Pity The Pedophile Priests, Pleads Pope.

The Pope pleaded "pity the pedophile priests;
Protect the poor padres, please pray"
They've sinned, but since Eden, we're nothing but beasts
These men--why, they're victims, I say

It's Satan, or sickness, not something they choose
When they lust after children, God knows
They're clearly as blameless as Holocaust Jews
(As the rhetoric reaches new lows)

With your staff and your ring, with your mitre and cape,
And with millions that heed your command
This is not just P.R.; this is forcible rape--
What's the part that you don't understand?

The fact that your coverup now comes to light
Has you pacing the Vatican floors--
And the grim realization must fill you with fright:
These sins are not Adam's; they're yours

Onward Christian Militias, Marching As To Jail

For toxic Christian nuttery
It’s hard to beat the Hutaree;
I’d say it to their face, except I’d rather not get shot.
A branch of Christianity
With double the insanity—
In mental evolution, they’re the land that time forgot.

In events unfolding as I write, a christian militia group is ... what? Fighting the government? Preparing for the antichrist? Shitting their pants when confronted with FBI agents with guns, instead of the trees they are accustomed to shooting at?

That's the thing about ongoing events. We can't see the future, and these next hours and days (and, if you believe the Hutaree forums, weeks and months) could get interesting... or remain mind-numbingly predictable and dull.

Even the other militia groups are distancing themselves from the Hutaree militia, so I am guessing there is some weapons-grade lunacy there. I am not going to link to their site (their google hits have gone through the roof, so you'll have no problems finding them), but it's a fun little place. In a DSM-V clinical study kind of way.

I'd recommend popcorn, but it is a bit early to see if this goes Waco (or worse) on us, and I don't want to make light of that possibility. The forum already spoke of the possibility of a government building going down... of course, taken down by the FBI themselves as part of a false flag operation.

Jesus is their General, you know. This would never have happened had they been touched by the FSM's noodly appendage.

Two, They Say, To Tango

It has become such old news--this pope, that pope, embroiled in yet another sex scandal. The video that PZ linked speaks of some of what some children went through at the hands of priests, behavior which has been systematically covered up--and recent allegations suggest that the current occupant at the Vatican will be unable to deny knowledge of both abuses and coverups.

Something about the video touched a nerve--a single line, which I don't think I'll go back and listen for. The following is a tango; in my dream, it would be sung by Tom Waits. No one else could come close. (And yeah, I'd trade everything I ever wrote to have written just one of his songs, so *I* can't come close either.) And yeah, writing this, in the voice of a conspirator, makes me want to go take a shower and bleach my frontal lobe.

Would you like to help the padre?
Well, we’re giving you the chance
It takes two, they say, to tango
And the padre wants to dance

We’re auditioning the choirboys
For a very special job
And you’ve come to our attention
Yes you stand out from the mob
If you’ll step this way a moment
We’ve arranged a little test—
You’ll be just fine; the padre, he knows best

This will be our little secret
There’s no need to tell a soul
We all do the work of God here
And you play a vital role

You’ll massage the padre’s stomach
While he’s lying on his back
I know you’re just a young one
But I’m sure you’ll get the knack
You’ll know when you are finished
Cos you’ll see the padre smile
And maybe you could stay for just a while…

You can hear the padre breathing
Hear him tell you that you’re good
You can take his words as comfort
You have done just as you should

Wash the semen from your hands, boy,
And we’ll send you on your way.
This will not last forever
You’ll be too old some day.
The padre is important
See, he’s friendly with the Pope
But little boys can always live on hope…

It takes two, they say, to tango
But only one of them can lead
He will claim you were complicit
But the padre did the deed

Wash the demons from your head, boy,
Try to send them on their way
The nightmares last forever
But you’ll never make him pay
The padre is important
See he hides behind the Pope
And little boys need something more than hope…


Now, a palate cleanser. The tango starts about 3 minutes in, if you foolishly wish to skip ahead (or click here for just the tango, but it's music only, no video). Once he builds up a head of steam, it's a thing of beauty:


Cuttlecap tips to Ed Brayton and PZ Myers.

I Just Love A Good Vatican Scandal!

(Channeling Mark Russell, and wishing I could channel Tom Lehrer...)

The Vatican is rocked by scandal!
No more singing Bach or Handel;
Finding men to suit demand’ll
Get you in the end!
Caught on wire as he confesses
Finding dates for men in dresses;
Hold the tape and stop the presses,
Better to attend!

What’s the problem? Prostitution;
Finding, matching, distribution,
Knowing later absolution
Wipes you free of sin!
A chorister who likes duet work
Organized a proper network
Told the gigolos they’d get work;
“When can you begin?”

With ornate bedposts, leafed with gold, and sheets of finest satin
Your tips are better, we are told, if you can moan in Latin.

He’s lost the high ground in these quarrels
No more resting on his laurels;
If the Pope should speak of morals,
We can roll our eyes.
Throughout time, since Eden’s apple,
Till the current papal grapple,
Seems the urge to fuck a chap’ll
Always get a rise!

Hat tip, PZ, of course.

Goodbye, John Reed

Although I have been accused of trying to be the incarnation of W. S. Gilbert (high praise I don't come close to deserving!), I have a confession: In the constellation of all things G&S, although I admired Gilbert tremendously, he was never my source of inspiration. When I think of Gilbert and Sullivan, my thoughts are not of abstract words or perfect melodies, but of one voice--the voice of John Reed.

Our library had, and I often borrowed, a large collection of the D'oyly Carte recordings; most featured Reed as the comic baritone. It was his voice that defined G&S for me, and brought Gilbert's words, Sullivan's melodies, to perfect life. Reed's voice was not operatically trained, but it was perfect for this task (others may disagree and have their own favorites, but I am right). I am very happy he sang at a time when a good stereo recording was possible.

So, goodbye, John Reed! Thank you for your elocution, your timing, your voice.

Imitation being flattery and all that, I reprise an earlier bit of work. Far better to acknowledge this as inspired by Reed than by the undeserving creationist plagiarists.

I am the very model of a devious creationist
I’ve made a film that’s best described as stolen-animationist
I know the use of rhetoric when facts are unavailable
To render the impossible into the unassailable

I’m very well acquainted, too, with data manufacturing
I’ll claim I stand on solid granite even as it’s fracturing
I document complexity, like when it’s irreducible…
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible

And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible

I’m very good at lying, both the verbal and statistical—
Like Darwin in his later years, I’m openly theistical
In short, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

In short, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

My evidence, in volumes that would baffle a librarian
Is not so much orthogonal as utterly contrarian
Presented with a problem like the claw of a Deinonychus
I pause for just a moment, then it’s “Dammit, bring it on!” I cuss

My scientific colleagues have been banned from Universities
Expecting them to publish was just one of their adversities
They’ve parried the attacks of retroviruses endogenous
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us

Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us

My evidence is solid as a fossil of triceratops
Presented with the humor of a monologue of Carrot Top’s
In short, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

In short, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

In fact, when I know what is meant by “cinemas” and “enemas”
When I can tell by sight the harmless serpent from the venomous
And claim I found the evidence in chapter one of Genesis
You’ll see, compared to Darwinists, which one of us the menace is

When I have crack’d a book on Evo-Devo or Biology
Enough to understand instead of mutter simply “Golly gee!”
And understand my argument is simply false dichotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy

You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy

For the science that I know was not updated for millennia
Not since the latest virgin birth, or genesis parthenia
But still, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

But still, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

Lindsey Vonn Puts Faith In Cheeses, Wins Gold

Lindsey Vonn was badly bruised;
Her shin was black and blue.
But these are the Olympic Games--
Whatever would she do?
Some athletes rub on emu fat;
For some, placenta pleases--
But Lindsey Vonn's a different sort:
She put her faith in cheeses.

She could not race until she healed;
Her hopes would all be lost,
And so went where cheese is priced
To calculate the cost.
She found some at the marketplace
And bought a couple tins,
To make a Topfen poultice
For forgiveness for her shins.

By all accounts, her injury
Was really rather vicious--
But thanks to cheeses, once again
Her legs are just delicious.
Apparently, for Austrians,
This cure is very old--
My guess is we'll see more like this,
Since Lindsey got her Gold!

****

My guess is, if you follow the Olympic Games at all, you already know about Lindsey Vonn's injury. It was her great good fortune that the weather caused a series of delays, giving her shin time to heal, at least a bit. During that time, she used some laser therapy, massage, painkillers, and now we hear, a poultice made of cheese.

After injuring her shin in Austria during training, American downhill skier Lindsey Vonn did what Austrian skiers do: She wrapped topfen cheese curd around her swollen right leg in hopes of reducing the swelling.

Whether or not the cheese helped her recover enough to win an Olympic gold medal Wednesday, the Austrian curd remains obscure.

Many gourmet cheesemongers aren’t familiar with the semisoft cream cheese-like fromage, and sports medicine experts certainly aren’t rushing out to prescribe it to injured patients.

Top athletes are often superstitious (having had a lot of success, they have had a lot of opportunity to falsely correlate that success with a lucky object, routine, or ritual); it is no surprise that, having had plenty of opportunity to recover from injury, athletes are prone to some pretty strange cures as well:

When orthopedic surgeon Dr. John Benjamin heard that Vonn had spread cheese on her hurt shin, he said he chuckled. “It’s a curious use for a dairy product, and I have not heard reports of great success,” he says.

Other curious treatments for sports injuries have ranged from rubbing placenta juice into a bad hamstring as Serbian soccer player Danko Lazovic reportedly did, according to the AP, and using the fat of an emu as a rub for pain and swelling.

You may also remember, if you followed this in the news, that Ms. Vonn initially suspected that her leg might be broken, but refused X-rays to confirm her suspicion. She was "putting her fingers in her ears" and refusing to consider the possibility that she would spend the Olympic Games with her leg in a cast, because of a broken shin.

Maybe it was denial and fear, but my hope is that her refusal to X-ray, her refusal to have her leg in plaster, came from her innate determination, her perseverance, her guts, her metaphorical cojones. I picture her telling her doctor "let he who is without stones cast the first shin. I'm putting my faith in cheeses."

The Learned Judge Blair

The learned Judge showed mercy,
For she knew the man devout;
One cannot be religious, and
A brutal, lowly lout--
Religion shows the brighter light,
Not worldly, but sublime;
You'd never break a fellow's jaw...
Except, of course, this time.

The learned judge, she reasoned
That forgiveness was the path;
She'd demonstrate God's mercy
When she could have picked God's wrath.
A judge who follows faithfully
Could never be a dunce;
She'd choose the wise and sober course...
Except, of course, this once.

The learned judge is hearing
From the slighted and the wronged
For speaking through her prejudice
As if such views belonged.
Some arguments belong in court,
But then again, some don't;
The judge should learn from this mistake...
Except, of course, she won't.


Judge Cherie Blair has suspended the sentence of a man found guilty of assault, on the basis that the convicted is "a religious man". AC Grayling writes eloquently of the story on RichardDawkins.net. Cuttlecap tip to PZ.

Girl, 16, Buried Alive

How dare she talk to boys as friends!
It's time to dig a hole
This is where her flirting ends!
It's time to dig a hole
At sixteen years, a headstrong girl
Get in the hole and kneel
She used to be my precious pearl
Get in the hole and kneel
She would not bend to my demands
A shovel-full of dirt
So hold her tight and bind her hands
A shovel-full of dirt
The family council called for death
Ignore her cries and screams
Inhaling earth with every breath
Ignore her cries and screams
Our family's honor is at stake
So bury her alive
We have a code we cannot break
So bury her alive
Throw more dirt down on her head
A daughter must obey
It took a while, but now she's dead
A daughter must obey
My daughter's gone, the shameless whore
A father's word is law
But no great loss--I've got eight more
A father's word is law


This is the hole where she died. Where her own family buried her alive. Where she breathed and swallowed dirt, kneeling with hands bound, until her death restored her family's honor.


M.M., a 16 year old Turkish girl, had male friends she would talk to. It appears, according to reports, that this was the reason her own father and grandfather buried her alive.

This is one of those stories I cannot read without putting my daughter's face on the victim's. Sixteen was not that long ago.

Why Not Use The Bible As A Science Book?

It's not hatred; it's not loathing;
It's the emperor's new clothing,
And Creationism doesn't have a stitch.
There's no bible-methodology
That's better than biology--
It seems a level playing-field's a bitch.

When the real world's more exciting
Than some Aramaic writing,
Cos it adds to what we know about ourself,
Then the bible's contribution
When it comes to evolution
Is most useful when you keep it on the shelf.

See, the truth about the ages
Isn't there within its pages
It's a waste of time to even go and look
Science strives to see the lawful
But the bible's frankly awful:
All in all, the perfect anti-science book!


Cuttlecap tip to PZ

Super Bowl Sunday, Redux

A repost from a year ago, and pretty much nothing at all has changed. My wish is that one of these years, a QB is going to say "well, first of all, I gotta give it all up for my lord and savior Jesus Christ, without whom nothing is possible. I couldn't have done what I did without Him watching over me"... in the presence of an offensive line that sweated blood to keep this guy off the turf for 4 quarters, and who are comprised of a very talented group of Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, and atheist athletes who decide to let Jesus take care of the QB by himself next game.

Oh, well. Not likely in this lifetime.

The repost:

****************

It's Super Bowl Sunday again (well, tomorrow, as I write)! I must admit, I love the Super Bowl. Not because it is the SB, but because it is the last meaningful game before next season. My dad, when I was really young, was a football coach, so I watch football looking for all the fun interior line details that are never part of the televised commentary; football, like so many things, gets better the more you know about it.

What is irritating, though, is that God is always on the side of the winners (as PZ noted); it is such a great time to wear one's religion on one's sleeve. Of course, it also bothers me that even those among us who find that notion silly, the same after-the-fact reasoning is used to show that the team that had greater will to win, that wanted it more, that just refused to say die, is the one who took the trophy home. Nobody ever gives up the will to win, but then cruises to victory anyway.

Anyway, here's the song of the day... with sincere apologies to Bob Dylan, and to pretty much everybody else, too.

Oh, the workouts are nothin’
And the wind sprints are less
We don’t even practice
We think that it’s best
Cos practice means nothing
I’m forced to confide—
But we’ll win big on Sunday
With God on our side

Oh the networks will show it
They’ll show it so well
How the righteous team won
And the evil team fell
Oh the righteous team won
But it’s not cos we tried
It's Super Bowl Sunday
With God on our side

Oh, when I cross the goal line
I’ll raise my arm high
With one upraised finger
I’ll point to the sky
I’m sending a message
That can’t be denied
I just scored a touchdown
With God on my side

When it’s fourth down and inches
We’ll go for it all
It’s a quarterback keeper
But where is the ball
They’ll bring out the chain gang
And the refs will decide
First and ten to the team
With God on their side

And the fans in the stadium
Will cheer on their teams
And eat without stopping
Or that’s how it seems
And most of it’s salty
And all of it’s fried
They’ll eat it on Sunday
With God on their side

Oh, it won’t even matter
What’s the final score
The points aren’t important
That’s not what it’s for
This game’s about Jesus
We can all say with pride
We won big on Sunday
With God on our side

We gather each Sunday
We won’t miss a week
It’s more than just victory
It’s salvation we seek
It’s more than religion
It’s the reason Christ died
So we could play football
With God on our side

Atheist Billboard Hypocrisy! (Or Not)

When they pass the plate on Sunday, and we put our money in,
They assure us that it lets the Church do good
So we dig a little deeper—being selfish is a sin—
And we donate like the Bible says we should.

Though we haven’t got much money, we still give as best we can,
Every Sunday morning, roughly ten o’clock
Now we see our small donations help a much, much bigger plan,
Cos we’ve got the biggest billboard on the block!

Every church around has got one, and there’s some with five or six
Praising Jesus and inviting folks to come
There are dozens in the city, and there’s more out in the sticks
And they must have cost a mighty godly sum!

When “Our Lady Of The Blessed Heart”, the local Catholic Church,
Put their new one by the highway overpass
We just couldn’t let it stand like that, with us left in the lurch;
Our humongous billboard really kicked their ass!

We’ve competed now for decades, with our steeples and our signs,
Till the megachurches left us in their dust;
And it might be steeple envy, if you read between the lines,
But there’s something now that fills us with disgust!

Yes, the godless heathen atheists, the lowest of the low,
Have a billboard that they want to put in town!
If they try it, though, I’m telling you (and really, I should know)
If they put it up, we’re gonna burn it down.

What a waste of their resources! Why, that money’s better spent
Housing homeless, feeding hungry, helping poor;
For a message on a billboard should be strictly heaven-sent—
That for all your problems, Jesus is the cure!

****

I got a comment (thanks, Mariano!) on the "Starving? Have a bible!" thread, linking to a hilarious article accusing atheists of hypocrisy with regard to our reaction to the Audio Bible story. Now, to be fair, the Audio Bible person (not Mariano) who commented assured us that they are not sending these bibles instead of relief items, but along with them, and by request of people in Haiti. Moreover, he or she is trying to get the future runs of the device to include a radio receiver, so that it will be of practical use in disaster areas. I maintain that, although the actions of Faith Comes By Hearing are good, and their intentions perfectly honorable (although they certainly don't need my approval), the Audio Bible, as is, does nothing to alleviate the real problems in Haiti. (It does work to alleviate some illusory problems, though; problems that stem from their belief in the first place. It may comfort them when they feel they have been abandoned by god; a solution to a problem that never needed to exist.)

From Mariano's article:

Certainly, atheists, being absolute materialists, do not see how human beings are anything but bio-organisms and require nothing but bio-organic fuel, housing, etc. Yet, the Christian view is holistic and thus, organizations such as Faith Comes By Hearing seek to provide both; food for the body and food for the soul.

Actually, the atheist view is holistic, if by "whole" you mean "all that is there, without making shit up."

Now, what of atheistic hypocrisy?

The fact is that for at least the last couple of years atheists worldwide have been literally wasting hundreds upon hundreds of thousands upon thousands of dollars in donated money not in order to help anyone in need during times of recession, war, poverty, etc. but in order to purchase anti-theistic and pro-atheism bus ads and billboards in order to attempt to demonstrate just how clever they consider themselves to be.

Now, they suddenly anoint themselves the charity police, complain and condemn based, by the way, on relative-subjective-personal preference based “morality.”

Well, my dear atheists friends; first repent of your own astonishingly wasteful back-patting boasting and then, perhaps, eventually, get around to criticizing those who are feeding, housing the needy body and soul—those who have been doing it for millennia upon millennia by the way.

I've seen atheist billboards. None in person, mind you; only online. I've seen religious billboards. Hundreds. Online, on the road, on the hill, on the bus, in the paper... By Mariano's logic, think how much money has been thus wasted, that could have been used to help those in need.

Mariano is right about one thing--the churches have been doing it for millennia. We disagree on precisely what they have been doing. I hope that Mariano himself is free of hypocrisy, and will perhaps join Sarah Silverman's "Sell the Vatican: Feed the Poor" campaign.

Actually, it kind of sickens me to read the sort of thing Mariano has linked to. The church-going people I knew while growing up were the first to donate, the first to volunteer, and never gave a thought about who else was donating or why. It was their own business. Of course, I found out years later that at least one pillar of that religious community was himself an atheist; the church was simply the best way he could help.

The billboards are up because atheists are treated as second class citizens. It's nice to see, for once, that we are considered good enough to actually hold to a higher standard than believers themselves.

On God And Haiti

“We stand here by the grace of God”
The quake survivors said,
And thanked Him they were not among
Two hundred thousand dead.
“What happened is the will of God”
But God receives no blame;
Survivors gather humbly, and
Sing praises to His name.
One wonders, in the aftermath,
If God is really there—
But which is worse: no God at all,
Or gods that do not care?


In a Saturday NYTimes op-ed, author James Wood ponders the various different invocations of God in the reactions to Haiti's devastation, from Pat Robertson, to President Obama, to the Haitian survivors themselves.

[A] 27-year-old survivor, Mondésir Raymone, was quoted thus: “We have survived by the grace of God.” Bishop Éric Toussaint, standing near his damaged cathedral, said something similar: “Why give thanks to God? Because we are here. What happened is the will of God. We are in the hands of God now.” A survivor’s gratitude is combined with theological fatalism. This response is entirely understandable, uttered in a ruined landscape beyond the experience of most of us, and a likely source of pastoral comfort to the bishop’s desperate flock. But that should not obscure the fact that it is little more than a piece of helpless mystification, a contradictory cry of optimistic despair.

It is an interesting look at the use of God in such times.

For either God is punitive and interventionist (the Robertson view), or as capricious as nature and so absent as to be effectively nonexistent (the Obama view). Unfortunately, the Bible, which frequently uses God’s power over earth and seas as the sign of his majesty and intervening power, supports the first view; and the history of humanity’s lonely suffering decisively suggests the second.

Interesting, that either view still maintains a God. I wonder why it is that a god who either causes or allows such suffering is not consigned to history. My universe works just fine with no god at all.

****

In an update, I had a visit in the comments on the "Starving? Have a bible" thread. A representative of the company says he will bring the idea of including a radio receiver, to make the audio bible more useful in such disaster scenarios. I think there are contact details in the link to the company website from my older post, if anyone wants to deliver words of encouragement.

Starving? Have A Bible!

They were starving; they were homeless; they were dying; they were dead.
There were bodies to be buried; there were children to be fed.
There were broken heaps of rubble where the houses used to stand
There was utter devastation; there was chaos in the land.
There were frantic cries for rescue; there were howls of fear and pain
There were heroes risking life and limb, with much to lose or gain.
There were millions in donations—drinking water, food to cook—
And the most important gift of all… The Christian Holy Book.

While it cannot stave off hunger, and it cannot slake your thirst,
It’s the most important item, when your life is at its worst;
No, it cannot heal a broken bone; it cannot make you whole,
But a Bible, in your time of need, could save your mortal soul!
It’s the timeless sacred message from the Bearded Guy Upstairs,
And it speaks of His omnipotence, and tells you that He cares.
When your world is torn asunder, as your very country bleeds,
Who could doubt, the Holy Bible is the thing that Haiti needs?

It’s the latest, greatest model; it’s a solar powered job!
It can shout the Holy Scripture out, in Creole, to the mob
That has gathered there, expectant, in the hopes of some supplies—
When instead they hear the Word Of God, imagine their surprise!
We are sending them six hundred, and that takes a lot of space,
So we bumped some crates of water, and put Bibles in their place;
Planes will bring the Holy Bibles in, like manna from above…
Cos it’s Bibles, and not medicine, that shows True Christian Love.


News Item: "Earthquake survivors get solar-powered bibles"

The Proclaimer, "a ministry tool like no other" (hey, I thought that was Pat Robertson's title!) could have been a solar-powered radio (it also has a hand-crank dynamo backup), but instead of a radio which could tell Haitians where to go for food, water, or medicine, it has a microchip with Scriptures in Haitian Creole. The rechargeable battery could play the entire New Testament a thousand times or more. Some 600 are on their way to Haiti, where with any luck the batteries and solar panels will be scavenged for other uses.

Cuttlecap tip to PZ, of course.

My Dinner With Roger

It has been a little while since I last saw an attempted internet meme—your favorite five this or that; your first posts of each month, or the photo out your front window—and I thought I’d try my hand. Besides, if it works, I get to read a whole lot of wonderful writing, on a topic well worth writing about.

The rules:
First, read Roger Ebert’s amazing, moving essay “Nil By Mouth”. Take your time. Have tissues on hand. (To, er, whet your appetite, Ebert's essay is about what he does and does not miss, now that he is unable to eat, drink, or speak. It is eloquent and beautiful, and will change your life forever. I'd quote the last paragraph here, but that would spoil your pleasure.)
Second, take some time to think. You’re gonna want that. You’re gonna need that. You’re gonna enjoy that.
Third, write. What was the best dinner (or two, or three, or… I have chosen to write about one, because iambic pentameter gets old fast) you ever had, by the criteria inspired by your reading of Roger Ebert. You do not have to follow my example (you especially should not bother writing in rhyme, unless you share that particular disorder with me).
Fourth, tag some others with the meme. Who? Your dinner party, that’s who. If these blog posts are dinners with friends, who are you inviting? One person? Several?

I had entirely too many meals to choose from, but one kept coming to mind again and again, so here it is. Every bit of it is true; all I did was write it down. I could have gone into much more detail, but then we'd be in epic poem territory, and I kinda wanted to get it posted this year.

The cook leaned up against the no-smoking sign,
Lit one cigarette from another, and gave us a look.
It was late, near closing; his friends were leaving to find
A party somewhere, and couldn’t wait for the cook.
We were four Americans; the cook must have guessed
We were better entertainment. He turned, re-lit the grill,
And asked us what we wanted. “What’s your best?”
So, burgers it was—but no run-of-the-mill
Ground beef; we could choose chicken or pork,
With mayonnaise, fried egg, and yellow cheese
For condiments, and french fries to eat with a fork.
“To drink?” “Four large diet cokes, if you please.”
We sat, the four of us, and ate, and drank, and talked.
The cook looked on, amused by us, no doubt;
Once strangers, now our group of friends had walked
Through Greece and Bulgaria together, and were just about
To say goodbye, perhaps for good. We knew
Each other, loved each other, and this perfect night
Was ours. We ate our meals and looked back through
The past five weeks. I complained that the flight
Back home was coming all too soon for me.
We would have stayed there talking through the night
If we could have; the cook’s face said we should go.
We left—so very happy, so very sad.
Sure, it probably was the company, but I know…
That was the best damn cheeseburger I ever had.


(This is the place. If you are ever in Sofia, Bulgaria, there are scores of better places to eat. Unless you are with friends, and have walked the whole town looking for just the right place for a pork burger with mayo, yellow cheese, and fried egg, on a soft white roll. In which case, this is the very best place on earth. It's on Shipka street, about a block from the University.)

Now, the really tough part. My dinner party. I am going to start small, so as not to deplete the blogospheric resources too much. My reasons for choosing each are my own, and I will not share them, other than to say that I chose individuals, without much care as to how they combine. I do think having these people around my table would make for a wonderful evening (for me, at least). I am very grateful to each of them for the privilege,, according to Ebert’s criterion, of having dined at their tables so many times already. In no particular order…

Greta Christina (Greta Christina’s Blog)
Cath (VWXYNot?)
SC (Salty Current)
Bronwen Scott (Snail’s Eye View)
The Ridger (The Greenbelt)
Martin Rundvist (Aardvarchaeology)

And hey, if you are not at the table, but like the idea, consider yourself invited! Write your own, and invite your own people to your table! Oh, and link back here so I can read it!

Edited to add: More and more, I hate the notion of choosing just a few people to send this to. I have already though of a couple dozen people I wish I had "invited" to my table, and I have no doubt I will think of many more before bedtime. So. If you have read this far, you are officially tagged, and asked (politely) to write up your own Ebert Dinner. To keep with meme tradition (is that metamemology?), I will keep my dinner choices, but I have just called up the Intarweb Virtual Caterers and ordered a tent that can fit all of you. You are invited.

Don't thank me. Thank Roger Ebert.

καλή όρεξη!

Foxy Sarah Finds The Perfect Job

Sarah Palin’s joining Fox—
Vox populi gets one more vox
So bar the doors and check the locks
Cos Sarah’s back in town!

She gets to be the tea-bag muse
And share with us her folksy views,
The fair and balanced right-wing news
When Sarah’s throwin’ down!

We’ll get to hear the old refrains,
And newer bites, as Sarah strains
To show us that she’s got some brains-
She’s worthy of our notice.

And just as fun, we’ll see some try
To back her up, to justify
Her ever-growing long good-bye,
And flog her run for POTUS!

She’ll join the ranks of Bill and Glenn
The strutting cocks will gain a hen
They’ll rant and rave, then say “Amen”
To punctuate their chatter.

She went rogue at the voting booth
And lost, but now the foxy sleuth
Has found a job that needs no truth-
On Fox, it doesn’t matter.


NPR reports that Sarah Palin is joining Fox "News". I wish her a looooooooong career there.
NY Times also--the comments at their "Media Decoder" blog are delicious.

Blessed Are The Republicans, For They Shall Say Things Like This

"Omniscient God, we pray to you,
In case you hadn't heard;
To smite the folks who want to do
What they think is your word.
To heal the sick, to help the poor,
And other hateful stuff,
When faith-based healing, I am sure,
Is medicine enough.
Oh, Lord, we need your guiding hand,
So we beseech, in prayer:
Please, Jesus, look throughout our land,
And smite the ones who care."

The context, and a hilarious/horrifying video, is over at Pharyngula.

Makin' Khalwat

News item: 52 couples detained under Sharia Law, charged with the offense of "close proximity".

She’s not a bride
He’s not a groom
But they decided
To share a room
The law’s been tested
Now they’re arrested
For makin’ Khalwat

It’s New Year’s Eve
At the hotel
They figured “hey,
We might as well”
I’d like to see ya,
But it’s Shariah—
We’re makin Khalwat

Picture a Malay melee
Down to the last detail
Cops in ambush to waylay
Couples now facing jail

All through Selangor
They’re facing time
You wanna bang her?
Well, it’s a crime
But don’t forget folks
That’s what you get, folks,
For makin’ Khalwat

They’ll do two years
And pay a fine
And then, my dears,
The sun will shine
Hope it was nice, cos
They paid the price, cos
Of makin’ Khalwat

Danish Cartoonist: 1--Muhammad: 0

It must, at times, be really hard
To be cartoonist Westergaard*.
To be a controversial Dane,
Targeted by religious insane.
Trying to live their normal life,
A normal man and normal wife,
But with a price put on his head—
A million bucks to see him dead.

His drawing was a mortal sin
(To those who need a thicker skin):
The Prophet (praise be unto him)
Portrayed in features rather grim,
With bomb in turban, fuse alight,
Offensive to a Muslim’s sight!
Since such an insult could not stand,
“The man must die.” the cold command.

Islam’s Qur’an, the central text,
Has poor cartoonists quite perplexed—
It calls for peace, or that’s the claim,
While breeding martyrs in its name.
But should one choose to illustrate
This problem, well, we know the fate:
The peaceful clerics draw a breath
And send the artist to his death.

Kurt Westergaard is still alive
His freedom, also, will survive—
He will not bow to terrorists
Although his name is on their lists;
He chooses still, by all accords,
To set his pen against their swords
To freely live, as best he can—
So, fuck Muhammad—Kurt’s the man!


*I have been corrected; my pronunciation of Westergaard is incorrect (thanks for nothing, ITN News!) My apologies!

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Specifically, a religiously-motivated terrorist tried to murder a cartoonist. God's very own prophet is apparently so thin-skinned, a cartoon is offense enough to try to kill a 74 year old cartoonist.

I am paying closer attention to Denmark these days; Cuttleson will be heading there for a semester. I am so envious. I suppose, though, I will have to caution him against doodling images of Muhammad.

From the article:

Danish police have shot and wounded a man at the home of Kurt Westergaard, whose cartoon depicting the Prophet Muhammad sparked an international row.
Mr Westergaard was at home in Aarhus when a man broke in and threatened him. He pressed a panic button and police entered the house and shot the man.
Danish officials said the intruder was a 28-year-old Somali linked to the radical Islamist al-Shabab militia.

Icarus, Daedalus, Falcon, and Richard Heene

Daedalus wanted a show on TV
Which his fans, by the millions, would view
Where he’d show off his theories, inventions, and stuff,
And be famous, and maybe rich, too.

Daedalus worked on a flying machine
With his wife, and his children as well
Which Falcon er, Icarus fit right inside—
And they thought that it really looked swell!

A weather balloon and some duct tape and mylar,
Supporting a small plywood box
Which Daedalus (“Dad”) claimed would carry a charge
For potentially dangerous shocks

It looked like a saucer—A UFO ship
Which they knew that the networks would love
They were right, and by millions the people tuned in,
Holding breath as it drifted above

While Icarus hid in the attic for hours,
Dad cried for the cameras below
The cops and the networks took in every word,
Each doing their part “for the show”

Though cautious at first, police are now saying
The whole thing is likely a hoax;
And now that potential disaster is moot,
Be prepared for a windfall of jokes

All Daedalus wanted was cameras and lights,
For people to all know his name
But his cunning plan melted, came crashing to earth
When his family flew too close to fame.


Context, for those living in caves.

Booty And The Priest (A Tragedy)

Tale as old as time
Crude as it may be
Nothing was amiss
Then he gave a kiss
Unexpectedly
Did not keep his vows
Sad, to say the least
Father was a cad
Now Father is a dad—
Booty and the Priest

Happens all the time
Rarely a surprise
Cover what he did
Too bad about the kid
It’s time to tell some lies

Tale as old as time
Act as old as sin
Tell her to abort
As a last resort
Call the lawyers in
Certain as The Church
Wants the claim released
Tale as old as time
Act as old as slime
Booty and the Priest

Tale as old as time
Act as old as slime
Booty and the Priest


The New York Times reports the story of "A Mother, A Sick Son, and His Father, the Priest"; the Rev. Henry Willenborg (seriously, is he still "Reverend"? Lemme check the dictionary. ok, yeah, the prefix to the name of a member of the clergy, check... worthy to be revered; entitled to reverence, uncheck... pertaining to or characteristic of the clergy... I get it--it's an oxymoron!) abused his position of authority (with more than one woman, according to the story), Fathered (pun intended) a child (after asking the mother to abort), and did pretty much everything in his power, with the aid of The Church, to avoid taking responsibility in any meaningful way. An absentee Father.

Oh, yeah, the kid, now 22, is dying of cancer. The sort of thing that would make a normal parent move heaven and earth to help their child. Hell, I'm ready to donate bone marrow if the Cuttledaughter gets a cold... and don't get me started on the Cuttleson's diabetes! Surely cancer would...

“We’ve been very caring, very supportive, very generous over these 20-something years. It’s very tragic what’s going on with Nathan, but, you know?” said Father Willenborg, before trailing off and ending the interview.

Bastard. The Father, not the son. Oh, yeah, and the Church are also bastards:

Father Willenborg’s Franciscan superiors were aware of his relationship with Ms. Bond well before Nathan was born. A year earlier, Father Willenborg and Ms. Bond had conceived another child. Ms. Bond said that Father Willenborg suggested she have an abortion, which she found unthinkable. He finally informed his Franciscan superiors of their liaison.

Anyway, the whole article (first link above) is worth reading, if you are in the mood to really get mad at somebody. Oh, and here is an audio slideshow. I am very impressed that they managed to mention the fact that the Father has sent his son a get-well card, without making a snarky comment. I don't know that I could have managed that.