all over this about both of them things being “invasions” of privacy.  The ACLU was all over Guantanamo being an invasion of the poor terrorist’s civil rights and due process and stuff like that.  This is the same ACLU that is all over anyone who talks about “profiling”, which is an obscene term your children should never hear you say..

Well, their cake may just be taken away from them before they can eat it.  They win about dogs and cameras, enough planes go down in flames and, sooner or later everyone in this country has a prayer rug, a beard and hates pornography and the ACLU (which loves pornography).

I have a solution for our current quandary, aside from surrendering that is, which it seems like we are about to do.  Anyone wanting to fly from anywhere to anywhere shows up nekkid and gets dressed after their luggage is searched.  Plus we give ’em the underwear.  That way, their privacy ain’t violated by canine perverts or sneaky x-ray cameras.  Oh, and anyone from a Muslim country gets a free colonoscopy; just in case.

That should make everyone happy.

Pay Attention, Father

Father Dwight Longenecker is a convert from Anglicanism who is a priest in the Charleston, S.C diocese.  He writes a blog (among other things) called “Standing On My Head”, or something like that.  I’m not clear on details, and haven’t the ability to do, what are they called?, hyperlinks.  (Help, anyone?)

Anyway, I stumbled on this  little quote from a book he’ s reading just a few minutes ago.  It’s from a biography of Padre Pio by a fellow named Ruffin.  Read the quote and, after that, read what Father Longenecker’s one sentence follow-up is.  (His blog post is a bit longer, but the one sentence suffices.)

Padre Pio was almost an exact contemporary of Rudolf Bultmann the German Lutheran theologian who, out of a regard for the difficulty modern men and women have in accommodating the traditional teachings of Christianity to their twentieth century perceptions, devised a theology that ‘demytholigized’ the gospels, stripping away such uncomfortable baggage as miracle and other accoutrements of a ‘first century worldview’ in order to get at what he believed to be the essential kernel of truth underlying all the ‘mythological’ paraphernalia…how different was Padre Pio in style and results! Without publishing a book or delivering a single university lecture, he convinced thousands, even in the age of ‘historical criticism’ of the Bible and the ‘Death of God ‘theologians, that miracles are not mythology but reality. Through his life and ministry thousands came to accept the Bible and all the historical doctrines of Christianity.”

To which Father Longenecker adds: ” It might be added that Bultmann succeeded in doing just the opposite.”

Now, I think I heard of Bultmann while I was taking Theology courses at Manhattan College back in the early ’60’s.  Along with a couple of other guys he may have been described as being a “star” in the field.  He certainly has the name for it.  But, I cannot remember ever having turned a page of anything he wrote.

And St. Pio was for the most part silent…except in the Confessional.  His advice to one priest has had an effect on my own life that’s brought about some fundamental changes in the way I see myself, and everything else.  I only wish that it had happened forty years ago.  Alas.

Now, I have some things running around in my head, questions and wonderings.  I wonder how many of Bultmann’s works have been read by fellows and girls like the current Father President of Notre Dame University.  I question whether the Reverend President ever thinks about such things as were the daily life of St. Pio.

These are the things that give me a little smile every once in a while.

Fr. Longenecker also mentions that he’s reading another book called “My Visit to Hell” by Paul Thigpen.  In the book Thigpen describes a circle of hell where all of the modern theologians are found.  It’s a seminary, and they are forced for eternity to eat their books, burning books.  In particular, Thigpen describes a demon forcing a burning book down Bultmann’s throat while screamning “de-mythologize that…”

Thoughts of Lazarus and the Rich Man updated to Pio and Bultmann crossed my mind.  Then I thought of all the others who might be looking up to catch the humble priest’s eye in heaven; dozens in the last century alone.

I cannot remember if Dante had a place for College Presidents, and I do not know if Thigpen has put them anywhere.  Wherever it is, though, it will probably be a very crowded room.  Perhaps they wil be forced to listen to Commencement Addresses for eternity.

Thinking about this also makes me smile.

Back Home Again In Indiana

This is a link to a website formed by students, and student groups at Notre Dame to protest the appearance the President of these Untied States at their graduation.


All sorts of things are going through my head, now. Not the least of them is the fact that…as far as I know…no one at the New York Times and its ilk, or CNN, and the newsworks, has yet spent much time on this.  But then, I stopped paying attention to them a long time ago.  It interfered with my digestion.

I can see this happening: the White House quietly informing the Reverend President Father Quisling (or is his name more appropriately Judas) of Notre Dame that it is very sorry to have to cancel the Great Reverser’s appearance; and the vast Boobocracy really knowing little to nothing about this. After all, who wants folks praying…on their knees and with those little strings of beads, yet…that His Hopefulness stops killing people. It just doesn’t look good. One wishes, sometimes, that Catholics would simply stop these silly standings around on principle.  They are so out of step and out of place in a society built on hope and change.

I say I can see it happening, but I don’t think it will happen.  The fools who run what used to be called Catholic schools have no honor, and little enough of faith.  Oh, they have an awful lot of intelligence, enough to look over at their secular neighbors and notice how business is conducted, there.  Why not do the same?  Why not “sell” the sizzle and not the steak?  And so they invite the functional equivalent of a serial murderer to tea and broadcast proudly, “Why we are just as good as they are, young sheep in the meadow.  We have Presidents to lunch.  Do come and join us.”

So, they are probably on the phone to some eager coat brusher and door holder in the White House Sub-Basement, the fellow who is in charge of the White House Office for the Subornation of Presidents of Supposedly Catholic Colleges (next to the space that holds toilet paper).  “Umm, Sherwood,” they are saying, “we seem to have a problem, here.  A few of the holdovers from the faculty, old dinosaurs and about ten or fifteen students are complaining that we should have invited someone with a more orthodox perspective on some issues affecting our, umm, faith interestes, than His Supreme Hopefulness.  Please, please, be assured that isn’t the way we feel about the matter.  But, what may one do, academic freedom and all that, don’t you know.”

“Not to worry at all your most Reverend President.  I am completely aware of the situation.  We do not expect that all will see eye to eye with President Obama’s hopes for America.  We love Notre Dame and all Catholic Schools, and we need them, and you, too.  You should speak to Father Julian, president of Kissling College about this.  His solution is to allow them their praying where praying should be done, at the chapel, near the gym; well in back of it, where it won’t offend anyone.  As I was saying to Father Arius over at St. Smithwick’s College just the other day, the President welcomes open debate on the issues, and never wants to see anymore abortions than are absolutely necessary.”

“Well, that’s a great idea.  I can get the Dean of the School of Religious Interaction with the World to lead a prayer service at exactly the same time the president is speaking.  All bases will be covered.  How tolerant and diverse.”

“Go to Notre Dame,” I can hear the President’s advisers say.  “Sherwood, down in the OSPSCC says they’re prepared to lock everyone up who even thinks about saying anything out of order.  But, not to worry.  We’ve dealt with that silliness before and can handle it again.  You’re on top of the world, now.  You will impress the folks who spend big bucks on campaigns.  Say a few words…here I’ll write them. I’m Catholic and know what gets them in their hearts and wallets.  Say a few words about starving kids, the great contributions Catholics have made, how much you love the Pope (a good and humble man, may that always be the case); and don’t forget to use this phrase “family values”.  Make it your own.  If folks are on their knees praying, treat ’em nicely.  Oh, man this is great TV!  Look down and point to them.  Then say, “I respect these people praying and want them to know I believe everything they believe.  That’s why I came here to tell you that I am working to bring about the hope of life and health for all Americans, Catholic, Protestant, Jew, Muslim and unbeliever, alike!”  They’ll carry you out on their shoulders.

Better still…  Oh, man this is sooooo great!  Make it the occasion for an announcement that on the date of the first verified cure of a disease by the use of embryonic stem cells…who knows when, that doesn’t matter…you’ll begin construction of a monument on the Mall to the memory of all of those brave embryos who sacrificed their lives so that the rest of us could live disease free, and we’ll have an Embryo Remembrance Day just for them, parades, bunting, speeches, tears of cured folks who’ll give public thanks for the brave little souls.”

“I like that,” he’ll say.  “Michelle will want to bring the girls, too.  Kids love parades.  Get me Pelosi and Dodd on the phone.  They’ll love this”

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw up.

What a change…

A 9/11 Feeling

I suppose it was a kind of one two punch…or one, two, three combination.  But, I have to say in my defense that I was utterly unprepared.  Perhaps that’s why I am still a bit dazed, uncertain of where the ground is anymore, uncertain if what my eyes see, my ears hear, is really there.  I have been beaten up, real bad, and it’s a beating I won’t soon forget

Hear me out…

On the way home  from the Rectory yesterday afternoon, a ride of about three minutes, the radio was on the local NPR station, and the “communist news” as I call it was on. The bright voiced news reader introduced a story about test tube babies and their fathers.  Only she didn’t call it a story about test tube babies.  She used another term which I now can’t remember. She explained that the laws governing the identity of the men who provide sperm for these procedures are very strict. (Well, duh, consider what method is used!  You want that news on the street?) They can only be identified by number. This is the segue into another bright voiced young broadcast journalism grad’s story about a woman in SoCal whose son’s father was a a guy who is forevermore known as Number 1083, and how one day she started a web site to connect with the other folks who had benefited from a close encounter of the weird kind with Number 1083. Turns out there were five half-siblings her son had out there, and five is about the average, though there’s one guy who’s had a hand in the production of about 104 kids.   Most of these are born to single mothers…can I hear another well, duh!..and most of the rest go to lesbian couples who want a kid.

Now at about this time I want to pull over and throw up. I want to scream, “Have you people lost your bleeping minds?!” In fact I did scream that.  What, if anything, is right about this way of bringing a child into the world…unless you are a salmon or a sea horse!

Wait!  Wait!  The tale continues with the mother and web site builder and her spawn traveling to NYC from Stupid, CA., to meet the first of her son’s what do you call ’ems. “I didn’t know how I’d feel when we met,” she says. “But it was all so natural.”   (Insert double Duh, here.)  She described how she and the other woman hugged each other and how the kids got on so well, and how, while at first she didn’t know how to feel or what to call “it”, she’s come to think of “it” and “it’s” mother as, somehow, family, and “it” as one of her son’s siblings; of whom, as I said, there are now five.

The truly wonderful ending to the story this lady tells…this will bring a tear to your eye…is that she received a card from “it” when she got home, and the envelope was addressed “M.O.M.” for “MY OTHER MOM”. How nice.

How soon I wondered, how soon before this is the preferred way.  I turned it off after listening for a few seconds more about how not too many folks conceived via what is commonly referred to as the turkey baster method are so motivated to find out who else received the “Salmon Treatment” from “D.O.D.”, DEAR OLD DAD, known only as some number, somewhere.   But, says the BYT (that’s Bright Young Thing) with the microphone in a wonderful piece of editorializing, those who do are discovering a whole new meaning of and dimension to…or some such doublespeak…the word “family”.  It’s so “G” rated wholesome the BYT seems to say.

Disney on acid. The whole world on acid.

I know how it feels to be a gawker, now, a witness to some kind of tragic mess on the highway, or someone standing behind the police tape at a particularly gory crime, unforgettably disgusting in its violence and brutality, its pure mess.  You’re revolted, fascinated, perhaps moved with compassion and literally in shock by the senseless idiocy, the absurdity of the thing.  And somewhere there is the sense of creeping horror, and the fear that this just might be permanent.  Please God, you want to say, anything but this.  Call it a 9/11 feeling.

And once again I am forced to think about the Poor Schlep who created us. There he is listening to the same program and hearing the voice from somewhere below him saying,” Yah, yah, yah yah yah! I win again. Just look at them, will you. No, you can’t. Can you. A new kind of family. I will show her all about the pleasures of family life some fine day, her and DOD #1083.”