Thoughtless for the Day

In the comments section of yesterday's post, my good friend Doc (whom I still have to thank for the wonderful "Exporting Jobs = Treason" t-shirt he gave me) posted the following excellent question:

Hmmm, wonder where the 'finger' comes from?

"The Finger" is, of course, a representation of the phallus (although a much, much smaller representation in my case). Since it's nearly impossible to determine which ancient civilization first flipped the bird we're going to attribute the invention of the semi-international symbol for "fuck you, Charlie" to the Greeks simply because, over 2,500 years ago, Aristophanes referenced The Finger in his play Clouds

The Romans not only picked up the practice of giving The Finger from the Greeks, but they also dubbed the middle finger the "digitus impudicus" (indecent finger). In fact "the Philly Salute" even turns up in Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars in a episode wherein August exiled a performer for treating the audience to "an obscene movement of his middle finger."

So, remember, the next time you're flipping off that that sploodgerag who cut in front of you without even signaling, you're helping to carry on a proud tradition of the Classical World! And if there's one thing we here at RATYHTL are all about, it's tradition.

Phun Phact: In 1995 Jimmie Wayne Jeffers was executed by lethal injection for the 1976 killing his ex-girlfriend. As he as he was being strapped to the table he presented his middle finger to the warden. According to some witnesses, Jeffers finger remained raised as he expired.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 07:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The peace symbol IS divisive and political. But that's not really peace's fault, is it? That blame can be laid squarely at the feet of a string of low-quality shit wars, started for cynical reasons and executed with such grand incompetence that they require constant politicization to keep running. You politicize war, and you must by extension politicize peace.

-That guy over at You Are Dumb

Under normal circumstances, I try to avoid commenting on any topic that the majority of other blogs have seized upon. They way I see it is if I stay off their turf then they won't invest in tiny plastic Roman soldiers. Today, I'm going to make an exception to this rule.

Currently, the World Wide Internets are abuzz with the tale of Bob Kearns (AKA "The Alton Verm for late November") a simple man and president of the Loma Linda Homeowners Association who stood firm in his conviction of the Satanic origins of the Peace Symbol. The thing that really piqued my interest in this story (apart from the obvious joy of mocking Mr. Kearns) was that none of the media which covered it bothered to look into the actually history of Peace Symbol. For all the casual reader might know, Bob Kearns, although obviously retarded, might be correct and the "Footprint of the American chicken" may have originally started off as the uber-cool anti-Christian Nero cross.(Great crazy rant link!)

Sadly, the real history of the Peace Symbol is pretty damn dull. It was designed for the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1958 by Gerald Holtom (who, to my knowledge never attended a single Satanic Mass: wimp.) and incorporates the Semaphore code for N and D (for "Nuclear Disarmament" and not for "Nicodemus Diablo")

Further Proof that I am PZ Meyers' Bitch

PZ asked for his readers to link to this post as an experiment.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 06:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Last week my car's fuel pump decided my life had become rather routine so, in order to liven things up a bit, it sprayed gas all over my sparkplugs essentially transforming my 1989 Geo Spectrum into a sort of rolling bomb. Being in no way desirous of joining the Green Party's Martyrs Brigade, I dropped my car off at a garage in Wilmington and caught a ride home with a friend.

On the way into Philly we decided to amuse ourselves by listening to one of the greatest comedy programs ever to grace the airwaves: The Sean Hannity Show. Now, if you regularly listen to NPR, the first thing you'll notice about Sean's callers is that none of them are what you or I might call "experts". By which I mean that no one who called in on the wide breadth of topics - ranging from abortion to ...well, abortion - professed to have a PhD or, for that matter, to have even read a book. That right there should ring some bells: a whole fuckin' belfry's worth. Oddly, practically every caller began by saying "I'm not some college educated 'ekspurt'" as if having an education and some degree of expertise were tantamount to having clumps of shit on your lapels. Personally, if it were my radio show I'd have the person who screens the calls handle this dorkholes thusly: "Oh, you're not an expert in today's topic; in fact you're not very knowledge on any subject whatsoever? Please have a seat in our Green Room where you may enjoy a complimentary piping hot bowl of SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

While Sean's callers decried any pretense to expertise they all proudly claimed to "simple folk" as in "Sean, I may not have a lot of whatcha might cawl book-learning: in fact, I'm juz a simple, honest farmer/housewife/trucker/roadkill gourmet." Who the fuck takes pride in being "simple"? I don't know about you but I like to think of myself as "complex". Shit Luther, I'm so complex that it's contagious. My mother used to always say "Cut it the Hell out! You're giving me a complex!"

I know I've mentioned this before but I'm one of the few Leftists who'll admit to having an intense dislike for The Common Man: and being a Leftist who can't abide the Working Class is like being a Libertarian who has never jerked off to Atlas Shrugged. Recently I've concluded that we on the Left should embrace the term "Liberal Elite" as a way of saying to the Common Man, "Look, we're willing to help, but only because transforming you from a bunch of semi-literate, homophobic, racist, uncouth louts makes our lives easier in the long run. On an individual level you folks might be decent, hardworking simple folk, but when you get together you tend to royally fuck things up." You see, it's not people that I have a problem with, so much as humanity as a whole.

I was never a huge fan of Star Trek (although many Trekkies are, indeed, grossly overweight) but I'm sure-as-shittin' that there are at least sixty-four episodes in which some aliens with wrinkly foreheads put the whole of humanity on trial. These exciting meditations on the nature of our race always ended with mankind beating the wrap because Kirk cries and asks Spock for a hug, or blows a Romulin, or some goofy shit like that. "Sure," the aliens conclude "these Earthlings are capable of countless acts of genocide but as long as one of them weeps like a baby at the end of Brian's Song, they can't be entirely bad. Now, tell me of this Earth 'kiss'."

Whenever I've brought up the idea of placing humanity on trial at parties (which might explain why I don't get invited to them anymore) some closet-hippie always counters with something like "Yes, but what about men like Gandhi, Martin Luther king Jr., and Joey Greco, host of TV's Cheaters?" That's exactly my point! If the overwhelming majority of humans weren't ignorant, violent assholes then men like Gandhi, MLK, anf Joey G. would've been free to follow vocations that didn't involved telling large segments of the population to pull their heads out of their asses. And they wouldn't have had to deal with the inconvenience of being shot or stabbed either.

If I were to be the lead prosecutor in the case of Sanity vs. Humanity, I would present one piece of evidence and then rest my case. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you Exhibit A:

During the Crusades (which I'm sure were already entered into evidence on Star Trek), a group of religious pilgrims/homicidal maniacs set off from the Rhine valley destined for the Holy Land. Their leader: a goose they believed to be divinely inspired.

How they came to believe that the all-seeing, all-knowing creator of the universe had decided to manifest Himself in the form of a goose is irrelevant. The point is that a group of people actually believed it. If it happened once, it could happen one it could happen again.

Now the defense would have you believe that these simple folk eventually came to their senses and gave up following the Holy Goose. And they indeed did - sort of. Eventually the goose-steppers fell in line behind Emich of Leisingen: a man uniquely qualified to lead an army - he claimed that a cross had appeared his chest. No, not on the outside of his clothes: on his skin. In retrospect, they should've stuck with the goose. Under Emich's "leadership" the pilgrims decided to warm up for the slaughter of the Infidel abroad by killing as many Jews in Germany as they could find.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury; the prosecution rests.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 06:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Sorry I haven't been posting as much as I should. I've been busy pounding out a few magazine articles (my piece for the Journal of the American Medical Association on the therapeutic applications of "Dutch Rubs", "Indian Burns", and "Titty Twisters" in the treatment of terminal Gaywads should be published any day now.). Look for a fairly long post soon.

One of things that keeps me busy, especially now that that its word count has been bumped from 325 to 370 is Aid or Invade, the latest incarnation of which has just been posted.

I know that many of you have come to doubt my claim that each month I push the envelope on Aid or Invade a little further I have but one word: Israel.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 01:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Trent Lott is back. That may seem like an odd way to kick off the SEX post but it actually makes perfect sense: If a man like Trent Lott can be restored to a position of power after saying that America would be a far better place had Strom "I've got white hood and a black daughter" Thurmond been elected president in 1948, then we are all fucked.

The only possibly positive thing that can be said about the state of our nation had Strom Thurmond been elected President in 1948 is that Nicole Simpson might still be alive today. Which brings us to my latest source of inspiration: The Juice.

As you may or may not know (or care), OJ Simpson has penned a new book titled If I Did It in which he speculates on the methods he might have used to dispatch his wife and LA's only straight waiter, you know if he had actually killed them instead being at home that night polishing his collection of hunting knives.

Anyhoo, OJ book gave me an idea for one of my own. Back I my single Dead Milkmen days odd rumors floated about like oil slicks in the wake of a Liberian tanker that a few of the women I dated were famous: and not just robbing a string of Kroegers in southwest Ohio. Until now (or, to be more accurate "until now that the statute of limitations has run out") I never wrote much any of the women I dated before I met my wife. After all, where's the fun in reading about a messy breakup triggered by too many Pabst Blue Ribbons and a hasty decision to raise lamas. That's why I've decided to follow OJ lead and write a book speculating on what might have gone on between myself and several famous women had I actually dated them. The book will be called If I Did Her. Here's a sample chapter:

Lisa "Blair" Whelchel

All I can say is that I must've gotten really wasted in order to keep my dinner down long enough to tap into that walrus-like action. If memory severs, I met Blair outside a bowling alley just outside of Trenton. This was in the early nineties and Blair was down on her luck and traveling around the country as part of something called "Bowling with the Stars" which would late become The Vagina Monologues. Long-story-short: After I vigorously sprayed Blair's nether regions with Rid-X we ducked into a nearby Port-O-Potty where we played "Fill the Brownies" and "Swallow the Tabasco".

What is this woman talking about? Didn't she see the personal ad that clearly stated "No fisting on the fist date"? Lady, if the CP were reputable, decent and sophisticated, they'd never let me write for them.

And now the sexy sounds of Sondra Pill...

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 11:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Starting a few months ago, and then appearing more frequently over the last several weeks, I'd begun to notice a spate of news items about the possibility that early homo sapiens and Neanderthals interbred: Here's one. Here's another. And yet another. Oh, here's another one.

Apparently, someone found ancient skeletal remains which seem to have both human and Neanderthal characteristics. Initially I didn't give these stories much credence. Anybody who's ever seen the trailer for Jesus Camp or ten minutes of Cheaters can tell you that anecdotal evidence for human/Neanderthal interbreed abounds like meth-fueled kangaroos. But without actual DNA evidence, such claims are only so much horseshit and gun smoke. Would you point to someone with webbed toes as evidence that humans interbred with water waterfowl?

Then, last week, possible DNA evidence came to light hinting at actual species mixing. The fact that this evidence has appeared only a few short months after I sent my DNA off to the Genographic Project for analysis has implications too disturbing to be discussed at present.

Anyway, all this talk about humans and Neanderthals getting it on prompted some lonely individual to ask the Explainer at Slate about the kind of love that draw the line at primates. The article itself wasn't that fascinating; however, there was once sentence that stood out among all of the others:

In the 1920s, Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin sent an animal-breeding expert to Africa in hopes of creating an army of half-man, half-monkey soldiers.

The fuck you say! Seriously, Stalin actually pursued the idea of taking the term guerilla forces to new heights. You can read all about it here.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 07:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's rock!

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 03:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You really have to ask yourself, "Santorum was behind in the polls by something like twelve fuckin' points, why didn't he prepare his children for the possibility that he might lose?" Did they thing that Jesus was going to rush in at the last minute and turn a couple of loaves of Wonderbread into a million votes? Did Rick take the kids aside earlier in the night and say "Daddy doesn't want to frighten you, but if the Democrats win tonight we'll be forced to spend the rest of our lives dining on aborted fetuses while Gays sodomize your new puppy"? Shit Luther, Santorum's son (Little Ricky?) looks absolutely shell-shocked.

Maybe it's best that this is how we remember Rick Santorum: as a family man. Albeit a man whose family look they made a wrong turn on their way to an evening of milk, cookies, and hymns and ended up in an opium den showing the director's cut of La Blue Girl.

I'd feel a whole lot better about seeing Santorum get hit in his ass by the door on his way out if he weren't being replaced by another redneck anti-choice homophobe. Hell, the guy I voted for wasn't even on the ballot: I had to write his name in. As matter of fact, I pledge that from this moment on I'll make life in office as difficult as possible for Bob Casey Jr. or, as I like to call him, "Santorum-Lite".

Photo courtesy of Bureaucrash by way of reason.com

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 06:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Apologies for not posting the Most Truly Fucked Up Moment in Election '06 last night. After spending all that time in the booth writing in the names of the Green Party candidates, my hands were too cramped to type. OK, you've waited long enough; the winner is...

When Is a Jew Not a Jew?
When She's George Allen's Mother

As if it was caught in some sort of feedback loop, the Virginia senatorial race (which still refuses to die a dignified death) has managed to pile crazy-upon-crazy until it reached what will no doubt, someday, be a legendary level of infamy. Had the men of ancient Athens had even the slightest inkling that their experiment in Democracy would one day culminate in the shit-fight between George Allen and Jim Webb they would've turned their backs to their young male lovers (and not for the first time, if you catch my drift) and flung themselves into the Aegean. And it the whole ugly debacle started with just one word: Macaca. As in "Let's give a welcome to Macaca, here--welcome to America and the real world of Virginia"

But where did the word come from? Well, you saw Allen, on Meet The Press, claim that it was a nonsense word that he just pulled out of his head. After all, there's know way that Allencould've known that macaca was a racial slur used by French colonists in Algeria against North Africans Well, not unless Allen had known someone who had been a French colonist in Algeria. Enter George Allen's mother.

While many people know that Allen's father was a famous football coach, almost no one was aware that George Allen's mother had indeed been a French colonist in Algeria. The obvious reason that Allen never mentioned his mother before the election was that being even remotely French in American politics is the kiss of death. And the reason that Allen didn't volunteer this information after the macaca incident is simply because, seen in this new light, Allen's comment translates roughly to "Let's give a welcome to Sambo, here--welcome to America and the real world of Virginia". And then things got even weirded because, as it turned out, George Allen's mother is Jewish.

That little tidbit came up during a debate when reporter Peggy Fox asked:

"It has been reported that your grandfather Felix, whom you were given your middle name for, was Jewish. Could you please tell us whether your forebears include Jews and, if so, at which point Jewish identity might have ended?"

At this point, Allen did what any closeted Red Sea pedestrian running for senator in the South would do when confronted with the question of their own Jewish heritage: he dodged it, commanding Fox to "ask questions about issues that really matter to people here in Virginia" and ordering her to stop "making aspersions." Translation: "How dare you call me Jewish?" You see, George Felix Allen is just Jewish enough to know that, under rabbinic law, anyone with a Jewish mother is considered *gasp* Jewish.

Faced in incontrovertible evidence of his kosher nature, Allen finally fessed up to having seen more than a few episodes of Sienfeld. This admission last about thirty seconds before Allen was once again waist-deep in the Nile, pointing out that "I still had a ham sandwich for lunch. And my mother made great pork chops."

Oh yeah. It just doesn't get any better than that. Or does it? A few days later Allen was back in full apeshit mode and pointing to a few purple passages that Jim Webb had penned in fictional books about the war with Vietnam. The dust jacket of one of Webb's book, Lost Soldiers by the way, happened to feature the following endorsement:

"It captures well the lingering scars of the war. A novel of revenge and redemption that tells us much about both where Vietnam is headed and where it has been."

What sort of Leftist Pinko Commie America-Hater would have positive things to say about Jim Webb's pornographic musings? Well, that blurb was penned by Senator John McCain (R Not-A-Pussyzona). Smooth goin', Felix. It was about at this point that things started getting out of hand.

Mike Stark just wanted to ask George Allen one simple question. Fortunately for Allen it had nothing to do George's collection of "Kiss me, I'm a self-hating Jew" buttons. Unfortunately for the question had everything to do with whether or not Allen had spit on his first wife and made the mistake of asking it within earshot of Allen's bodyguards.

This is why I hope the Allen/Webb race drags on for as long as possible. I can't wait to see what other surprises the contest could have in store for us before the final curtain falls. Flesh-eating viruses? Zombie hookers? Back yard meth labs manned by Bob Corker's daughters? Only time will tell.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 10:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Thanks to a clerical error I've been voting since the age of nine. In the intervening years I've seen a lot of truly messed up elections come and go. For example, there was 1978 when the zombies from the original Dawn of the Dead were elected to the Cleveland City Council. And then there was 1994 when a small piece of fecal matter was chosen to head the Kansas City School Board. Good times.

So, speaking as someone who has been following politics since a tender age, you should believe me when I tell you that the midterm election of 2006 has been the best page molesting/mistress strangling/meth and massage election EVER! It terms of sheer insanity, the only way this election could possible get any more fucked up would be if accompanying outbreaks of St. Vitus' Dance and explosive diarrhea were to suddenly strike the polling places. The only drawback being that all this stupidity channeled into one election cycle renders the choice I'm about to make an extremely difficult one.

Ladies, gentlemen, and Rev. Ted Haggard, I give you The Runner-Up for Most Truly Fucked Up Moment in Election '06:

I Wanted You To Meet My Girls

Most of you probably only aware Tennessee Senator Bob Corker because of those "Harold, call me" ads which were run against his challenger, and equal homophobic bible thumping dipshit, Harold Ford. But what you most likely didn't know was that last week Bob Corker aired a new ad featuring his two daughters, Julia and Emily. The ad ends with the tag line "I'm Bob Corker and I approved this message because I wanted you to meet my girls."

Remember, it was Bob, not me, who put his daughters in the spotlight so I don't want to see any hate-mail over what I'm about to show. Now, I don't know about Emily, but I'm sure-as-shitting glad Bob wanted us to meet Julia.

Here's fair lass Julie (on the left) making out with another girl, courtesy of Julia's Facebook (more like suck-facebook) page.

And here's Julia Corker dancing merrily in the background as another young lady displays what are either the world's least sexy pair of shorts or her great-grandmother's burlap panties.

No wonder Bob Corker is opposed to same-sex marriage: You let a couple of homos tie-the-knot in Massachusetts and the next thing you know your own daughter is playing lesbo tonsil detective on the internet. Let's all hope that Bob will be able to take some solace in the fact that Julia was making out with a white chick.

Tomorrow: The Winner.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 07:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"We are talking about a festival in which people come together in a community to get drunk. Not high, not socially fun, but drunk - knee-walking, absolutely passed-out drunk." - Betsy Bryan of Johns Hopkins University

One of the things I love about the human is its restless nature. Here's an example of how one thought morphs into another.

I'm fairly certain that I may have mentioned a few thousand times before that Vienna collects images of the lion headed Egyptian goddess Sekhmet. But, just in case I haven't, I will now: Vienna collects images of the lion headed Egyptian goddess Sekhmet. I also may've mentioned a few thousand times the story of how Sekhmet, charged by the other gods with the task of reducing the number of humans, took her task too seriously and nearly wiped out all of humanity another of the gods got her drunk on beer and she passed out.. But, just in case I haven't, I will now: there's a story of how Sekhmet, charged by the other gods with the task of reducing the number of humans, took her task too seriously and nearly wiped out all of humanity another of the gods got her drunk on beer and she passed out. Now, I was reading an article about a charming ancient festival based on this charming story when I started thinking about cats: or, to be more precise, cat litter.

Now, since the age of five or so, I've always had a cat in my life. The odd thing is that I'm forty-three but I'm only on my third cat. Anyway, I've probably spent thousands of dollars on cat litter over the years. Now, there had to be a point in history when cats stopped shitting outside in the barn where they were formerly employed as mice catchers, and started shitting in boxes in our homes where they'd become pets. Where does cat litter come from?

Unlike so many of the things we find around the house, (socks, string, toothpicks, pornography) we not only know exactly when and where cat litter was invented, but by whom. His name was Ed Lowe; and while he may not be as famous as Thomas Edison or Robert Jarvic, it's important to remember that neither of those men ever made any significant contributions in the world of cat shit. As the story goes, after spending three years in the Navy killing countless Japs and Nazis, Ed Lowe returned home to Michigan in 1945 to embark upon a career in the fascinating field of industrial absorbents (think of Ed the next time you're in the supermarket and hear "Clean up in aisle three" and whenever you look to the night sky). Two years later, a neighbor of Ed's asked him if he could hook her up with sand to use in her cat's litter box instead of the soot she was currently using.

OK. So what have we learned so far? 1) Ancient Egyptians used to get shit-faced and 2) people used to use soot in litter boxes: one of those ideas which seem incredibly stupid in retrospect; not unlike brushing your teeth with urine - human urine. Now back to our story:

Instead of handing the woman three pounds of sand and suggesting she go pound it, Ed provided her with granules of clay. And thus Kitty Litter (one of the few products, like Kleenex, Xerox, and the Lewinsky, in which the brand name has come to stand for product - or service, in the case of the Lewinsky - itself) was born. It's also how cats, now that they haven't been tracking sooty shit all over our homes for the last sixty years, have come to rival dogs as the most popular pet in America.

"I thought cats were only for people who are losers and live in apartments." - Homer Simpson

So why write about kitty litter on the eve of an election? Just a little reminder that, sometimes, we need to focus more on the smaller events.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 03:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As promised (threatened), here's second part of Blair's lengthy October E-Letter. When we last left the rotund former child actress turned evangelical roadside attraction she was about to toss some good at us from the window of her Winnebago.

[And the good news is...]

Jesus is more than enough.

[GODMUTHAFUGGINDAMMIT! That's the good news? When Oprah says she's got good news, every chunky hausfrau in the studio audience gets a car. When Blair says she's got good news, it's like being ten-years-old, waking up on Christmas day, finding a bicycle-shaped present under the tree, ripping off the wrapping paper, and finding a pair of socks. Fuck you in the armpit with a tambourine, Blair]

I can honestly say along with Paul, "But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ." [So Paul is in the black while Jeebuz is in the red? And I always thought Jews made excellent accountants] In the end, it is all about Jesus and His sufficiency. [What an egomaniac Jesus turned out to be. stuck up on a cross is more like it] Not only for us as parents, but also if we ever have a prayer at raising obey-God-from-a-heart-of-love children for the Kingdom. [Kingdom? I thought we lived in a Republic; what gives?]

Relationships - I'm a pleaser. [Must...not...go...there. Joke...too...easy...] I've been a pleaser all my life [More like a plesiosaur, if you ask me.]. I work really hard to please everyone. Unfortunately, I don't think God is impressed. [I'll go one step further and suggest that God hates your fuckin' guts] I'm not really pleasing Him with all my pleasing. Hebrews [Oh, that's right; drag the Jews into this] 11:6 says, "And without works it is impossible to please Him, for whoever really wants to get close to God must believe that He is keeping score and rewards those who strive to please Him." Uh...not quite. That's just how I have rewritten that verse in my heart. [The Bible according to Blair. Why doesn't she write that book?]

God actually says, "And without faith it is impossible to please Him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who seek Him." [Oh, so I can be a decent human being and God won't reward me just because I don't believe in him? Just who does this "God" fellow think he is?] I will never please God more than when I'm seeking the reward that comes from simply drawing near to Him. My one "work" is to stay connected to Him. His job is to bear fruit through me because, as I've relearned from the umpteenth time this week, on my own I can do nothing of any eternal value. [I hope you understood that crazy shit because this section will be on the final exam]

How does this play into my relationships? Two ways. First, I must remember that my soul will ultimately only ever be completely satisfied in relationship with Jesus [Only the Savior can give Blair the "Big O"]. If I look to others, the sad truth is, I will ultimately suffer rejection. Nobody, not the greatest husband or bestest friend can curb the pangs of soul hunger that is craving Jesus [Kids can't resist the wholesome taste of new batter-fried Jesus].

Secondly, from that point of fullness, I've got to stop trying to earn other people's approval by being good enough. Yes, my publisher may be upset with me if I don't meet these deadlines[Blair's first draft of "How to be a 90's Christian" is a tad overdue]. Unfortunately, some friends won't understand if I don't reply to emails for weeks [Particularly, that Nigerian Minister of Finance and Blair's newest e-friend, pharma_deals_4_U]. Someone at the grocery store may actually see my children fighting [Clean up on aisle 9. Blair's brats are flinging their feces at each other again], me yelling, and buying junk food. I've got to let that go of all that. And, you do, too. [I don't eat junk food. Only people who our delusional enough to believe in God do that]

I hope you haven't read this epic E-letter and surmised that I'm simply an over-analytical, self-absorbed, whinebag who uses her website database to vent on unsuspecting readers. [OK, who told Blair what we've been saying about her? I'm looking in your direction Mr. Tailwind] Wait a minute...I don't care what you think. (Well, actually I do, but I'm trying to learn a lesson here so I don't have to learn it again!) [I can only hope that lesson is "Never mix LSD with an all-day pass to Six Flags over Bedlam"]

If your heart resonates with anything I've written this month [It does! Wait; no, it's just gas], do me a favor. Take the burden of perfection off and lay it at the foot of the cross [Next to God's luggage]. The only good it does for you to carry it around is weigh you down with guilt. And, be still. Stop running in circles. Believe it or not, it is okay to collapse in exhaustion. Standing still is the only way to finish this race [Well, at least in the Special Olympics it is]. If you try to run in your own strength, you will only reach the end of yourself and give up, or become disqualified [or horribly disfigured, or mauled by robotic pumas, or...]. Wait on God[ot].

"But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

["Faith is the great cop-out, the great excuse to evade the need to think and evaluate evidence. Faith is belief in spite of, even perhaps because of, the lack of evidence." - Richard Dawkins]

Let's finish this race strong - in weakness. [Weakness is Strength. Freedom is Slavery. Blair is an Actress]

Worship with Natalie Grant & Friends - Unless you have a problem with the words "funky" and "worship" being used in the same sentence [As in "Those worshipers sure smell funky"], you're going to want to click on this link and immediately purchase this CD. It is one of my all-time favorites. Word of warning: you may want to refrain from playing this CD if you have teenage children around. You can't help but dance and I don't care how good your moves are, you will inevitably scar them for life. [It's a little too late to worry about that, Blair.]

VeggieTales Moms - My manager [and fledgling porn director], Ron Smith, has joined forces with two dynamic entrepreneurial moms [and a rabid Dalmatian named Mr. Snarly] to create a wonderful prospect for kids - and their moms. For kids because, well it's VeggieTales, enough said. For moms, this could be the opportunity you've been waiting for, a chance to spread an engaging message of faith to families, while at the same time earning a little extra income from your home [If you ladies are looking to earn a little extra income from your home, you might want to try spreading something other than faith]. If that sounds interesting, check out this charming website.

"Do You Think I'm Beautiful" by Angela Thomas - Let me introduce you to my new favorite author [Blair's old favorite author was Charles Bukowski]. If you really trust me [You'll you're your son to the top of a mountain and sacrifice him], you will not only click on the link to purchase this book but you may as well save yourself shipping charges and order everything she's ever written [Including several notes she passed in her sixth grade Algebra class]. You'll thank me later[Next time you're visiting Sea World, be sure to toss a fish or two into Blair's tank]. I know you're going to love her as much as I do. [Oh, so that's why Angela Thomas filed that restraining order against blair]

Simply Fun - Play for all Ages - A few months ago I was sent a box full of fun by a website friend who is familiar with my addiction to [Little Debbie Snack Foods] games. Let me just tell you that my MomTime Mondays have risen to a whole 'nother level of laughter. If you enjoy games or desire to create fun family memories then you're going to want to visit this website. FYI, some of my favorites are "Linkity," "Take Your Pick," "Eye to Eye," ["Waterboard the Faggot",] and "Liebrary."

"The Bus[h]y Grandma's Guide to [Assisted Suicide] Prayer" was released this month, just in time for Christmas shopping! (Especially since it is this month's E letter Special.) Here's what the back cover has to say.

"As Lisa and her mother, Gentry ["Gentry"??? Well, that explains a lot.], have made so clear in this helpful guide, my prayers for my family will impact them longer than any of us will live. This book is a great tool for guiding prayer for those we love the most, and prayer is the best thing, sometimes the only thing, and definitely the first thing we can do to make a difference in their lives...eternally."
Gloria Gaither - Author; Lyricist [and, judging by her picture, Botox casualty]

Dear Lord, as I pray from 35,000 feet in the air, somewhere between Texas and Kentucky [or, as it's known to the rest of the world, "Bumfuck"], between heaven and earth, between the heat of summer and the relief of fall, between responsibility and radical trust, between "works" and working out my faith, between serving others and accepting myself, between being a good mother and looking to You as the perfect Father. As I live life in the Shadowlands with eternity in my heart[Did Blair lift that line from Born to Run?], I hoist my friends up on my shoulders of prayer. May they be closer to You because I've fallen and landed on my knees [Not unlike Ned Beatty in Deliverece]. In Jesus' [Blair finally nailed that apostrophe] name, Amen.

If you have a friend who would enjoy receiving this E-letter click the follow link and we will forward it to them.

Lisa ["Blair"] Whelchel - E-Letter

© 2006 Lisa Whelchel [Numerous fart jokes by Rodney Anonymous]

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If you ran into me today, you probably thought that I had developed Tourette 's syndrome. That's because I was spitting and cursing at every person, object, personal object, and objectionable person that crossed my path. So what set me off down this path of unbridled rage? The Simple Folk.

I see that some further explanation is warranted.

It all started when I learned that Richard Dawkins was coming to the main branch of the Free Library to speak about (plug) his new book The God Delusion. At first I was happier than Alton Verm gazing at a young boy's asshole at a book burning. At long last, I finally stood a good change of having my copy of The Blind Watchmaker autographed by the author instead of Ronnie James Dio whose shaky signature currently adorns the title page. But my hopes where dashed upon the barren barrier reef that is my life when I learned that, instead of speaking at 7:00 pm, the time when most of the Free Library's lectures have taken place, Dawkins chose to speak at noon. Son-of-a-Santorum! I had been looking forward to an evening of hearing the thoughts of Richard Dawkins emanate from his own mouth in an environment blissfully devoid of The Simple Folk.

Who are The Simple Folk. Well, I can best explain The Simple Folk by means of an example: The other day I heard a piece on NPR about a community somewhere in the Midwest that tried to deal with the debate over stem cell research head-on by holding a town meeting in which the facts about stem cells were presented Afterwards, several members of the audience were interviewed: "There was too much science for me", said one old timer. "It was too sciency", said another.

The Simple Folk aren't bad people per se. They raise our crops, they fix our cars, they provide us with the opportunity to feel smug and superior. I don't want The Simple Folk to disappear: I just want to avoid them for a few hours.

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