Thoughtless for the Day

Question: If, as we learned last time, if the witches of Medieval Europe were a bunch of harmless, drug-addled peasants why did the Church bother going through all the trouble of The Inquisition?

Answer: It's complicated. But, fortunetly, we have our ol' buddy Dr. Marvin Harris and the musings of Lisa “Blair" Whelchel, courtesy of her October E-Letter.

From roughly 1,000 CE to 1480 CE it was illegal, in Christian Europe to believe that witches could fly. This rule was set forth in a document called the Canon Episcopi. After 1480 CE (and I'm not sure if this Law is still on the books somewhere - maybe in Kansas) it was illegal to believe that witches couldn't fly. Now, think of the stupidest, most half-assed Urban Legend you've ever heard of and imagine having, by Law, to believe that it was true. I guess, considering the current political climate, that scenario might not be too hard to imagine, but what purpose would such a law serve?

So, let me be your friend on the other end of the line and allow me to ask you a question. What are you afraid of this month? Same thing I'm afraid of every month: that some moron will provide Chuck Norris with a forum in which to air his childlike opinions.

In the centuries before the Inquisition began to focus on witches, Europe was overran with members of the Manson Family. OK, not actual members of the Manson Family, but crazed visionaries, fanatics, and messianic figures who would just as well stick a fork (yes, the fork had been invented by then) in your belly as look at you. Mostly these jokers would proclaim that the Church had become too wealthy, that Emperor Fredrick II would return to cleanse the Earth of sin (Some, like Konrad Schmid, cut out the middleman and just claimed to be the reincarnation of Emperor Fredrick II), gather a bunch of followers, and burn a few monasteries and convents before getting captured and roasted at the stake.

Use your imagination with me for a moment. Picture yourself in the middle of your fearful circumstances. First, how would you react differently if I could guarantee that God is there and He will come through for you? Hmmm...good question! Which would I put down first: the gun, the hooker, or the rabid lemur?

Needless to say, it didn't take long for the Church and the nobility to grew weary of regular outbreaks of armed peasants demanding the redistribution of wealth (The Hussites, for example, attempted to compel the clergy to lead a more “apostolic" lifestyle by thoughtfully removing the burden of wealth: they confiscated the Church's property). What was needed was a scapegoat: a group that could be blamed for all the problems that plagued the land (as well as the Plague, itself). And that group would be old, poor, warty women.

You see, people like simple explanations. It's easier to convince someone that he's not poor because of the draconian socio-economic conditions forced upon him by a Feudal Oligarchy, but the reason for his poverty is simple because a witch put a hex on his cows.

Now there's a really spooky Halloween lesson for ya'.

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[Notice: Not that the following piece needed it, but I've sprinkled this post with random paragraphs from Lisa "Blair" Whelchel's Extra-Spooooooky October E-Letter]

Who hasn't looked at a picture of a witch riding a broomstick and thought "Paging Dr. Freud. Dr. Sigmund Freud to the white courtesy phone"? So what is the deal with witches and broomsticks anyway? For the answer to that question, we must turn, once more, to the late Marvin Harris author of Cows, Pigs, Wars, and Witches. (Please note that here, Dr. Harris is relying heavily on the work of Professor Michael Harner). And that answer is going to be more than a little dirty.

I'm writing this E-letter from a hotel room in Moline, Illinois. It feels so much more like October here than it does in Texas! Especially staying in this hotel called, "The Lodge," where I'm sure I smelled a pipe when I walked into the lobby. I was immediately drawn to a roaring fireplace in the center of the room with a painting hung above it, which I commented to Steve looked like it belonged in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I'm going to soak up this autumnal atmosphere tonight. (Because tomorrow I will be in Phoenix, Arizona!)

Let's start by wrapping our heads around the fact that there may have been a great many living in the Middle Ages who thought they could fly, and the reason they thought that they could fly was pretty much the same reason that Dianne Linkletter thought she could fly. (yeah, I know; so there's no need to flood the comments section)

Only the culprit in the case of the witches wasn't LSD, but a substance known as atropine: a powerful hallucinogen found in plants like mandrake, belladonna, and henbane. It seems that the witches would combine the atropine with several other ingredients to create pungent, greenish, gooey oil which they would then apply causing them to lapse into a trance-lake state and trip like Dennis Hopper chewing on Klaus Kinski's pituitary gland.

Here's an account of an experiment conducted by Andres Laguna, the Timothy Leary of sixteenth century France, who managed to score some "witch's oil" and tested its properties on the wife of the local hangman:

"...she suddenly leapt slept such a sound sleep, with her eyes open like a rabbit (she also fittingly looked like a boiled hare*), that I could not imagine how to wake her."

Laguna did manage to wake the woman, albeit thirty-six hours later. And as you'll see, she was not a morning person, complaining:

"Why do you wake me at such an inopportune time? I was surrounded by all the pleasures and delights of the world."

At this point the woman turned to her husband and said:

"...all stinking of hanged men. Knavish one, know that I have made you a cuckold, and with a lover younger and better than you."

God is so sweet to me, most often through His children. A gracious lady just delivered a burlap-lined basket to my door with a loaf of homemade Pumpkin Pie bread wrapped in harvest-colored gingham tied together with strands of hemp rope. I brewed a pot of coffee in the bathroom and now I'm sitting here in my sock feet doing what I love more than anything, sipping something hot, nibbling something sweet and enjoying rich conversation with a friend...you.

No wonder the oil was so popular. Although it should be noted that the majority of users just zoned out and imagined that they were flying.

But the best part isn't that Medieval Europe was like Haight Asbury in the 60's(right down to the general disregard for person hygiene), no the best best part is how the witches got the atropine into their systems: and that's where the broomsticks come in. You see the best way to absorb the atropine mixture would be to apply it to ones mucus membranes. For women that’s the vagina, or as it is scientifically known "the hoo-ha" and the handiest "applicator" available would be a (altogether on three. One, two, three) broomstick.

Woman takes drugs. Woman imagines she's been flying. Woman wakes up next to broomstick. Woman puts two and two together and gets five. Case closed.

Next time Marvin Harris will help us understand just why the Inquisition went after witches in the first place.

Call me crazy, but I decided this afternoon to talk tonight from Job 3:25, "For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me and that which I was afraid of is come unto me." I'm speaking at a Christian school fundraiser and I want to share my personal experience regarding money. I can live fairly generously and open-handedly with money because I've lost it all before and when Steve and I hit rock-bottom financially, we discovered that God was there. He filled up the hole with treasure more valuable than money. [Way to go, Steve! Fill up that hole!]

* I swear to fuck that Laguna actually wrote that.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 7:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Apparently, someone has gone to the trouble of breeding tiny pigs with the intention of marketing them as pets. Genius! Not so much the pets angle, which is gonna sink like Rush Limbaugh and Rosie O'Donnell sharing and inner tube, but as a way for Fundamentalist Christians to spot Jews and Moslems (AKA "Hook-nosed defilers of Gentile women" and "Islamofascists" *)

So, why do Jews and Moslems have an aversion to pigs in the first place? Well, in the case of the Moslems the answer is simple: the Moslems are imitating Jewish Law. Where that Jewish Law demanding the shunning of swine flesh comes from is a little complicated. For a full explanation, we'll need to turn to Marvin Harris' excellent book Cows, Pigs, Wars, and Witches.

Now you might think that the Ancient Jews kept away from pork for strictly health reasons, namely trichinosis. But, as Marvin Harris points out, there are plenty of other nasty diseases that humans can get cattle and sheep: anthrax for example, which, by the way, cannot be transmitted by pigs. So why then, if not for heath concerns, the prohibition on pork?

As it turns out, there may have been economic reasons for this little piggy being a no-no. Pigs thrive in forests and along riverbanks; conversely, it takes a lot of resources to raise pigs in a hot, arid environment. Is it really worth risking the economic ruination of your entire tribe just on the slim chance that you might end up with a rack of pork ribs? I don't know about you, but I wouldn't roll those dice – and neither would the authors of Genesis and Leviticus.

Next time, Marvin Harris will help us understand why witches rode broomsticks and why the Church changed its mind about the existence of flying witches.

_ . _

My dinner with Dumbledore???

Speaking of Dietary Laws, Sen. Larry Craig's (R, The Closet) recipe for the "Super Tuber" is now available. Highlights include:

"Wash and dry potato. Rub with shortening or butter. With an apple corer or small knife, core out the potato center (end to end). Push hot dog through the center"

* That guy over at youaredumb.net has coined the term "Islamopantshits" to describe anyone who "craps themselves every time they see a turban".

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[Notice: In order that the following entry might be a little more appealing to people who are not interested in cat mummification, I've sprinkled it with random paragraphs from Lisa "Blair" Whelchel's September E-Letter]

One of the problems with running a website that's ostensibly supposed to be about history (but usually just ends up being a collection of rants about what a total smegtard Ben Stein is) is the lack of "hands-on History" available to the general public. Sure, given enough time and meth just about anyone can have their own tiny Roman army, but just try to organize a Trireme Race for The Cure on the Schuylkill and see how far you get. That's why I'm happier than the late Reverend Gary Aldridge touring a rubber plantation on those rare occasions when I manage I stumble upon an ancient DIY project.

A week or two ago I came across this piece on the Science Daily website. Apparently, Dr Stephen Buckley of the University of York has been using most of his free time and just about all of the money he earned babysitting to figure out the materials used by the Egyptians to mummify cats.

"Lessons I Learned in the Dark" - Jennifer Rothschild has been a friend of mine for years but God sovereignly [sic] placed my hand on her elbow during this season of my life. [If I pray hard enough, will God move Blair's hand off of Jennifer Rothschild's elbow and on to her "womanly bits"?]

In case you're wondering why the Ancient Egyptians mummified cats in the first place, the answer is "racket", as in "It was a racket." Priests in the Temple of Bastet in Bubastis would sell mummified cats to pilgrims who would then bury the kitty carcasses in hope that the dead cat would carry the worshippers' prayers to the Goddess Bastet (to learn more about Bastet, just drop by the house I share with my Bastet-obsessed wife and have a quick look at my fireplace mantle).

Let me explain. Whenever I'm with Jennifer, I've learned to stand close beside her, let her gently touch my elbow as I guide her to the nearest Starbucks where we can talk a Venti to the dregs. Lately, the coffee tables have turned. She is standing beside me; close enough for me to know she's there and within reach when I need her to guide me through the dark. If you could use a friend to help you walk by faith because your tears have temporarily blinded your path then this is the book/Bible study for ! you. ["She is standing beside me; close enough for me to know she's there and within reach when I need her to guide me through the dark." That is sooooo hot! And you, Blair did place the exclamation point before the word "you"]

OK, are you ready for a little "hands-on" history? According to both Dr Stephen Buckley and Jennifer "Um... Blair, honey…that's not my elbow" Rothschild, the recipe for compound used to make a cat mummy is roughly "80 per cent fat or oil, 10 per cent pistacia resin, 10 per cent conifer resin and a pinch of cinnamon." I guess we could get away with using a tub of Crisco for the fat/oil. You’ll find some cinnamon in your spice rack. While I have no idea what pistacia and conifer resins are (other than resins, of course), I bet your local art supply store has plenty of resin on hand. Just tear up an old sheet to obtain the linen needed for bandages. Now you just need a dead cat...

Kim Hill - "Hope No Matter What" - This is not Kim's most recent CD but it is the one that has spoken my heart to my heart these last few months. Gosh, I can't even pick a favorite song. Maybe, "Hold Me, Jesus" or perhaps, "As Big as God" nah, it's got to be "Can You See Me." I give up; I can't choose just one. If you find yourself in a place needing to be reminded that God sees your questions and hears your ache then buy this CD. The anointed music and these raw lyrics will reverberate within your soul as you allow His Spirit to fill your empty places. [Kim Hill is an anagram for "Kill him", 'nuff said?]

Look, there's no way I'd ever condone harming an animal, even for a project as worthwhile as this one, so please, do not kill any cats just so that you can make a mummy. I'm just as eager as the rest of you to have a little slice of history in my living room, but I'm not going to bump off my feline friend just get a (really, really cool) conversation piece. That said, I have encouraged my cat to smoke and drink, just to speed things up a little.

Have you ever thought to yourself that you would love to getaway, just you and your girlfriends...[It's official, Blair is "eating from the bushy bowl" "Lessons I Learned in the Dark" indeed]

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 7:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Aid or Invade XXXII is available for your confusion in both print and on the web. Full Disclosure: I went to college with the son of the former ambassador from the Netherlands to the United States, so if you call 1800 DUTCHHELP, please leave my name outta it, OK?

In other news, Slate has an interesting piece about America's biggest scofflaws: the Amish and the Mormons. Meanwhile, CNN has a loving tribute to Skidmore, Missouri – the little town with the big murders

Over the next few days, I'll be posting pieces about Cat Mummification (as promised), Pocket Pigs (as promised), and why witches traditionally ride broomsticks (as threatened).

Oh, and I enjoyed Eric H. Cline's editorial so much that I bought his latest book. Look for a review soon.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 9:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

On Tuesday I came across a
brilliant (and long overdue) editorial by Dr.
Eric H. Cline on the Archaeology
website. Basically, the gist of Dr. Cline's piece is that we really
need to purge Biblical Archaeology of the knobnuts and smegtards who have been polluting
the field: people like former SWAT team member turned Noah's Ark hunter Bob
Cornuke and part-time in parapsychologist and Garden of Eden enthusiast Michael
Sanders. I couldn't agree more. But what really caught
my eye was the following paragraph:

And we must not forget documentary filmmaker Simcha Jacobovici. He bills himself as "The Naked Archeologist" in a television series on the History Channel, but has repeatedly stated during media interviews that he is an investigative journalist rather than an archeologist. Jacobovici is perhaps best known for "The Lost Tomb of Jesus," which first aired in March 2007 and which has been described by professor Jodi Magness of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill as making "a sensationalistic claim without any scientific basis or support."

Jesus H. Yahweh, I freakin' knew it! I was wise to this Grand Marshal of the Assface Parade
from the first time I tuned in to his crappy little show. I don't know if any of you have ever seen
an episode of "The Naked Archaeologist", but if you have then you know
that calling Simcha Jacobovici a "Biblical Literalist" is like calling
Christopher Hitchens "a bit of a polemicist". Simcha is true believer: which he to say that he tries to make the evidence fit the Bible.

"From a historical aspect, I take the Bible as history, unless someone demonstrates it's not. I have no reason to believe the stories in the Bible didn't happen. If you don't think it's true, prove it!"

- Simcha Jacobovici

Now re-read the quote above substituting "The Iliad", "The Color
Purple", "Harry Potter and the Used Clotter*", or " Horny Firemen in Heat" for "the
Bible" and you'll see why Simcha could also bill himself as "The Naked
Proctologist"

If Simcha Jacoffobovici and all of those other "amateur archaeologists"
out there really want to help out, they should do what I do and keep the
fuck out of the way and let the professionals do their
work. Seriously, I'm easily as qualified Cornuke, Sanders, Jacobovici, Nash, and Young
to go digging out in the "Holy Land" but I limit my involvement
to the occasionally posting comments on message boards like "A
wig??? That's your freakin' 'evidence' that you've
found the mummy of Nefertiti??? Paint Huffin' Whore = you".

* This joke is solely for the enjoyment of RATYHTL's Jamaican reader(s)

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It's rarely that I endorse a product, especially one made in China, but you folks really need to get your hands on a Nerf Maverick Rev-6 as quickly as possible, as in:STOP READING THIS; DRIVE TO THE TOY STORE AND PURCHASE ONE. Because the Nerf Maverick Rev-6 has changed my life in ways I never dreamed possible.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in my office on a Friday afternoon thinking about how stressful my job is when...

Yes, I'm familiar with the economic concept of Increasing (occasionally known as "Proportional") Misery, which is to say that I'm fully aware of the fact that the man or woman who made my Maverick Rev-6 in a dimly lit and poorly ventilated Chinese factory has a much more stressful job than I do...and no office. I'm also conscience of the fact that my job is less stressful than the one my father held (his foot was broken in the steel mill in which he worked); that my father's job was less stressful than my grandfather's gig (he lost a finger working in a paper mill [insert deep paper-cut joke here]); which was, in turn, less stressful than the job my great-grandfather held (he was a blacksmith who was killed when another blacksmith hurled a red-hot bolt at someone who had offended
him, missed, and struck great-granddad. Blacksmith-on-Blacksmith crime is tearing the community apart). Essentially, I'm dealing with a lot of guilt here, but I'd trade stress for guilt any day.

So, I'm sitting in my spacious office thinking about how stressful my job is. And then I was thinking about job stress in general. Next I was thinking about the phenomenon of "Going Postal", which led me to consider various accepted methods of stress reduction, which led me to reject all of the currently accepted methods of stress reduction, which led me directly to the Nerf website, and, eventually, to the nearest KB Toys where I plopped down $10 for Nerf Maverick Rev-6. I spent the weekend shooting at the television, ala Elvis. It felt good. It felt really good {what can I say, Torchwood just hasn't lived up to all the hype].

By 9:15 AM on Monday morning I was giddily firing suction cup-tipped foam bullets from my gun, which I christened "Dr. Benway" and decorated with William S. Burroughs stickers (I'm pretty sure that nobody I work with gets the joke), down the hallway of my place of employment and over the heads of my coworkers. I hadn't felt so stress-free in work for months.

Anyone who has ever read Dr. Seuss' Butter Battle Book (be sure to read the one-star reviews) already knows what happened next...

The guy in the office across the hall bought a Neft Longshot CS-6: which is, in essence, a long-range Nerf rifle complete with scope, folding bipod, and an adjustable stock. It's the sort of toy gun that the Beltway Sniper would love. The arms race was escalating, so I stocked up on "whistle tipped" bullets.

Does this make for a quiet work environment? Hell no. But neither does people slamming doors and shouting "I'll kick your fuckin' screen in" at their laptops. Has anyone complained about the OK Corral-style shootouts in corridors? Well, one guy over on the other wing did ask us if we could "keep it down just a little". We explained that, to our knowledge, Nerf doesn't make silencers. That didn't help matters, so we bought him a Secret Strike AS-1, because until you've uttered the words "Cover me, I'm going for coffee" or fought your way, inch-by-inch, to the nearest networked printer, you haven't really lived.

"Lesson Learned: " While many people condemn toy guns (and if I had a kid, I'm honestly not sure how I'd feel about him or her owning one), the results of my little experiment have left me fairly confident
that if a certain blacksmith had owned a Nerf gun, my great-grandfather would've lived to a ripe old age.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 6:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Yes, I know I promised you some more posts last week, but I found out on Friday night that I had an Aid or Invade due and Monday was Vienna and my anniversary/Jack Talcum Day (which has become so commercial), so the Mrs. wouldn't allow me to go near the PC (or the computer, for that matter) all weekend.

Look, I'll make you an offer, OK? I'll give you the subjects of my next four pieces and you make sure I post them in a timely manner. Do we have a deal?

1. My Gun
2. Why I am the World's Greatest Amateur Archaeologist
3. Embalm Your Cat the Lisa "Blair" Whelchel Way
4. Pocket Pigs

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 8:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

You've been there. Standing at the "Specialty" section of the magazine rack, staring at copies of Cat Fancy or Hobby Farms or Renaissance and asking, "Who the fuck reads this shit?" Obviously somebody with a cat, a farm and a pair of tights. Keeping in mind for a minute that I subscribe to Biblical Archaeology Review, I'm really worried about the sort of pasty knob-gobbler who has a copy of Majesty sitting on their coffee table.

Majesty is the "Quality Royal Magazine", which is to say that it's basically a glossy love letter to the houses of Windsor and Grimaldi...

OK, we need to get sidetracked for a moment, but it's worth it:

Check out this excerpt from Tatum O'Neil's A Paper Life in which she... um... encounters jungle fever survivor Prince Albert of Monaco:

"As I lay on his bed, I could hear him brushing his teeth, coughing, and spitting in the sink. That did it for me. I jumped up, yanking my clothes back on, and called out some lame excuse about having forgotten my contact lenses. Then I fled into the night, running all the way back to my hotel, as if the palace guards were hot on my heels."

On the Scale O' Sad, that's just slightly above "Oh, I forgot to mention that I need to pistol-whip a hooker with a toy ray gun in order to get an erection. Stop crying; you're ruining our honeymoon."

Ant then there's this Princess Stephanie related nonsense.

Where were we? Oh, right... Majesty is the "Quality Royal Magazine", which is to say that it’s basically a glossy love letter to the houses of Windsor and Grimaldi (sure there are other royal families out there, but if you're looking for insightful coverage of Tongo's King George Tupou V – the son of Taufa'ahau Tupou IV, who died last year - chances are that you're shit outta luck, cocoanut fucker): which is to say that it almost indistinguishable from "Freak Show Connoisseur". And that's the problem. Because while Majesty is packed from cover-to-cover with the greatest collection of inbred monstrosities this side of Ben Stein's Family Reunion, the magazine simply refuses to revel in the fact that the head the bears the crown rests uneasily because it's either misshapen, suffering from a hangover, or both.

I swear that if I had the seed money, or any money at all for that matter, I start a magazine called Royally Fucked Up. I know I could easily squeeze an entire issue out of how I head the Privy Council got its start.

Until I get my act together, you'll want to check out Joan's Mad Monarch's, particularly the excellent section on Juana the Mad of Spain.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 7:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Dead On My Ass

I know I promised (or at least hinted at) some exciting posts this week. They still might come, but not tonight. It's been one of those weeks at work. Hopefully, I'll be posting throughout the weekend.

Posted by Rodney Anonymous at 6:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The good news is that the problems with my PC and this site's DB's have been solved. The bad news is that I've got pager duty that week. Hopefully I'll be able to have a real post up tomorrow. Thanks for sticking with me on this, folks.

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