The pope fueling the fire of judgment

Seeing as the past few posts have been largely on themes of eschatology, I would love to report on the latest "next step to Armageddon." And no, my Southern Baptist readers, I'm not talking about the gays. Sorry to disappoint.

Martin Luther once said that Mohammed -- commonly known as the Antichrist in most 16th century theological circles -- was actually not nearly evil enough to qualify for such an admittedly prestigious title. He bumped Mohammed down to second place, in favor of his own favorite candidate for that exotic title "Whore of Babylon," Pope Julius II.

Well I don't really feel qualified to rule in either the Pope or Mohammed's favor for this contest of unChristian infamy. But when the two are at loggerheads, we know things are bound to get pretty spicy. And apparently that is the state of affairs today.

Pope Benedict, while visiting his fatherland Germany, that bastion of Aryan purity, delivered a lovely academic piece to his pale-faced flock on the theme of Faith and Reason. You see, he's really wanting to reach out to those skeptical nihilists of the post-War West. So, naturally, he decided to give a little history lesson on the origin of all those silly syllogisms that agnostic Europeans throw around now-a-days. He wanted to show them that they owe their Western philosophical systems to Christian intellectuals of the past.

Sounds fair enough, especially when we hear that in the middle of his speech, the Pope decided to quote a medieval emperor who, writing to a Persian intellectual in the 14th century, wrote:

"Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as the command to spread by the sword the faith he preached."

Now if that quote does not relate to the problem of Secularism in Western Europe, I don't know what does.

For some strange reason, however, this quote managed to piss off the entire Muslim world (except, I hear, certain British Muslim enclaves, but they're about as Muslim as most Western Europeans are Christian, so they don't count).

Benedict's fall guy, the predictably Italian Legate Lombardi, tried to explain that the pope wasn't talking about Muslims. Obviously he was talking about the faithless malaise in Europe. He was trying to show Europeans that violent fanaticism does not necessarily have to go hand in hand with Christian faith (thus the quote served the same purpose that an "ahem...unlike other religions we know, wink, wink" would have). Even still my dear readers, in the pope's defense, do you not see that provoking the Islamic civilization is really the only way we can keep ours from falling apart?

'"Clearly the pope is concerned about the fact that some people act in a violent way claming that God is behind their actions," says British author Gerard O'Connell, a veteran Vatican watcher based in Rome.' http://www.rferl.org/featuresarticle/2006/09/fcc5cfec-7f18-4774-9937-4364656c80d1.html

Well the Muslims were furious that the pope would imply that their faith was violent and inhuman. So, of course, we've seen all over the Muslim world attempts to prove the pope's disparaging statements wrong. Apparently Palestinian Muslims have set fire to five Christian churches, a Pakistani imam has commanded all of Pakistan to pray that Allah will force the pope to apologize, and groups in Iraq have threatened to suicide bomb the Vatican because of its insensitivity (but let's be honest, who haven't Iraqi insurgents threatened to suicide bomb? I'm pretty sure my grandma's on the list). Way to go Islam! No one can lay on the charm like you guys. When can I convert? (Seriously, I don't want to end up on the list like Grandma)

Now the Mujahadeen Army has allegedly addressed their suicide note to "you dog of Rome" which I object to. . Personally, I feel like they should have been a little more sensitive to the Christian faith, and hailed him as "you whore of Babylon." But that just goes to show you that until their is a common vocabulary between Christianity and Islam, we will never be able to send hateful messages to eachother in a language we all can agree upon.

Now don't think I'm letting Benedict off the hook either. He shouldn't have quoted some long dead Christian emperor to disparage Muslims. Come! On! What are you thinking? We're talking about an entire faith here. We're talking about the 21st century here. Could you perhaps show a little more sensitivity and quote the unadulterated word of Allah maybe?

Here's a fun quote I found from the Qu'ran:

9:5: "Then, when the sacred months have passed, slay the idolaters wherever ye find them, and take them (captive), and besiege them, and prepare for them each ambush. But if they repent and establish worship and pay the poor-due, then leave their way free. Lo! Allah is Forgiving, Merciful."

Oh and this one's good:

9:29: "Fight against such of those who have been given the Scripture as believe not in Allah nor the Last Day, and forbid not that which Allah hath forbidden by His messenger, and follow not the Religion of Truth, until they pay the tribute [jizya tax] readily, being brought low."

And as for those infidels who talk ill of Islam, here's a money line from the Hadith [official orthodox commentary on the Koran]:

"As for those who cannot offer resistance or cannot fight, such as women, children, monks, old people, the blind, handicapped and their likes, they shall not be killed unless they actually fight with words [e.g. by propaganda] and acts [by spying or otherwise assisting in the warfare]. Some jurists are of the opinion that all of them may be killed, on the mere ground that they are unbelievers, but they make an exception for women and children since they constitute property for Muslims."

Sorry ladies, when I'm gone and martyred you're going to be livestock for your Muslim conquerors.

There is a silver lining to this cloud though. Christians and Muslims both agree that there will be an Apocalypse. So when we decide that it's time for final judgment, we'll all be invoking the same destruction of the "four horsemen" (or as the Koran would have it "the lurid dance of the lasciviously unveiled five" aka Jackson 5 aka Flaming Five).

Now it's time to play the waiting game. If Benedict apologizes then angry Muslim extremists win and Mohammed's back on top as my Antichrist. But if he refuses and a Muhajadeen fanatic suicide bombs the Vatican, well then sorry Benedict, but it looks like Mohammed wins. Wait...Well, when the trumpets blare and the Judgment comes, it looks like Martin Luther's going to be eating crow for his bad call.

The New SAS Student Worker, Pt. I

“Records and Registration, this is Satan.”
“OH MY GOD!!!”
click

“Records and Registration, this is Satan.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Satan.”
“Oh, hi Sara. Is this the number I call to order a transcript?”
“Yes.” fuming, literally. Smoke, sulfer, fire, the works.
“Ok great. I need to have a copy sent to me at my home address, two official copies sent to my school district, a copy sent to my grandma in Uzbekistan, can you do that? and I need on faxed to my psychiatrist, too.”
“We actually need your request in writing before—“
“WHAT!! The hoops you people make me jump though. The HOOPS!”
“Hey I don’t make up the rules, lady. It’s a federal law.”
sigh “Ok fiiiiine. What do I have to do to get my transcript.”
“Well you can make the request in perso—“
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? I LIVE IN MARYLAND HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT???!!???”
unfazed “—or you can mail or fax us the request.”
“OKFINEI’LLFAXTHEDAMNREQUEST!!!”
“Do you need the fax number?”
“What do you think?”
“Alright, it’s area-code 666, 281-gotohellyoubitch! MUAH HAHAHAHAHA…”
CLICK
The name is SATAN.

“Records and Registration, this is Satan.”
“Hi Susan can you transfer me to the School of Ed?”
“Sure.”
“Ok thanks.”
pause
“You said you were going to transfer me?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did...”
“No, I said I could.”
“Oh.”
pause
“Well, can you please transfer me there?”
“Sure one moment please.”
“OHMYGODOHMYGOD WHAT’S HAPPENING??!!!”
“Just hang tight. You should appear, chopped up into several different pieces, in their office shortly. What they decide to do with you is not my problem, but my guess is that you won't be needing your teaching certificate anymore. Have a great day.”
click

“Records and Registration, this is Satan.”
“Ummm… HI! How are you?”
“Oh, well, I could be better I guess. My job satisfaction is waning, this office is hotter than hell, and be-lieve me I know…”
“OH HEE HEE!! Jesus loves you!”
“Anyways, what can I do for you?”
“Ummm… what? hehe?”
“Did you have a question? Do you need help with something?”
“What?”
“This is the Office of Records and Registration. Why did you call.”
“OOOHHH!! I remember NOW!!”
“Shoot.”
“Um so when I registered last week for classes, it gave me this message like ‘you can’t register’ or something, and only one of my classes worked, and the other two I put the little number thingies in the little box thingies and pushed the button or whatever but like when I look at the thingie that tells you like where you classes are and what time they are the other ones don’t show up! And class doesn’t start for like a whole ‘nother week! and I really really really need these classes to graduate! and I’m a super senior (you know like it’s my fifth year?)so shouldn’t I just get into whatever automatically???”
Lights flicker, the earth shakes faintly, then a resounding clap of thunder is heard. An infant, suckling at his mother's breast, refuses the teet and lets out a plaintve wail.
Satan cracks a faint smile, starts humming, and then succumbs to his utter joy and breaks into song, “duh duh duh, another one bites the dust, and anther one down and another one down, another one bites the dust, hey, we’re gonna get you too, another bites the dust! Damn that felt good! BOO-ya!”

Signs of the Apocalypse: Sign the 1st

As we all know, the apocalypse is nearing. It's not a question of if it's coming or even when it's coming, but of who gets into the heavenly VIP room with such greats as Martin Luther, Mother Teresa, and Strom Thurman.

With that in mind, I bring you Sign the First that the apocalypse is nigh:

Mathmatical Incompetence.

I was renting a U-haul the other day to prepare for my move to heaven (remember, it's nigh, and I gots a-heaven-of-a-lot of material possesions that I plan on bringing) when I overheard the following conversation, which is paraphrased in order to protect the innocent - and my crappy memory:

Customer: "What's bigger: the 6x12 trailer or the 14 foot truck?"
Employee: "I don't know. Let me check."

Needless to say, I pulled my spleen from trying to hold in a vicious laugh that would've certainly kept me off God's VIP list, or at least forced Him to take away my heavenly U-haul privileges.

This, coupled with the recent news that half of all Washington State WASL testers can't pass the math section of the exam, creates a two-headed hellhound of shameful arithmetical ignorance in this country. I call it "Spot." But I don't feed Spot, because I want that ignorant beast to die.

Unfortunately, it's looking more and more like Spot will visit us soon. The mark of this beast will be spread around the world, and it will look something like this:

12>14?

Girls I Haven't Known

Straight from a leisurely day at a coffee shop in Bath, and by popular demand (meaning Sara casually mentioned it), I bring you: what would happen if I dated the following random single girls from British Isles Quarter:

Janelle: This particular relationship would end when Janelle realized that she'd been mistaking Dylan for her Chia Pet. The split would also mark the end of Dylan receiving free weekly haircuts.

Jyl: This relationship would hit the skids upon Dylan attempting to claim the new Guinness record for world's longest fingernails. After a forceful attempt to trim Dylan's fingernails, armed with a pair of hedge clippers, Jyl breaks off the relationship, allowing time for her emotional and physical fingernail scratch wounds to heal.

Anna: After 20 years of marriage, Dylan becomes deaf to the unique and particular pitch of Anna's laugh. Thinking she no longer finds him to be humorous, Dylan releases his pent up resentment on their Bull Terrier, Footy, by kicking him in the hindquarters and telling the poor, ignorant animal that he should blame Anna for naming him Footy, thereby giving Dylan the idea to kick him in the first place. Anna, being oblivious and trusting by nature, assumes that Footy's bladder problems have resumed and Dylan is merely disciplining the animal. The next day, she calls the vet to get a prescription for Footy. Dylan overhears Anna ordering the medication, but what Dylan fails to hear is Anna laughing after joking with the vet that her husband "has a terrible problem down there." Thinking that Anna is referring to his unfortunate erectile dysfunction, and is finally willing to order a prescription to alleviate the problem, Dylan waits anxiously for the prescription to come. Upon its arrival, he immediately takes a pill and waits for Anna to arrive home from her book club. Anna returns exhausted from discussing Mrs. Dalloway to find her husband willing, but very unable to perform. Humiliated, Dylan runs out of the bedroom, slips on a puddle of urine and dies from massive brain hemorrhaging. Anna grieves while taking consolation in Footy, doting over him and curing him of the bladder problem that killed her husband, and was ironically caused by repeated concussive blows to the ass.

Obviously, England was taking its toll on me by this point.

My own little piece of transcedence

Yoshi, your post confuses me. Is this some sort of riff on TS Eliot, Jack Kerouac, or Nietzsche, or is this your own unique brand of insanity?

Whatever it is, it seems mystical, and I feel this precedent you've set has given me permission to share my own little piece of transcendence with you all. I hope it's pretentious enough for everyone, though it's not intended to be at all.

You see, this past July, I took a two week vacation from work and, well, everything productive for that matter. I spent most of my days laying in front of a box fan, eating fast melting popsicles while occasionally glancing at an enormous pile of books I was half-heartedly trying to read. The reading list included -- but was not limited to --- Albert Camus' "Le Mythe de Sisyphe," Lucretius' "De Rerum Natura," and the Marquis de Sade's "Aline et Valcour." While laying there in a pile of popsicle sticks and wrappers, lapping up the last drops of my firecracker and reflecting on these dissipated philosophes of yesterday, it hit me. I don't know if it was the sugar overload or the bleak outlooks of those gritty metaphysical adventurers whose words I was reading, but my mind was cast into the abstract realm of ideas...I was rapt as if in a vision.

There I was, accompaned by Jesus Christ in the desert. We walked together in the lonely void, when suddenly appeared the tempter. He was a scholar and it was clear that he had dwelt longer in this desert than either Jesus or me. The absurdity of the world had crushed the man's spirit, for what man could affirm a world that offers up a stone to the famished when they are in dire need of bread? When we approached, the tempter's jaundiced eyes lit up with fury. At last, the one he had long awaited -- longer than even his sharp memory could recall -- at last the Son of Man had appeared. But how surprised I was to see this cold man's face transformed in the presence of Jesus. It was as if one last colossal effort of the will was summoning up hope in this disillusioned man's heart. Tentatively he held out the his hands to his Lord. At first meekly, but with more assurance as he spoke, he declared, "If you are the Son of God, command these stones to be loaves of bread!"

I waited in the stillness. At first I wondered if Jesus would answer at all. I could tell that Jesus knew his tempter well. I think they may have been old friends, and there was certainly love in my companion's eyes. I almost willed Christ to consent because I knew that the scholar, whose clerical robes were torn and tattered, I knew his very life was dependent upon it.

Jesus broke the silence. "My brother, do you not see? You have been dwelling in a land of abundance, if you would only have it." Jesus then picked up the sand, stones, and scorpions nearby and handed them to his friend. "Are these not sufficient?"

The academic was dumbfounded. He was struck by the insanity of the question. He saw the absurdity of the world. Once again, he, a child of the world, sought bread and was given a stone from his father. The scholar shook his head and looked at the ground to veil his reaction. His body shook under his once dignified robes, veritable sack cloth. I couldn't tell if he was laughing or sobbing. Jesus' face betrayed no emotion. And with a firm voice of finality, "Is it not written that Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God?" Signalling to me, Jesus and I left the desert...

My dream continued in its wendings through my subconscious, but I think this is enough for you guys to get the gist. Needless to say I woke up from my glucose-induced stupor with a pulsating headache.

But most of all, upon awakening, I felt a most intense inclination not to share my dream with others. I felt as my great namesake Nick Bottom did after his premature arousal from sacred slumber. For I too have

had a most rare
vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to
say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go
about to expound this dream. Methought I was--there
is no man can tell what. Methought I was,--and
methought I had,--but man is but a patched fool, if
he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye
of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not
seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue
to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream
was.

On the Pale Mutterer

-- "Ah! he is a philosopher! I ought to save his soul from floating into the land of the forms; alas, he is becoming an afterwordly! ...Ah! What is that? You believe in introspection do you?' Alas, she is becoming a retrospective wastebasket!... Who sings? I hear the grinding of instruments! A poet actor is drowning!"

-- "Bad air! Bad air! Bad air!: I smell the stench of dry, moldy prose!"

--"Plug your nose! Do you hear any words?"

--"Noise! Noise! Noise! I hear the squeals and shrills of their words--these logomachists!"

--"Can you make out what they're saying?"

--"No! Go on!"

--"These logomachists, these mutterers, these grinders of mistuned intruments, these delighters of noise are saying noth--"

-- "Enough! Enough!"

--"Wait! Open your nose again! Ah! Ambrosia! Where is that fragrance seeping from?"

--"A messager! An informer!"

The Oprah Haikus

On weekdays at 4
You appear with shiny hair
to give out free stuff

Why do you do this?
Cars, slippers, psychology
spring forth from your hands

Oh lover of poor
Oh lover of fine chocolate
always wear nice shoes

Even whipped husbands
stand up, cheer, sing your praises
But they are still whipped

the balding guru
god of the dysfunctional
Dr. Phil, your bitch

Can I have free stuff?
I want a new car lady
How do I get it?

An Open Letter to the Sarahs of the World:

Dear Everyone-named-Sarah:

You are ruining my life. Because of you, I have no identity. I feel incomplete, unheard, unappreciated, invisible. No one takes the time to ask me how my name is spelled, unless it is one mousy Starbucks barista who also suffers the indignity of being named Sara (no "h", NO "H"!!)

Why do YOU think YOU are better? Why does that one measly consonant at the end of your name give YOU the right to be more common, more popular, more correctly spelled? I have not yet met a one of you who doesn't think your name is so far superior to mine. Usually these sentiments of superiority are veiled in quiet contempt or sheer pity, neither of which are very much appreciated by me.

It is high time I took a stance on the issue and began promoting Sara-wareness. Unlike all you Hebraic Sarahs, steeped in Biblical history, running around flaunting your five-letteredness like a thing you flaunt while you run, the New Sara is demure, French in origin, desirable, and, most importantly, phonetically succinct.

We need to come together! We need to stand strong! No longer will our names be defaultedly incorrect. No longer will we silently bear the discrimination! The indignity! The SHAME!

And even if it is years before our sad state is finally recognized, at least we can be assured, as we always have been, that we are the ones with the correctly spelled name.

I'm outie.

Conspiracy Alert: Alternate Facts

Disclaimer: The following is a paranoid, conspiracy-theory laden look at the world through the eyes of a moderate who's too afraid to talk about how he really feels lest he be stoned by extremists. Enjoy.

I feel I may have been a bit hasty in my earlier conspiracy theory about XL T-shirts in my earlier post: "Conspiracy Alert: Expanding the Fast Food Market."

I didn’t even stop to consider an alternate theory, for if my first theory is proved wrong then surely the this one will be, nay, must be correct.

Perhaps it's not the Fast Food Industry whose at fault after all, but those conniving sewing-machine jockeys in 3^rd world Asia. Perhaps they are producing XL shirts by their own impetus to mock our girth.

If this is the case, we can’t allow them to link our proud national bulk with apple pie as an accurate way to describe what we are “as American as….”

Shut up. That makes perfect sense.

As a deterrent, I propose we give our sweat shop employees a pay cut to say... 9/10 of a cent a day. A preemptive strike would've been ideal, but some people want “proof” and “evidence” before action. These people are Communists. Or hippies.

I know, I know, it's not that big of a pay cut – heck it may even be a raise – but it's the message that's important. Besides, these people have to have enough money to eat three square meals a month so that they will have the strength to make my new Air Jordans in time for Christmas.

I gots to have my sneaks.

But that's not the only benefit of my 9/10^{th of a cent} Proposal. The ala mode on this Pac-rim pie comes from within our own impenetrable borders: that fraction of a cent is a clear shot at Big Oil, deflecting some excess mockery in their direction.

I mean, come on, 9/10 of a cent? Do you think I even care? Bring it on Big Oil, it doesn’t even cost me triple digit$ to fill up my gas tank... yet.