23 December 2015

This Is Christmas

And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon Him. Now His parents went to Jerusalem every year at the feast of the passover. And when He was twelve years old, they went up to Jerusalem after the custom of the feast. And when they had fulfilled the days, as they returned, the child Jesus tarried behind in Jerusalem; and Joseph and His mother knew not of it. . .And it came to pass, that after three days they found Him in the temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions. And all that heard Him were astonished at His understanding and answers. . .

TRY to picture the scene. . .two thousand years ago, at the temple. . .all the great intellectuals gathered. . . the most respected scholars of the day. . .the thinkers who regulated the routines of life. . .they were probably arguing important issues such as the washing of pots, etc. . .and then:

In walks the One by whom all things were made. . .in walks the Source of Life. . .in walks the Light of the World. . .in the form of a twelve-year-old boy from the backwoods of Nazareth.

Imagine the Savior standing politely at the edge of the group, listening to the geniuses squabbling. . .feigning interest in their vain babbling, He asks a question. . .the great teachers debate, but cannot answer. . .Jesus provides the solution. . .the masters of Israel are a little taken aback, but also amused. They begin to question the young Galilean, thinking to put the lad in His place. . .but with each answer they receive, the amusement fades, until, astonished, the doctors have but one last question for the boy:

Who are you?

He would not tell them He was the Messiah. It would be another twenty years before even a few could accept that. He would tell them He was Jesus of Nazareth. That He lived with Mary and Joseph, the carpenter. He would not say He was Joseph’s son. Even there at the temple at age 12, He claimed God as His father. When Joseph and Mary found Him teaching there, they told Him they had been searching for Him for three days. He calmly replied:

Wist ye not that I must be about My Father's business?

I wonder how much of His Father’s business He told these scholars? What astonishing words did He give them? The secrets and mysteries of creation? The better way, a preview of the Sermon on the Mount? What did God incarnate reveal that day?

It has been lost. . .

THINK about that. . .

The sayings of the Lord Jesus Christ, lost.

The wisdom of the Eternal Logos, lost.

Infinitely more precious than gold—but lost.

We know to what lengths man will go to protect his gold. Fortresses are built to guard it. The words Jesus gave His hearers that day astonished them. . .but they could not keep them. They were lost. Think about that. . .

Almost everything Jesus gives to men, they lose. . .

What happened to those doctors, who sat astonished before the Lord?

How long did Christ’s words remain with them? An hour? A day? A week? A month?

Behold, a sower went forth to sow; And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.

Did Jesus’ words, of a value beyond what we can measure, produce any change in the lives of the hearers? Or a day, a week, a month later, were they back squabbling about the washing of pots?

Did they forget the encounter?

Was it, for them, as if it had never happened?

[Is it, for us, as if Christ’s atoning death and resurrection had never happened?]

This is the history of God’s interaction with mankind. From Eve to the Ark, from Babel to Sodom, the *sacrifice* of Isaac on a mountain in Moriah to Moses and the burning bush at Horeb, the Exodus through the Wilderness and on to the Promised Land—none of it made any lasting impression.

Let us borrow Rousseau:

Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. . .

God has supernaturally acted in His creation countless times, but for the creature, the encounters with the Creator remain ephemeral. As awesome as they have been, the effects nonetheless have a strangely short duration. Peter, rather bluntly, put it this way:

The dog is turned to his own vomit again; and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire. . .

Man cannot stay clean. . .

We may also wonder:

Were any of the learned men still at the temple twenty years later, when Christ returned?

If so, did any of them know this prophet from Galilee who was causing such a stir preaching the Kingdom of God, healing the sick, raising the dead, was the very boy who had astonished them two decades prior?

It does not seem unreasonable to assume at least a few who had witnessed the twelve-year-old Jesus teaching at the temple had survived for twenty years, and thus also witnessed the Passion Week.

If not in an official capacity in Jerusalem, were not some of them there for the Feast, anyway?

Did any of them lay down palm branches and cry Hosanna in the highest when Christ entered the city?

Did any of them, one week later, cry Crucify Him!

The boy who astonished them twenty years prior. . .did they also see Him hanging on the cross?

Twenty years after marveling at His words, did they then insult Him as He was nailed and dying on a tree?

Twenty years after asking in astonishment who are you? did they then taunt Him with the following challenge?

If thou be the son of God, come down from the cross, and then we will believe.

Did any of those who heard Christ say it is finished realize this man was the boy they had heard twenty years prior? What would they have made of that?

Even if none of those from that earlier time were there, some who had lain palm branches before Him at the Triumphal Entry must have turned on Him a mere week later:

And Pilate answered and said again unto them, What will ye then that I shall do unto Him whom ye call the King of the Jews? And they cried out again, Crucify Him.

So whether it takes an hour, a day, a week or twenty years—the end result will be the same: man loses sight of God. Man cannot comprehend God. Man cannot apprehend Christ.

Look at Jesus’ supposed cousin, John the Baptist, of whom Christ said:

Among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater. . .

Even John, who had himself baptized the Son of God, and who had seen the Holy Spirit descend upon Him like a dove, could not grasp the Savior:

Now when John had heard in the prison the works of Christ, he sent two of his disciples, And said unto Him, Art Thou He that should come, or do we look for another?

Art Thou He that should come? John saw the Holy Spirit like a dove descend upon Christ. John bore witness Jesus was the Son of God. And yet there he is, not long after, wondering art Thou He that should come?


Art Thou He that should come? Two thousand years later, does anybody even bother with such a question? What is left of Christ’s ministry? Just the shell. . .the brand name. . .a franchise. He is a religious Colonel Sanders or a religious Wendy. . .the Eternal Logos now just a logo to plaster above the entrance to the thousands and thousands of McChurches. . .

The masses queue up for their drive-thru communion. . .a bit of cracker and a thimble-full of grape juice. It’s over in seconds. A damnable fraud. . .

This do in remembrance of Me. . .

People waiting in line, bored, checking their watches, they grab a bit of cracker and a swallow of juice, eyes wandering over the crowd—anybody in a short skirt?

And when the hour was come, He sat down, and the twelve apostles with Him. And He said unto them, With desire I have desired to eat this passover with you before I suffer: For I say unto you, I will not any more eat thereof, until it be fulfilled in the kingdom of God. And He took the cup, and gave thanks, and said, Take this, and divide it among yourselves: For I say unto you, I will not drink of the fruit of the vine, until the kingdom of God shall come. And He took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is My body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of Me. Likewise also the cup after supper, saying, This cup is the new testament in My blood, which is shed for you.

It means nothing. It lost its meaning ages ago. Go into a McChurch and see the zombies at communion. . .look at the bored faces and the dry eyes. . .the ritual cannot reach their dead souls.

This do in remembrance of Me. . .

No. He is forgotten. The real Lord Jesus Christ is forgotten. . .lost.

Look around, for the sake of Christ, look around. . .every way of man is anti-Christ.

Surely John the Baptist was the first Christian—surely he was the first goer down the path so many Christians walk. He had a miraculous encounter with Christ and proclaimed the Savior. . .and then. . .he doubted.

He wasn’t sure, anymore, of what he had seen and heard. Perhaps just like those who had seen and heard the twelve-year-old Jesus. Just like the Israelites who had the cloud by day and the fire by night, and yet continually doubted.

For John the Baptist, events must not have proceeded as he imagined they would. Yes, after the baptism, he told his disciples:

He must increase, but I must decrease.

But he could not imagine how greatly he must decrease! Perhaps he could not imagine having no place in the world?

And He said unto them, Ye are from beneath; I am from above: ye are of this world; I am not of this world.

That is the problem, right there. Christ’s way is not the way of the world. Christ entered this world from another realm. Christ could dazzle with philosophy and miracles, but the world could never really digest His message.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

That message has no hearers in this world. The meek are held in contempt, while the aggressively greedy inherit the world.

We encounter Christ, and marvel. . .but we cannot put on His mind. . .for we are of the world—it is as simple as that.

John the Baptist, among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater, must have imagined for himself some role in preparing Christ’s Kingdom. . .at the very least, to be a disciple. . .

But to find himself languishing in Herod’s prison? The voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord? To go from that to being totally removed from the world scene, locked away, waiting for a sinner’s executioner?

So the Baptizer of Christ doubted. . .he had to have doubted because of his place in the world.

I am from above: ye are of this world; I am not of this world.

Jesus could amaze the world. . .He would have celebrity. . . Hosanna in the highest they would cry. . .but when His ways were found incompatible with the ways of the world, all but a few left Him.

Today we have the franchise. . .the world has gone on its way for two thousand years, allowing the franchise to strain out the gnats because it swallows the world.

Christ was in the world, and yet the world remains untouched by His presence.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, which killest the prophets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee; how often would I have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings, and ye would not!

All the gifts Christ gave. . .man let them slip through his fingers. . .he cannot accept Christ because of Christ’s other-worldliness.

And what about Christmas?  When the Western world's retailers try to remind us there was a Christ?

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

This is the season wherein we rejoice! The Savior is born. . .

And two thousand years later the world is a tangle of disease and cruelty.

Where in the world is joy?

In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

The darkness has not lifted. . .

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Peace. . .good will toward men.

Look around. . .no, you cannot see for the darkness. . .feel around. . .feel around in the darkness of the world. Peace? Good will toward men?

Peace?  No.  War.

Good will?  No.  Fear and hatred of the other.

The Lord Jesus Christ came. He delivered His message. He took away the sins of the world. He did His Father’s will and sacrificed Himself on the cross. It is finished, He said.

Why then are we still here in this stinking garbage dump two thousand years later?

Why is God’s interaction always lost? Why cannot men hold onto what their Creator has provided?

He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not. He came unto His own, and His own received Him not.

The world does not know Jesus Christ. He came and went, and the world has continued in darkness. The darkness comprehended it not.

And I heard the voice of many angels round about the throne and the beasts and the elders: and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; Saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing.

Ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands, saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb. . .

Not even a whisper of it is heard in the darkness of our world. . .

Another Christmas. . .the fetishistic and brawling shopping, the dionysian office parties. . .idiots drunk. . .gluttons lapping up sugary goodies, fattening their holiday waistlines. . .the noise, the tinsel, the noise, the 50% off sales that stink of a depression, the noise, the dysfunctional family gatherings around the altar of disappointing presents, the noise, the fake sentiment, the noise, the discount religion, the NOISE. Christ pushed off into the corner, playing third or fourth fiddle to Santa Claus, reindeer and elves.

How could Christ dwell on this earth for thirty-three years, and this be the result? Over and over He astonished those who came into contact with Him. But in the end, He was run out of town and hung on a tree. . .

Christ told the history of God’s supernatural interaction with man in this parable:

There was a certain householder, which planted a vineyard, and hedged it round about, and digged a winepress in it, and built a tower, and let it out to husbandmen, and went into a far country: And when the time of the fruit drew near, he sent his servants to the husbandmen, that they might receive the fruits of it. And the husbandmen took his servants, and beat one, and killed another, and stoned another. Again, he sent other servants more than the first: and they did unto them likewise. But last of all he sent unto them his son, saying, They will reverence my son. But when the husbandmen saw the son, they said among themselves, This is the heir; come, let us kill him, and let us seize on his inheritance. And they caught him, and cast him out of the vineyard, and slew him.

All that God has given the world has been lost.

Go ahead, try to find Eden. Try to find the Ark of the Covenant.

Our Lord said:

Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.

Let me tell you something, my friend, Jesus knew what He was talking about, here. He gave everything, including His blood. . .and it has all been trampled, trampled.

What the Hell kind of Christmas message is this?

We have to have ears to hear. . .

Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus: Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: But made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: And being found in fashion as a man, He humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. Wherefore God also hath highly exalted Him, and given Him a name which is above every name: That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; And that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure.

Jesus left the Throne of God. . .Jesus left the Majesty of Heaven. . .and He came down to this wasteland. He preached the gospel to the poor. THINK about that. Nobody has a chance in this world. In the end, all are beaten down to the grave. The rich have their illusions. The poor have nothing. Jesus gave the poor the gospel. . .the hope for glory. . .but the glory will not be had in this world. The gospel is victory over the world.

Jesus left the Purity of the Highest. . .He came down and cleansed lepers and cast out disease. . .He raised the dead. He left the Splendor of Perfection and came down to the world of corruption. . .He who was spotless was mocked, slandered, spat on, beaten and bloodied, then nailed to the cross by gross humanity.  He did not resist, nor utter an angry word. Look at us, and the insane tantrums we throw over the slightest insult.

What are we to celebrate on Christmas? Simply that Christ would so humble Himself by entering our world.

And what is the greatest gift our Lord gave us? What did He bring into this world? What did He have to personally hand deliver to our world?

Faith.

The faith of Christ.

Let that sink in.

The faith of Christ.

Not our faith. Let us not embarrass ourselves in front of the Savior Christmas morning as we tell Him we place our faith in Him, stupid grins on our faces as we wait for Him to give us slaps on the back.

He doesn’t want our faith. Our faith lasts about as long as the flavor in a piece of penny bubblegum. . .

Those doctors had a little faith in the twelve-year-old boy who astonished them. . .how long did that faith last? Was it there twenty years later when Christ hung on the cross? John the Baptist had faith in Christ when He saw the Spirit like a dove descend upon Him—where was that faith when the Baptizer asked art Thou He that should come, or do we seek another? The Jesus Christ fanboys had faith when they greeted His entry into Jerusalem singing Hosanna in the highest—where was that faith a week later? Crucify Him!

No, God doesn’t want our faith. Like a cheap whore sells her goods, we sell our faith to anyone or anything that provides a few tokens of comfort in this world.

The Lord Jesus Christ brought His faith into this hopeless world, and that is the great gift we celebrate at Christmas:

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God. . .

Knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Jesus Christ, that we might be justified by the faith of Christ, and not by the works of the law. . .

Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. . .

Let us not nitpick, asking for some blueprint showing every atom of the transfer of faith, and how it maps throughout the world, hitting some and missing others. If we need that to have faith, then the faith of Christ remains yet beyond us.

Jesus starts in us faith in Him, and finishes in us faith in Him.

Our joy in Christmas is the picture of Christ humbling Himself, being obedient to the Father’s will, condescending to take upon Himself human flesh. . .

Our Savior did indeed come into the darkness of the world, to bring His faith into the world to light our way home to the Father. . .

The world has lost everything Christ brought into it, let Him put saving faith in us, and then let Him sustain it in us until the end. . .

He places His faith in our corrupt vessels. . .our corruption can poison us with faithlessness.

Christ’s people have a hard time holding onto the gift He gave. . .but He will maintain His people through their journey in the wilderness of darkness and doubt.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to His abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, To an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, Who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ. . .

The darkness may cause His people to lose sight of Him, but He always sees us. . .

That star only the Magi saw two thousand years ago, it still shines, somewhere, out in the black sky. The Jesus star still shines upon those Christ calls His people. . .

Forget the dull sentiment printed on the Christmas cards. . .Christmas Day is for the soul that despairs. . .Christmas has been turned into the most worldly of holidays, eat, drink and be merry. . .the holiday has been co-opted by those who are at home in the world.

But for those who are truly world-weary, it is the day to refresh the hope, the day to celebrate when He stepped out of Glory into our dark world, to give His faith to us, to finish our redemption, to finish rescuing our souls out of the world. . .

Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

The world could for brief periods be dazzled by Jesus. . .but in the end, the world wants no part of Him. . .

Do we feel nothing in this world? There is nothing. . .until He appears to us. . .and then our soul feels its worth. . .

This is Christmas. . .

17 December 2015

The Girl In The Library

She was in the Graphic Novels section.  An artist, she was.  So.  She could draw anything.  Really.  Anyway, I asked her to meet me in the library.  I told her I wouldn't be able to speak to her.  She knew the reason, of course.  I told her: but I have to be able to at least lay eyes on you.  Yes, I used that rather antiquated expression. 

And there she was.  I scribbled a pornographic note on the back of a receipt.  I walked over to her.  She didn't look at me.  Her head down.  I gave her the note.  Our fingers brushed.  I walked away.  I stared at her from the Children's section.  

What it is, is this: she was not offended by me.  Greater love hath no woman than this: she does not ask me to hide or apologize for myself.  I can live true.  

Jesus says that in Hell the condemned will weep and gnash their teeth.  I suppose many assume it is physical torment which produces the weeping and gnashing.  I've never doubted the reality of the Savior, nevertheless, being unfit to judge myself, I must contemplate the possibility of damnation.  I would therefore project my own damned tears and teeth grinding to a bittersweet knowledge Christ's judgment is true.  Eternity bitter at the endless contemplation of all those moments I deceived myself.  Eternity sweet at the endless contemplation of Jesus showing the better way. 

What will this moment in the library turn out to be?  It will be the same as all the other moments in life.  I am either saved or damned, thus all my actions are the acts of either a saved man or a damned man.  I can make neither heads nor tails of my life story, because I am not the author. . .  

I could be completely wrong about all of this. . . 

Of one thing, as I stand gazing at the girl in the library, I am certain: I did not choose this life. . .

She is walking past me, now.  I see the body in motion. My reaction is not at all unnatural, for man is part animal, part Seventh Heaven.

What will come of this?

Life lived on a Golden Avenue?

Or weeping in Endless Torment?

25 November 2015

Wayward Pines

Wayward Pines Intertitle.png
Ha ha ha ha!  Maybe the dumbest show on television since. . .since. . .Hell, since forever. . .yes, this might be the dumbest program EVER.  It makes Knight Rider seem sophisticated.

The plot?  After some climate change shit or whatever begins to turn human beings into naked pasty-faced cannibals, a bunch of boring people are frozen for 2000 years, then thawed out to re-start civilization. . .in the middle of fucking Idaho!  Anyway, the nerd scientist who runs the New Human Revue refuses to tell the survivors the truth (they all still think it's 2015) because he tried this same human popsicle trick once before, but he told the first batch of humansicles the truth. . .and. . .they just couldn't handle the truth. . .they got all depressed and shit, a bunch of them committed suicide, and a bunch of others just started wreaking general havoc and laying waste to Wayward Pines I. . .so, anyways, the nerd scientist forces his second batch of WP humansicles to live a 1984-like existence.  Of course, some people are suspicious and try to rebel, which creates an extremely tedious subplot, which, amazingly, detracts from the ludicrous main plot, which has more holes than Charlie Sheen's immune system. {click here for rimshot}.  

And not only may this be the dumbest show ever, it's probably the worst-acted, also.  The main characters are Wayward Pines new sheriff and his wife and son. . .the son is played by somebody named Charlie Tahan, a method actor.  Unfortunately, it's the robot method. {click here for rimshot}  It's as lifeless and mechanical performance as you will ever see.  The wife is played by Robert Rodriguez pin-up girl Carla Gugino, and as for her performance, let's just say she showed greater emotional depth in Spy Kids.

The worst acting, however, is turned in by the show's *star:* Matt Dillon.  I've always thought Dillon was a horrible actor, completely tone deaf. . .but after watching Dillon puzzle over his lines episode after episode in Wayward Pines, I now believe old Matty is the worst actor in the history of acting.  There's never been an actor who has understood his character less than Dillon.  Never.  He's the dumbest actor who ever lived.  The dog in Hachi understood his character better. {click here for rimshot}  

But anyways, there is something good about Wayward Pines. . .there won't be a second season!{click here for rimshot}
[Note in the clip above how the actress can't help laughing at how absurdly melodramatically Dillon delivers the line Because Pilcher's a control freak.]

20 November 2015

The Day In Fear


HERE ARE TODAY'S HEADLINES IN FEAR:

















People are understandably frightened. . .

Ha ha ha. . .

But yes, I suppose the sheeple are *understandably frightened*. . .they understand there will be *terror* attacks in America.  The attacks are inevitable.  Americans will die from Satanic violence.  Inevitable.  America has used violence all over the world to try to cast out her own personal *Satans.*  But violence is not the Father of Peace and Safety.  Violence breeds only violence, and sooner or later that violence will visit America, again.

Americans, after seeing a hundred or so French cut down living just as they live, fear their turn is coming, and see the bogeyman everywhere. . .they tremble, imagining a horde of dirty, smelly Syrian refugees (it doesn't matter that in *reality* hardly any have been let in) wearing bomb vests. . . 

Maybe they'll get us at the shopping mall on Black Friday?  Or at the football game on Saturday or Sunday?

What these frightened American rabbits refuse to consider is the Syrian refugees who make them quake in fear are scared rabbits themselves, having already experienced Satanic violence.  No solidarit√© for them. . .

Ha ha ha. . .here's all the solidarit√© they get from one of America's great self-proclaimed Christians:






















So ends another great day in American fear. . .

19 November 2015

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is. . .uh. . .Bearded Men












Something called The Gateway Pundit, 18 November 2015: Washington, D.C. Fox affiliate WTTG-TV reporter Emily Miller posted to Twitter Wednesday night an internal police memo on four suspicious bearded men seen at the Pentagon on Sunday. Miller said the memo from the Metro Transit Police was leaked to her by a source who thought the public should know. Photos of the men walking in the Pentagon Metro Station shows them each having beards and appearing to be Middle Eastern. Miller writes: “This is scary: Be On The Lookout alert for these men on DC metro at Pentagon. Note it was a warm on Sunday.”

Ha ha ha. . .

Ah, for the good old days of terror, when level-headed leaders like George Bush told us to stay calm and go shopping. . .

Four bearded sand niggers strolling through the metro station wearing coats on a warm (60 degrees) Sunday. . .

This is scary. . .

Here's the Twitter profile picture of our ace reporter Emily Miller:


















Note the cross AND the gun. . .covering all her bases, as they say. . .

Which do you think she has more faith in?
Does Emily Miller Have More Faith In Her Savior Or Her Gun To Protect Her From Bearded Men?
Savior
Gun
Poll Maker

The Most Powerful Nation On Earth, with a $666 billion military. . .home to a nation of frightened rabbits.

I hope ace reporter Emily Miller didn't inadvertently give the *terrorists* some valuable feedback on their *dry run*. . .I mean, maybe now they'll shave and leave their coats in the closet?  Damn! And we almost had 'em!!

17 November 2015

The American Spirit

WBRZ, 17 November 15: Syrian Refugee Already Missing In Baton Rouge Area. At least one Syrian refugee that was in the process of resettling in the Baton Rouge area has already gone missing, according to a report by WBRZ. As reported earlier by the Hayride, there are another 7 Syrian refugees in Kenner and 6 more in the New Orleans area. The news may seem alarming that neither state government nor the federal government track newly-arrived refugees who have just entered the country, but it is actually not uncommon at all.

Ha ha ha!  It never ceases to amaze, the fear of the sheeple!  

Ha ha ha!  A *witches coven* of 13 raggedy-ass sand niggers in Louisiana, and one goes missing, and PANIC sets in!

Let's see, we got Amber Alerts when cute little kids go missing, what alert can we have when a Syrian refugee goes missing?











These Syrian refugees are our 21st century lepers.  Better put a cowbell around their neck, so we know where they are. . . 

Oh, yes. . .like I said, this is the 21st century.  Put a microchip in them, so we can track them and make sure they are out picking fruit, or mopping hospital floors, like they're supposed to be doing.

Better yet, let's not let anymore in:













This is what fifteen years of constant Military Media Complex propaganda does to a population: turns it YELLOW.  

Probably a majority of the America population considers itself Christian. . .

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

And yet there is little evidence of this spirit in America.  Instead, the sheeple exhibit a spirit of fear, weakness, hate and mental instability. . .

Shortly after Louisiana was put on Sand Alert, the missing refugee, the Destroyer of *Christian Civilization,* was found:

UPDATE: Louisiana State Police contacted the charity organization that originally resettled the Syrian refugee in Baton Rouge and were told that the individual has been settled with a family out of state. According to the charity, the individual is not missing, but has been resettled outside of Louisiana.

Ha ha ha. . .

Louisiana can breathe again. . .the missing sand nigger is now some other state's nightmare.

These type of stories expose the heart of America, even the heart of America that proclaims itself Christian:

Terror at death, terror at life outside of America's borders, terror at any existence that is not American Materialist. 

The American cannot imagine any other life to be worth living. . . 

[And certainly, as their fear of death demonstrates, they cannot even imagine their faith's promised life after death. . .]

Imagine if an American Christian had to be a refugee. . .God help him.

05 November 2015

Fukushima: The Enemy They Dare Not Name

Fukushima nuclear waste now found
off all US states on Pacific Coast
Counterpunch, 3 November 2015: As time passes, a bona fide message emerges from within the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant disaster scenario, and that message is that once a nuclear power plant loses it, the unraveling only gets worse and worse until it’s at its worst, and still, there’s no stopping it. Similar to opening Pandora’s box, there’s no stopping a ferocious atom-splitting insanity that knows no end. As it unfolds, the Fukushima story grows more convoluted and way more chilling. For example, according to The Japan Times, October 30th Edition: “Extremely high radiation levels and the inability to grasp the details about melted nuclear fuel make it impossible for the utility to chart the course of its planned decommissioning of the reactors at the plant. Thereby, the bitter truth behind a major nuclear meltdown shows its true colors: “Impossible for the utility to chart the course of its planned decommissioning…” is very definitive, divulging the weak underbelly of the fission-to-heat process; only one slip-up, and it’s deadly dangerous and likely out of control! Nobody has any idea of what to do next. There is no playbook. It’s likely impossible to do anything remedial once a melted nuclear core has burrowed into the ground because deadly isotopes uncontrollably spread erratically, ubiquitously into the surrounding underground soil and water. Then what? In the final analysis, there is a distinct probability that Fukushima has no final analysis. Reports out of Japan indicate that Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant cleanup and decommissioning is severely restricted by extremely high radiation levels and the inability to grasp the details about melted nuclear fuel. What could be worse?

The Military Media Complex loves to frighten the sheeple. . .

ISIS will chop off your head!

Dirty, smelly immigrants will shit on your lawn and rape your daughter!

So why does the Military Media Complex ignore Fukushima?  Why not feed the sheeple endless stories about the dying Pacific Ocean, the contaminated food supplies, the skyrocketing rates of thyroid cancer, etc., etc.?   Here's a monster that will be killing people for hundreds of years, long after ISIS is gone and forgotten, but the Military Media Complex, which thrives on fear, ignores it.  Why?

The reason the Military Media Complex ignores Fukushima is because it's a REAL threat. . .unlike the FAKES of ISIS, immigrants, Iran, Russia, North Korea, etc., etc.

The Military Media Complex can use ISIS and grubby immigrants to manipulate the sheeple into supporting a perpetual war economy. They can stand up these Straw Men to frighten the timid sheeple, then knock them down with their war economy toys, and repeat the process over and over and over again, in an endless cycle of corporate killers reaping the profits of the wars they sow.

And as they knock down these Straw Men, the Military Media Complex makes it appear as if it serves a necessary purpose. . .

The Military Media Complex ignores Fukushima because it is real, and there is not a God damned thing the Complex can do about it. . .and if the Military Media Complex told the sheeple the true threat of Fukushima, not only would the sheeple shit their slave labor-sewn pants, but they'd demand the Complex do something about it. . .but the Military Media Complex can't do anything about Fukushima, and to admit the threat, and admit their inability to counter the threat, would expose the Military Media Complex in the eyes of the sheeple as the profligate, ineffectual Master it is. . .


And maybe, when the sheeple realized they were being poisoned to death, and their Masters didn't warn them or marshal their resources to try to limit the harm, well, maybe then the sheeple would pick up their pitchforks and come after the Complex. . .and that's why the Military Media Complex ignores the Fukushima story.

[If you are wondering what the Fukushima story is all about, go here and start reading. . .enjoy!]

30 September 2015

Trump's Tax Plan Explained In Easy-To-Understand Terms

*Fargo*--Hate Film

Fargo was named Best Film of 1996 by the New York Film Critics Circle and was also nominated for an Academy Award as Best Motion Picture. We assume the critics were either fearful of exposing the film's odious hate message (why they would be fearful is a topic better left for another day), or were blinded by the *humor* and arty cinematic techniques. Whatever the case, Fargo is the most racist film to appear since Birth of a Nation. This time, however, the cruelly ridiculed victims are white.

Fargo begins with the statement that the movie is a "True Story." While moviegoers may believe this implies there was a real-life crime which inspired the film, the truth is Fargo is the filmmakers' twisted "True Story" of the White race in the New World. Fargo is a perverted allegory meant to portray all the *crimes* of the White race in North America.

The plot of Fargo seems fairly straight forward: the tale of a car salesman named Jerry Lundegaard who desperately needs money for a parking lot business deal. Under the thumb of his rich father-in-law--who owns the car agency and shows him no respect--Jerry hires two small-time criminals named Showalter and Grimsrud to kidnap his wife. He promises to split the $80,000 ransom with them. During the course of the kidnapping, Grimsrud kills several people. The murder/kidnapping case falls into the hands of the Brainerd, MN police chief--Marge, a pregnant white woman. Marge methodically works the evidence and eventually all the evil-doers are brought to justice.

In telling their simple tale, however, the filmmakers deny White people any psychological (save sociopathy) or emotional depth, and instead delight in portraying them in a mocking, cartoonish fashion. Whites are stupid, inarticulate boobs, barely capable of grunting anything more than an Aryan "yah." Whites are depicted as having insatiable appetites--the filmmakers include several scenes of Whites gluttonously devouring vast quantities of non-kosher foods in various buffet-style restaurants. But above all, Whites are shown to be insanely greedy. The predominant motivating force in all the main characters in the film, save one, is money. Whites scheme endlessly to make (steal) money. The filmmakers depict the White race as suffering from a megalomaniacal and criminal obsession with money (
hmmn, is there another *race* which has been similarly *stereotyped?*  And, uh, would the filmmakers be aware of this?). Whites will risk anything for money, including their own family members (Jerry arranges for wife to be kidnapped, wife's father haggles over daughter's ransom). Because of their greed, Whites are incapable of loyalty or honesty. Their lives are presented as a tangle of lies and betrayals (Jerry cheats his customers at the car dealership, Jerry is cheated by his father-in-law over the parking lot deal, Jerry lies about the amount of the ransom to the criminals he has hired, when one criminal discovers the true ransom amount, he in turn lies about it to his partner--while all along his partner has planned on murdering him).

According to the filmmakers, Whites are inherently unethical. Whites can only prosper by dishonest means. However, Whites have developed their own peculiar code of right and wrong. In White culture, there is a right way and a wrong way to lie, cheat and steal. The brutal violent incompetence of the kidnappers is wrong, while the elegant thievery of Jerry's father-in-law is right. Here we must pause to note that there are only two non-white characters in the film. Each has significant symbolic value. One is a Native American. He, of course, represents the exploitation of the Indian by the White man. The White man, with his mix of violence and strange ideas about land and ownership, drove the Indians into near-extinction. And after stealing North America from the Native peoples, Whites, of course, have only desecrated the landscape. According to Fargo, the crowning achievement of White culture is the parking lot.

The Native American character in Fargo is allowed a brief moment of revenge. However, his revenge only comes at the expense of a "fringe white"--one of the two kidnappers. And even among the fringe whites, the Indian scores his revenge only against the less Aryan-looking of the two. That all is hopeless for people of color in America is reinforced by the actions of Marge. Marge appears to be the one character who is not driven by greed. That is because the pregnant Marge is the symbol of the new White mother earth. She is responsible for maintaining and guarding White culture. The redskin, a parolee, is put back in his proper place by Marge when she comes to question him regarding the whereabouts of the kidnappers. At first the Indian is defiant, and he refuses to cooperate. A huge hulk of a man, he menacingly towers over the small white woman. However, a smirking Marge quickly deflates the big Indian by reminding him that there are any number of parole violations for which she can have him sent back to prison. The giant red man, facing the White power structure in the form of a woman (not unlike Chief Broom in Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckcoo's Nest), cannot even look the small white woman in the eye as she lectures him on his status under the White legal code.

Marge also emasculates the only other non-white in the film, a Japanese man. The Japanese man appears to have done everything possible to assimilate into White culture, yet Marge (in her symbolic role as protector of White culture) is so racist and intolerant, she can not even bare to have a person of color sit next to her in a restaurant booth. We later learn that the Japanese man has been driven insane by the refusals of Whites to include him in their society.

To underscore their point that this film is about White culture, the filmmakers have set Fargo in the dead of winter in North Dakota and Minnesota. Winter's white is nearly the only color used expressively. The film opens with a scene of a blinding white snowstorm. White is seen as a malevolent force, blanketing and suffocating everything. In the few scenes in which a color other than white is used expressively, the filmmakers choose red. Blood red. For example, in the film's climatic scene, one of the kidnappers, a perfect Aryan specimen, is seen stuffing a woman's body into a wood-chipper. Blood is sprayed all over the bleak white landscape. This is the White race's legacy in North America, according to the filmmakers.

In a final insult to White culture, the filmmakers wink at their own cleverness by making much *lighthearted* use of a statue of Paul Bunyan. The filmmakers, setting about to create their own myth, can't resist mocking one of White culture's myths.

23 September 2015

My Big Brother The Unabomber

The one question I am asked over and over and over again, when anyone learns of my unusual childhood history, is:

What was it like to have Theodore Kaczynski as a 'Big Brother?'

The short answer: it was not as much fun as you would think. . .

But anyway, for those still curious, here is the tale told in full:

The year was nineteen hundred and sixty and seven. I was but a seven year old boy at the time. My family (my brother Larry and my mother) lived in the old Willow Run Trailer Park next to the Ford plant. Life was hard. The father/husband, had just succumbed to brain cancer while serving a life sentence in the Southern Michigan State Prison at Jackson (the world's largest walled penal facility) for the murder of a drunken negro in a barroom brawl.

My 28 year old mother supported us as best she could on the modest wages she earned as a check-out girl at the A & P. My mother worked the 9 am - 5:30 pm shift Monday through Saturday--as a result, my brother and I spent much of the week unsupervised. I confess we were rather wild and ill-mannered youths. Dirty-faced, snot-nosed punks--the bane of the trailer park. No other children lived in the park, which, being situated next to the Ford plant, primarily accommodated single male autoworkers. I suppose one of the few saving graces our mother must have felt as she watched her unruly cubs grow to juvenile delinquency derived from the protection her two little lads offered against the horny, beer drinking rivetheads who populated the trailer park. Early on in our tenure in that aluminum garden 2 or 3 of our more "macho" neighbors came scratching and clawing at the door to our tin house--but they all beat a rather hasty retreat to escape a sudden drenching from old Spaghetti-Os cans filled with urine which were dumped upon their heads by my brother and I from our watch guard positions atop our trailer.

With my mother engaged behind a cash register at the A & P for most of the day, it fell upon my brother, two years my elder, to keep me out of harm's way. I thank God to this day for His providence in providing me such a diligent childhood trustee. Despite our numerous pranks and roughhouse antics, the police rarely had occasion to call on lot #16 of the Willow Run Trailer Park. But unfortunately in the summer of nineteen hundred and sixty and seven my brother fell ill with a bad case of the Willow Run grippe--a strange flu-like virus of indeterminate origin. Speculation on its genesis centers around the "Extrusion Pond"--a man-made crater filled with toxic waste at the Ford plant, located just a hundred or so yards from our trailer. My brother and I spent many an afternoon fishing that queer lagoon. One hot afternoon we dragged in a 47 pound Mustang bucket seat frame. We fought that molding for the better part of two hours. I still believe that this is the largest plastic forge ever hooked in that old synthetic fishing hole. But that was in nineteen hundred and sixty and five--and I'm telling a tale from nineteen hundred and sixty and seven. And so, as my brother was bedridden most of the summer of sixty and seven, I was in need of a substitute guardian. Looking back on the course of events (and, when all was said and done, it was a course that took nearly thirty years to complete), I guess you could say that my brother's case of the grippe launched the career of one of America's most notorious criminals--Theodore Kaczynski, a.k.a. The Unabomber.

Thus, with my brother waging his desperate battle against the grippe's intermittent fever and chills, raising himself from his sweat-soaked sheets only to fight on the virus' second front--the toilet--as he crapped and vomited to the point of near-dehydration, my mother was forced to secure for me a surrogate supervisor. Given my rather raw upbringing, my mother realized it would be an exercise in futility to turn me over to the care of one of those generic, female, teenaged "sitters." A rascal such as myself would require a more mature and masculine authority figure, so my mother placed an ad in the local daily for a "Big Brother."

Of course, my mother was a woman of limited means, and could only offer the paltry remuneration of 50 cents an hour. Needless to say, there weren't many applicants. A fat man came by once, volunteering to take the position without pay. However, my mother was dissuaded from accepting the tempting offer because of the corpulent caretaker's numerous facial tics and most alarming body odor. Just as it looked as if I would be left to my own devices, one Sunday afternoon a quiet, well-mannered and clean cut young man turned up at our trailer seeking the position of Big Brother.

Theodore Kaczynski explained in a soft monotone to my mother that he had just completed his doctoral studies at the nearby University of Michigan and was now seeking a temporary summer position that would pay him enough to cover his expenses until the fall, at which time he would then move on to his new position as an assistant mathematics professor at the University of California at Berkeley. My mother was very impressed to learn of Theodore's mathematical abilities. I remember her stating "I have to be good at numbers, too, in my job. A cashier don't want to short change a customer." Ted nodded politely, and after a few more minutes of small talk he found himself gainfully employed as your narrator's Big Brother.

Of course, now everyone wants to know what it was like to have Ted as a Big Brother. What type of guidance did one of our nation's most infamous felons provide? Did I have any idea that Ted was capable of committing cold blooded murder? Did I ever feel threatened or in danger? I can honestly answer "no." Ted seemed to me just a nerdy, over-serious egghead. Truthfully, the only risk one faced with Ted was the possibility of lapsing into a catatonic trance, as he was not the most exciting companion a young fellow could have. That is, until I introduced him to the joys of explosives. But I am getting ahead of myself.

For most of the summer the daily routine was numbingly the same. Ted would arrive promptly at 8:45 am, just as my mother was departing for the A & P. After playing nursemaid to my sick brother for most of the morning, Ted and I would leave the trailer for 3 hours "recreation." It was these 3 hours that I most dreaded. At least while he was taking care of my brother I could amuse myself with TV, but the daily recreation session was monotonous beyond compare. It began with a 20 minute bus ride to the arboretum, and was then followed by a torturous 2 1/2 hour trek through the nature preserve, each excruciating minute seeming elongated by Ted's monotone discourse on the wonders of nature. Yes, most of my memories of Ted--master criminal, genius malcontent--are of him droning on about this plant or the other, about squirrels and rabbits and deer, about insects, about the fine, mathematically precise balance that exists in nature. It was like being in school, only worse because there were no other kids around to bully. Nothing to do but walk, hike, climb, sweat and listen to the world according to Kaczynski.

I don't know, perhaps a different type of youngster would have responded more favorably to Ted's instruction. And then perhaps those 3 people Ted killed might still be alive today. And those others, the maimed, why, even Ted himself--maybe none of it would have ever happened if only I would have liked trees. But I was literally a child of the industrial world. The Ford auto plant was my natural habitat. Nature to me was a rusty freight car carrying 40 tons of processed steel screeching to a halt at a 2 story receiving bay. Ted's trees and raccoons left me cold. And so one afternoon I brought along a toy on our daily excursion through that vast green wasteland that Ted called nature. A little toy to help get me through another one of Ted's private National Geographic specials. I had my toy tucked into the back of my pants, concealed under my shirt. About 30 minutes into the day's trek, as Ted was lecturing about a family of gophers, I pulled out my cap gun and snapped off 6 solid blasts. Ted ran one way and the gophers ran the other. It was the most fun I'd had all summer.

Of course, Ted was pretty upset. And the incident inspired a new monologue. But this one was more interesting than the usual ones. Ted said that any sort of violence, even an artificial form designed for children's amusement, was completely unjustifiable--and doubly so when interjected into the natural setting. Ted said man was already threatening to destroy the delicate balance of nature, and to have one of our few remaining unspoiled sanctuaries defiled. . .and then right at that point he suddenly stopped talking. A peculiar look came over his face. The type of look that crosses your face as a fantastic new idea pops into your head. Ted grabbed my cap gun and unthreaded the little paper roll of blasting caps. He examined them with great curiosity. After a minute or so he started speaking again, but for the first time I heard genuine emotion in his voice. I remember his exact words: "You triggered a small explosion! This little bit of paper and gun powder produced an explosion sufficient to frighten a grown man and a family of gophers! Imagine the power if we were to just enlarge the. . .the capsule! And we will definitely need some sort of remote detonating device! Yes. That will be the difficult part of the equation."

Well, I imagine you can see what this lead to. There were still a few weeks left to that fateful summer of sixty and seven, but Ted and I never again returned to his cherished arboretum. Instead we spent the remaining recreation periods foraging through my beloved Ford plant, looking for scraps of metal and bits of plastic with which to construct a remote detonating device. By the time Ted had to leave for California, he seemed a changed man. He appeared energized and full of enthusiasm. Of course, being a boy of only 7 years of age, I had only a very imprecise understanding of what this change in Ted meant. I recall thinking that Ted was happy now because he had discovered that scaring people could be good for gophers and trees.

And so there you have it--the true story of my Big Brother, The Unabomber. People ask how I feel about Ted, after knowing him as I did as a seven year old boy, and now as an adult fully aware of his crimes. I find the best way to answer that question is to quote King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived:

"Every way of a man is right in his own eyes: but the Lord pondereth the hearts."