The Chicanery of Goldman-Sachs

Goldman-Sachs, Hank Paulson, Lloyd Blankfein, Stephen King, Roberto Bolano, 2666

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Tiger Went Down To Perkins And Saw A Woman In Perkins. . .

AP, 8 December 2009: Fire department medics responded early Tuesday to a 911 call at Tiger Woods' Orlando-area home and took an adult to the hospital. An emergency dispatcher took the call from Woods' home at 2:35 a.m. and transferred it to Orange County Fire Rescue, Orange County Sheriff's Office spokesman Jim Solomons told The Associated Press. An adult patient was taken to Health Central Hospital in Ocoee, the same place Woods was treated after he crashed his sport utility vehicle outside his home last month, fire rescue spokeswoman Genevieve Latham said. The patient's condition was not immediately known.

Man, Tiger’s life is heading into Mike Tyson territory. . .

I would have to guess the woman taken to the hospital was Woods’ mother-in-law. . .if that proves to be the case, then it looks like Tiger’s insatiable lust for white women with big fat fake titties, and the domestic chaos resulting from his secret fornications being exposed, has stressed his mother-in-law to the point of hospitalization.

Hey, Tiger, think your old lady is mad now, with you banging every low-rent white tramp that crosses your path? Just imagine if your swinging dick has caused your mother-in-law to have a heart attack. . .hmmn, what’s the price tag on that divorce??

Listen, here is the dilemma for many, many men. We’d love to fuck everything that moves. . .and when that hole is right there in front of us, we are under its spell. . .and we do not spend one single fraction of a second pondering the consequences. What if we are caught? What happens to our family? How will I appear in the eyes of my children? Does not even cross our minds. Does not even cross our minds. The furthest thing from our minds is the consequence of fornication. We just dive right into that strange hole.

Luckily, most of us are not in the position of Tiger, being able to pick up any piece of strange that crosses our path. . .our adulteries are kept within our hearts.

All the hassle, all the drama, all the family misery he has caused will likely allow Tiger to keep his pants zipped. . .for a while. . .I would guess he will be able to patch his family back together, with solemn pledges to be a better father and husband, etc. And whenever he feels the temptation to sneak off with a waitress or hotel maid, he will remember all the 911 calls, etc. and will, by force of will, resist banging some white temptress. But time destroys everything, and there will be a day, when time has lessened the trauma of this current drama, and Tiger will figure he can be smarter this next time, and he will resume his addiction to white tramps. . .guaranteed. No way out of the cycle. . .unless he knows Jesus Christ and is granted deliverance (but that’s a whole other can of worms).

Look how Samson ended up. . .blind, under a pile of rubble. . .all because he:

Went down to Timnath, and saw a woman in Timnath of the daughters of the Philistines.

Tiger went down to Perkins and saw a waitress in Perkins. . .

[By the way, golf is a stupid, stupid *sport*].

Tiger is still going to be rich, he’s still going to be a famous golfer (?!?!), but I bet right at this very moment, he has a great understanding of Proverbs 22:1:

A GOOD name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold.

UPDATE: AP, 8 December 2009--Tiger Woods' mother-in-law was admitted to a hospital with stomach pains early Tuesday, a hospital spokesman said.

It was the mother-in-law, but not a heart attack. Uh, how much will the mother-in-law's ulcer cost Tiger? $10 million to the revised prenup??
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The Paradox

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Tim Tebow Crying (His Tears Smear John 16:33)

Excuse me? What are you crying about? What are you crying about with JOHN 16:33 PAINTED ON YOUR FACE? A lost football game?

Did Jesus ever cry because Nazareth lost to Capernaum in the Galilee championship?

John 16:33 reads:

These things I have spoken unto you, that in Me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.

Let’s give old Tebow the benefit of one doubt: let’s not assume old Tebow painted John 16:33 under his eyes because he equated playing Alabama with tribulation.

Let’s be charitable, and assume old Tebow simply wanted to share a little of the gospel with the tens of millions of TV adoring infidels whose hearts desire was to spend hour after hour after hour in devotion to a trivial sporting contest--hours they would never even consider devoting to our Lord. Let’s be charitable and assume old Tebow just wanted to shine the small light of one gospel verse into the dark hearts of millions of infidel football fanatics.

That granted, Tebow, by weeping like a child after losing a trivial football game, gives a schizophrenic testimony for the Lord.

If old Tebow wants to cry like a little girl who has lost her favorite dolly. that’s fine--but he first needs to wash John 16:33 off his face.

John 16:33 is about showing courage and maintaining a calm assurance in the face of genuine adversity, with this courage and assurance being due to an unshakable faith our Lord, our First-Goer, has overcome the world.

You don’t paint John 16:33 under your eyes if you are going to break down and bawl like a baby over the loss of something as inconsequential as a FOOTBALL GAME. [This also shows too much attachment to the world’s values].

John 16:33 is discredited in the eyes of any infidels who bother to look it up, for they will note the obvious disconnect between the scripture’s meaning and Tebow’s not good cheer-like behavior.

You do NOT paint our Lord’s words on your face in some half-assed, poorly thought out attempt at *discipleship.*

You do NOT treat the gospel like it is some afterthought, some cute uniform decoration.

NEVER disrespect the gospel as if it is some ribbon pin for the fad cause of the day.

Jesus said to count the COST of discipleship first before going off half-cocked like some paperweight Stephen.

For Tebow’s next game, he would do well to paint Luke 14:28 - 30 under his eyes:

For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? Lest haply, after he hath laid the foundation, and is not able to finish it, all that behold it begin to mock him, Saying, This man began to build, and was not able to finish.

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Daniele Mastrogiacomo's *Days Of Fear*

Days Of Fear: A Firsthand Account Of Captivity Under The New Taliban, by Daniele Mastrogiacomo. In the name of Allah Most High and All-Merciful, Sayed Agha, Ajmal Naqshbandi and Daniele Mastrogiacomo are sentenced to death for acts of espionage within Taliban territories (p. 136).

In March 2007, the Italian journalist Daniele Mastrogiacomo, his interpreter Ajmal Naqshbandi and his driver Sayed Agha set out to interview the Taliban military commander Mullah Dadullah. Instead, the three men were taken hostage by the Taliban and held for fifteen days.

As an account of Mastrogiacomo’s nightmarish two week ordeal, Days Of Fear is a morbidly fascinating account of the human psyche being ground in the crucible of carnal man’s ultimate fear—imminent extinction, execution, death.

Mastrogiacomo’s terror is nearly all psychological. The only physical abuse he suffered, excepting the chains on his wrists, came in the early moments of his capture. Blindfolded by Taliban soldiers, Mastrogiacomo discovers, to his horror:

I suffer from claustrophobia. I was aware of this but didn’t realize that I suffered to such agonizing extremes. I must always be able to see a little light, even when it is dark. With my eyes closed and covered, I can’t breathe properly. I feel like I’m suffocating, buried alive (p. 47).

As he instinctively tries to free himself from the blindfold, a Taliban gives him a couple of rifle butts, one to the head. This *cures* Mastrogiacomo’s claustrophobia rather quickly. . .

The carnal man needs to believe he is in control of his life:

A man's heart deviseth his way (Proverbs 16:9).

But when the illusion of control is torn away, such as it was in the unfortunate case of Daniele Mastrogiacomo, look what results:

My heart is beating hard. I’m terrified. I ask where they’re taking me. I ask thousands of questions, one after the other. I’m afraid they’re going to kill me. A single shot to the back of the head, my body abandoned in a ditch, eyes blindfolded, hands tied. A lifeless bundle without form, dried blood around the bullet hole. . .It’s over, I say to myself. I find myself praying, my entire life passes before me as if it were film. My children, my wife, my mother, the newspaper, the sea, my sailboat, my father and my siblings. There’s no time, I need to see more. The film is running fast, in black and white, the images pile up, crazed. It’s over, goodbye mad, unpredictable world that I so desperately love and so violently hate. Goodbye to everyone. My hour has come. I raise my eyes, still blindfolded, to the sky and ask for God’s help and His pardon. I ask that He protect my children. I am no longer afraid. I’m ready. Then, suddenly, I feel that they won’t kill me. I’m certain of it. I don’t know why. My instincts tell me so. I want to believe it. Maybe my death is too absurd an eventuality for me to imagine, or perhaps I’m too important for our captors. I know that they won’t do it. Not yet, not now. My legs are trembling as we move left. They make me lower my head and they shove me into the trunk of the Corolla. I squirm. The blindfold slips down over my nose and mouth. I see some light, now, but I can’t breathe. I’m going to die suffocated. I cry out a dozen times, “Please! Please!” I want them to stop, to take the blindfold off me. My breathing is shallower, faster, the blindfold over my nose and mouth begins to grow damp. My mouth and throat are dry. I make a desperate attempt to get hold of a stray piece of fabric with my teeth and pull it off my nose and then my mouth. It is a long, difficult procedure. I try to control my breathing as if I were underwater. I’m convinced I am going to die. I tell myself that it would be a damned stupid way to die, but I also remind myself that many, many hostages have died precisely this way. I am tossed from one side of the trunk to the other as the car drives over particularly rough patches. It is torture. I have been taken prisoner by a group of Taliban. I do not know them, nor do I know their intentions. I’m alone, left completely to my own devices, I have no contact with the outside world, I am obliged to do everything these young soldiers want me to do, to follow orders issued by people far away from here. My death could come in any moment. The thought overwhelms me, it accompanies me faithfully for fifteen days and fifteen nights. Its particulars arrive in waves and with such force that each successive wave takes my breath away. I will have to learn to control my panic attacks in order to maintain a modicum of psychological and physical well-being. My body grows increasingly weak and beleaguered (p. 61 – 62).

Stripped of control, forced to acknowledge his true condition (O LORD, I know that the way of man is not in himself: it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps), that he is a weakling subject to unseen powerful beings, Mastrogiacomo immediately develops what one might call an Existential Bi-Polar Disorder. One moment, death seems certain. . .the next, life.

[Truly, this Existential Bi-Polar Disorder ought to be the true condition of everyone. But the masses, deceived by the lying vanities of the world, overlook the razor-thin tightrope which holds them over the pit of Hell. But they are just as much the hostage of unseen powerful beings as Daniele Mastrogiacomo was there, in that Toyota Corolla, and are just as close to their deaths. . .but the masses are drugged to an almost fugue state by the opiates of the world, the flesh and the devil.]

This extremely detailed case study of Daniele Mastrogiacomo’s Existential Bi-Polar Disorder is the lurid appeal of Days Of Fear. . .the appeal of the horror movie, the thriller, the ultimate in suspense, an insanely monumental and rickety nightmare rollercoaster, a video game, virtual terror. . .the appeal is pure sensation. . .the sensation of dread. This is enough for me to read and recommend the book. It succeeds as a true tale of terror. . .though, in the interests of full disclosure, it must be noted the climax of fear, Mastrogiacomo’s witnessing the beheading of his driver Sayed, is related in a peculiarly emotionally flat manner. On the back cover of the book, there is an excerpt from a L’Espresso review:

It has taken time, two years, for Mastrogiacomo to put what must be said down on paper. He has had to digest his experiences over time in order to render the profound meaning of his ordeal clear.

It must be Mastrogiacomo still has difficulty processing the execution of Sayed. There is the distancing of the severely traumatized in his account of the severing of Sayed’s head:

They push him down into the sandy desert floor. Sayed can’t breathe. Now, they’re on top of him, they turn him over and as they do I see that the knife has already been drawn. One of our jailors holds it in his hand. I can’t see the blade but I see something that cuts into Sayed’s neck. A quick, neat cut. There are no spasms, no moans or cries, nothing. The scene plays out in an icy silence. Then, a hand. One of the Taliban works on Sayed’s neck, front and back. Sayed’s body is inert by now. His head is removed and they lay it on his torso. They clean the knife on his white tunic (p. 136).

One must understand and forgive Mastrogiacomo’s reticence here. It cannot have been easy for him to chronicle his fear, to relive again those frightful fifteen days, and so if he draws back a bit at the most terrifying moment, ita sit. . .

As I said, Days Of Fear succeeds as a true tale of terror, and for me, this is sufficient. But the book is also being marketed as giving Westerners a close-up look at the Taliban. One of the back jacket blurbs:

Mastrogiacomo draws from this experience not only a hostage’s tale of captivity, but also a story that lies at the heart of the eternal human drama: that of man’s encounter with the Other.

And, ironically, Mastrogiacomo is challenged at the moment he is freed by the man he came to interview, Mullah Dadullah:

In the end, you have obtained much more than an interview. You have seen how we live and how we think. Do you think yourself capable of telling the truth about us? You journalists never do. You owe your life to our Supreme Commander. It was Mullah Mohammed Omar himself who suspended your death sentence. He decided not to have your head cut off (p. 154).

Here Mastrogiacomo fails. He tells the reader nothing but a few banal observations of the day-to-day activities of the various low-level teen and twenty-something Taliban who guard him.

Mastrogiacomo was never capable of connecting with the Other. He could not speak their language, nor did he know their country. He was dependent upon for-hire Others to guide and interpret for him. Like most Western journalists, Mastrogiacomo was nothing but a war gawker, hoping to fly into Afghanistan from Rome to get an interview with which to pad his resumé, and then quickly fly back home. In the end, Mastrogiacomo was the moth who flew too close to the flame. . .he was burned without ever understanding the fire.

In covering the Other, what the West calls *firsthand reports* are nothing more than the glimpses of journalistic Peeping Toms. . .they no more understand the Other than the spying masturbator understands the woman he sees through a bedroom window. This is not to belittle Mastrogiacomo or Days Of Fear, but only to disclose that readers will gain no understanding of the Taliban Other. If readers are not interested in a real life Edgar Allan Poe tale, then don’t bother with this book.

[We judge Mastrogiacomo a carnal creature, and not a joint-heir with Christ, because even though he occasionally mentions *God* in his narrative, he never identifies God, and never mentions the Lord Jesus Christ. On the text’s evidence, we therefore conclude Mastrogiacomo’s *God* is the generic god of the modern scientific and technological man, in Mastrogiacomo’s particular case, the baby-boomer scientific and technological man, whose god is nothing but a vestigial remnant of parents’ faith—a mere rosary, a mere rabbit’s foot, a mere talisman to ward off anxiety when 20mg of Prozac are not available.]

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Something To Be Thankful For On Thankstaking

On the Thankstaking holiday, I took my kids to the National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI) in Washington, D.C. Since America is built on the robbery, mass murder and displacement of the native population, then what better place to celebrate the day Americans give thanks for all they took from the Indians?

I expected the NMAI to be a downbeat, solemn place, an American Holocaust museum—but it was surprisingly cheerful. If there was one single exhibit which captured the native’s curious good cheer, it was this odd example of Indian adaptation:
The beaded Apache cell phone case: the red man’s craft in service of the white man’s technological wizardry. . .a game attempt to keep native tradition alive in the occupier’s culture.

Of course, the reservations do not reflect the same degree of cheer. They are forlorn bantustans of alcoholism and depression [one could make the case the reservations exhibit a more advanced stage of the disease known as Americanism]. But from the small window available to peer into reservation life, one does not get the impression the natives have sacralized their suffering to the degree of the Judaics, who have made their holocaust an object of worship and a means of redemption, sanctification and justification. One senses in the natives a stoic acceptance of their bitter lot in life. . .it is as if they had collectively internalized the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . .

I would speculate, without being able to offer any supporting field data, the natives’ much more benign processing of their holocaust is due to their beliefs in a *Higher Power* and an *after-life.*

And, paradoxically, the Indians’ faith in a *Higher Power* and an *after-life* may have been reinforced and refined by the beliefs of their victimizers. As a brutal, bloody and extreme example of the kind of *preaching* observed in the following case by the imprisoned Apostle Paul, it could be argued the insincere Christianity of the white invaders did, indeed, deepen the natives’ faith in a *Higher Power* and an *after-life:*

Some indeed preach Christ even of envy and strife; and some also of good will: The one preach Christ of contention, not sincerely, supposing to add affliction to my bonds: But the other of love, knowing that I am set for the defence of the gospel. What then? notwithstanding, every way, whether in pretence, or in truth, Christ is preached; and I therein do rejoice, yea, and will rejoice. . .

Therefore, one could reasonably argue the defeated natives found the white God, Jesus, more powerful than their gods, and thus many from the vanquished tribes *accepted* Christian conversion. . .if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em:
As my kids and I were examining the collection of Indian bibles, we discussed the rather inelegant introduction of the gospel into the Americas.

God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets, Hath in these last days spoken unto us by His Son, whom He hath appointed heir of all things, by whom also He made the worlds. . .

For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!

So God has always used men and women to deliver the gospel, and given the imperfection of what is called *human nature,* we cannot be surprised, as we survey the history of the gospel, from Eden until our present day, that it is sometimes preached on a trail of tears. . .

And as we must believe God Almighty was able to implant the genuine faith of Christ into at least some number of those natives who *accepted* their conquerors Christianity, we also must, as my kids and I were at the NMAI on Thankstaking, be thankful God was able to salvage some eternal good from the white invaders’ wickedness.

[Additionally, I would hazard to guess those natives who truly receive the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, having been torn from their terrestrial homes by white *manifest destiny,* are less subject to the temptation of the devil’s nationalism, and have a deeper awareness of their true status as pilgrims and strangers (Hebrews 11:13), without citizenship here (Philippians 3:20), and are therefore more inclined to set their eyes on things above (Colossians 3:2). May the peace of God which passes all understanding keep them until the Day of the Lord.]

American War Criminals Pout And Blame Their Religion

Boston Review, November/December 2009, God, the Army, and PTSD
‘In a 2004 study of approximately 1,400 Vietnam veterans, almost 90 percent Christian, researchers at Yale found that nearly one-third said the war had shaken their faith in God and that their religion no longer provided comfort for them.’

The article linked above says the same trend is now evident in veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. . their ‘faith’ is shaken and their ‘religion’ provides no comfort.

That’s right, THEIR religion CANNOT provide comfort. For THEIR religion is NOT Christianity. These soldiers could NOT have been Christians and participated in these Satanic wars. THEIR religion was CHRISTO-AMERICANISM, which is nothing but a Satanic brew of idolatrous Nationalism flavored with a drop or two of Rick Warren Christianity (read the article for the laughable details).

IN HISTORIC CHRISTIANITY (pre-Constantine) Christians REFUSED to join the military, and those in the military who converted were told NOT TO KILL, to PRAY FOR FORGVINESS FOR PAST ACTS OF VIOLENCE, and to SEEK RELEASE FROM THE MILITARY.

One soldier is quoted in the article:

I couldn’t stand to hear that phrase any longer—‘God was watching over me.’ He wasn’t watching over the good men I knew in Iraq. Faith was the center of my life yet it failed to explain why I came home and those soldiers did not. The phrase was a Christian nicety, a cliché that when put to the test didn’t fit reality.

Sorry, the reality is this soldier was NEVER a Christian. This fellow wanted God to put a shield around him and the other ‘good’ men killing in a Satanic war? This fellow talks about his Christianity not fitting when put to the test. HE TOOK THE WRONG GOD DAMNED TEST.

Then the devil taketh Him up into the holy city, and setteth Him on a pinnacle of the temple, And saith unto Him, If Thou be the Son of God, cast Thyself down: for it is written, He shall give His angels charge concerning Thee: and in their hands they shall bear Thee up, lest at any time Thou dash thy foot against a stone. Jesus said unto him, It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.

The test is not ‘can Christianity fit war?,’ but ‘can war fit Christianity?’

Anybody not cursed by Satanic stupidity should be able to read the Sermon on the Mount and understand that Christianity has no place for war. IT IS AS SIMPLE AS THAT.

WHAT THE GOD DAMNED HELL? DON’T COME WHINING HOME AFTER VOLUNTEERING TO GO KILL FOR THE FLAG BECAUSE JESUS DIDN’T SPRINKLE MAGIC DUST OVER YOU AND ERASE ALL CONSEQUENCE OF THE ATROCITIES YOU CONTRIBUTED TO. These soldiers used some perverted form of the gospel, some Satanic Christo-Americanism to justify their war, and now they pout when their pervert religion fails them.

Well, God may still deliver the true gospel to some of them, and then they will understand the reality: everything they believed in was wrong, they served Satan, they sinned, and only the Blood of the Lamb can cleanse them.