Your candidate, squire

Quoth the Wraith: I have seen destruction, and I am him

Sweat saves blood.
Erwin Rommel


But, can sweat stop a bullet?
-Visum


All war is deception.
Sun Tzu


So is global warming, but just look at the hullabaloo it has caused. More than one war has been fought by the deceived.
-Visum


The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.
Sun Tzu


Sounds like the collectivist motto that the supreme art of working is to create something without doing anything; of course, it has gone far to create a bunch of porky couch potatoes; you might call them the "fog of boar".
-Visum


Only the dead have seen the end of the war.
Plato


I see dead people...and they are fighting over potato chips and who owns the remote control for the idiot box.
-Visum


A visitor from Mars could easily pick out the civilized nations. They have the best implements of war.
Herbert V. Prochnow


Yes, but can a microbe on a meteorite assist that nation in cultivating civility in the rest of the world? I'd say that like the socialist, all the microbe can do is promulgate and infect and ultimately lead to the downfall of civility.
-Visum


I have never advocated war except as a means of peace.
Ulysses S. Grant


A piece of Georgia, a piece of Bamie, and a piece of Tennessee.
-Visum


What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world.
Robert E. Lee


Alternately we can take a passive approach...just sit on our haunches and let the barbarians (and other assorted enemas) burn a path from New York to San Diego, rather than simply a paltry 50-mile swath through the Southland. Cruel, yes. Necessary? Depends entirely on how much you actually care about things like joy, happiness, your personal God and whether you consider Columbia, Atlanta and Savannah "fair faces" in this "beautiful world".
-Visum


To walk through the ruined cities of Germany is to feel an actual doubt about the continuity of civilization.
George Orwell


I wonder if he saw what was wrought on Columbia by the blue-blood, socialist hoard?
-Visum


War is a series of catastrophes which result in victory.
Albert Pike


And to the victor belongs the catastrophes that are the spoils of the achieved "peace".
-Visum


Men do not fail; they give up trying.
Elihu Root


And worse, they fail to try again...danged ol' under-achieving socialists.
-Visum


We have war when at least one of the parties to a conflict wants something more than it wants peace.
Jeane Kirkpatrick


And when what they want is not tangible, such as the soul of the infidel...what then, tit for tat? Soul, for eternal soul? Eye, for spite-filled eye? War exists as long as the devil believes one singular soul is left that can be turned from righteousness. And what is righteousness? That eternal attempt to gain a peace that only exists in total on the "other side"; a place where evil has no home. It is an attempt won only by fighting vehemently to bring some semblance of that peace to a world seemingly run by a soul-consuming devil and existing here just shy and short of heaven's bright shore.

There are a few brave souls left who will fight like hell for an impure and clouded reflection of heaven's peace right here on earth. To they alone belong the victory that is heaven's ever-lasting peace."
-Visum


We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
Winston Churchill


Uh, best of luck to all you socialists out there. Happy hunting!
-Visum

The Purloined Penman: or, that bastard propagandist

He's a stolen man, with a stolen life
he's a stolen inkwell, and a stolen wife.
He'd steal from the blind,
to aid the sighted
and steal from the clean
to advantage the blighted.

He's stolen words as thoughts
and penned them as his own,
stolen hearts from young maidens
and flew on high - as sick, filthy raven.
Then there's the concepts he'd steal from all the world's thinkers
and bright, shiny daubles he'd steal from the tinkers.

In his path he's left nothing,
and all ahead all he sees
are opportunities for thievery
driving sane men to their knees.
If only able, he'd steal even soul,
but for that he would hang in heaven's own trees.

So he's content to bend minds,
with the words that he's taken
and for those who consume
God, let them not be foresaken!
Mend them up, stitch them well
and for this glutenous thief, may he rot in wordy hell.

Why No Science, is Good Science

It occurred to me today that I should not mourn the death of valid science.

I should get used to the fact that it is gone, and move on with life without.

So, I began to ponder, wouldn't it be interesting (now that science is dead), if I join the fray of the noveau-pseudo's and form my own observations about the universe.

So here goes: (WARNING: the following contains references to the Al
Gore's, bad acting, homo-eroticism and the blogosphere. NOT FOR THE KIDDIES!!!).

1) The world will end as the result of excessively poor thespian performances.

Here's the hypothesis (can we have those in the new science?) - the world will eventually end because we will all, ultimately, become bad actors (given that life emulates art and all).

The date of the implosion will be April 4, 2008 (at the Greater London celebration of the Bard's Birthdate).

What will happen here, essentially, is that a chain reaction will begin at this celebration event in which the audience begins to "bleed" into the performance (the acting was so poor on the stage).

The actual "acting" on the stage will have degenerated at this point to the level that everyone there ad libs at such a level that Hamlet begins to look like an episode of Family Guy (the episodes where there is a great deal of injected silence, to the point where you think about changing channels, but for some, odd, reason - continue watching). The performance will be rife with melodrama, Jerry Springer-esque incestual relations, beer, and fist fights.

It is widely rumored that Alec Baldwin and the rotting corpse of Paul Newman (although, his acting stinks so bad that no one is really sure he is dead) both drop trou and moon the booing crowd.

Well, of course, the audience (as the audience always does at such affairs) will be drawn into the "performance", at which point civilization will begin to break down into its "essence" (think Greek philosophy here).

Each "atom" (in the form of individual "thespians" from the crowd) will begin a reaction in which a sort of mass psychotic break takes place, in "piggy-back" style (appropriate for actors).

The truly humorous thing is that the acting in the crowd actually begins to take on Olivier qualities, and could one only observe the situation, one would certainly find it of the highest caliber entertainment.

The unfortunate thing is, anyone who observes it will immediately have a psychotic break and join in the "thes"-tivity.

Well, you can imagine just how fast this will spread. The entire planet will become populated by thespians in a, ahem, New York minute.

The culmination of this thespiaddict armageddon transpires when the last two educated inviduals left are about to be "infected".

One, a used car salesman from Walla Walla, Washington (who we only know as "Harvey") faces off with a young exchange student from Liberia who has just landed in America and was seeking his way from the airport to his host home via Harvey's car lot (a difficult thing to do when all the cabbie's are trapped in an un-ending episode of that highly-esteemed and classy show of the 70's "Taxi" (or was that "Taxi Driver", I get them so confused).

The exchange student, Yamballa (or "Yams", to his chums) had never even seen so much as a movie. The closest he'd come to a performance was watching two ants fight over a blade of grass (hardly qualifying).

The unique thing about this is, Yams was essentially immune to the bug (his immunity recognized by an underground group of Cock-fighters who predominantly got their entertainment from fighting with their cocks and seemed also to have a degree of immunity to the disease, along with some homosexuals who were already living in an alternative "staged" reality and found the new disease rather "ho-hum" - at some point we will have to delve into those underground groups who survived the bardeggedon) - but I digress.

Yams and Harvey it seems, were discussing the price on a 1955 Custom Country Club Nash Rambler when the "final act" was about to transpire.

A roving band of actors (led by none other than Albert Gore the toid) happened upon the scene and began producing a performance of that acclaimed work "Love Story" in which Al Senior and Al da toid portray the principle leads in homo-erotic incestual style.

Well, Harvey thought it a porno script (and who wouldn't, given the caliber of acting - did I mention the mutations? Yup. Nuff said)...at any rate, Harvey turned a flip and was nekkid before he hit the ground.

This scared poor Yams to a point that he took note of a rather thick rope hanging, seemingly, from the clear, blue sky at which point he lept into the air like a gazelle (practically leaping out of his loin cloth), grabbed ahold of the rope and - you guessed it, brought the curtain down on the entire planet.

One of the underlings told a reporter later that he could not get the picture of the two Al Gore's out of his mind as they descended netherward toking on a bong fashioned from a blogosphere (truly, a site to get your head wrapped around).

Next week's pseudo-scientific hypothesis: the world will end as the result of flaccid brains.

Abortionists: my take

It goes beyond even that they are "non-human" (?) or "non-person", but more, non "child of God"...

The zygote itself, sans eyespot or even rudimentary brain stem is still one of God's "sparrows"; as the Gloria Patri states "all creatures, here below"...

The abortionist isn't trying to murder man; he is trying to murder God.

By the way, have you caught the latest? I am burning to the core of my existence. Intimidation, indeed!

SEV

S.O.G.: Deux de pas

The sandaled one brustled about the dank cavern. Grey dust was thick in the air, and above his cavernous ruin its clouds danced on the bright beams of a sun, reflected from that dead, dusty moon, far, far above.

Bright white light was at the entry-way bathing its rocky welcome mat, and the clouds of dust rose like shadows in the night, transparent in luminosity, yet illuminous still in such a dark and dusty place to eyes so long veiled in the darkness of a this, their home; their cave buried deep in this field of battle.

All about was activity.

The wearer's of veil were forbidden from this place, for their mouths knew no discretion. And discretion was key in these times.

"This warrior is a fool. Tonight we wait, as many moons have come and gone, and still...we wait. The enemy is mighty, but he is a fool. He does not recognize that there are those in the world who will be patient. Who will await their turn. It is God's way!," said the tall one "he has waited many years for his justice to be served, and eternity is but a fastidious dream in short afternoon nap for our Father above."

His friend there with him listened as always, attentively. They'd been together since the early wars...where there was fast victory, and a victory that was assured against the red star.

It had not been the case for a number of years. There was this incessant, numbing wait. Waiting for opportunity that seemed never to present itself. Waiting for a break of daylight.

"You are right, wise one. We must wait for the time...and I feel it is near, when our enemy will slip...one break of daylight, granted by God, and we will strike! Like an eel captures its prey from ocean depth, we will rise from this cavern and strike! Praise God. Victory will be ours!".

With that phrase, the dust rose higher as there was a frenzy of enlivened activity. Troops all about them stamped in the dust and in muffled cry they rose, weapons in air, and cursed this enemy who had driven them to this sub-earth hell.


********************************
In a place far from this sub-terranian hell-hole, the peacock strutted his usual strut again. Arists of the "make" "up", were making him up, royally. His greyish, putty look that would ordinarily drive even the leper away was now replaced with the bright colors usually reserved for the women-folk when they'd dress for finding a mate, or for impressing one another.

"Tonight, I hit the airwaves. Tonight, I make the speech that will unite my people. Together, we will bring our nation back to its senses. Away. Away from this maddening war envisioned by childish fools! So much in this world needs attention. Like the spoiled child, our enemy beckons...screams really, in tantrum. As my wise, old pap (and, esteemed predecessor) used to say 'give the child attention, and fuel the tantrum; ignore him, and choke its embers'...my father was such a wise man. He knew his stuff; and tonight, I will make him very proud", this former man of Congress remembered his glory days for a moment, went it was he in the spotlight...when family dynasty was a very real thing. Men close to the great one, that President who'd brought them through such tough and evil times.

He'd had enough of the makeup artists (for they were a bit too close to home), and he rose from his chair like a sinking giant, ready to return to former trimph.

"Mr. VP, do not go on that stage," shouted his monkey-handler "your collar, it still has tissue all about. Here, let me fix it for you!", Tina had always taken care of the aging and bloated politician, as if he were her very own hubby (and, in many ways, he was - for she had no life outside the political ring) "here, let me take care of those before you get powder-cake on your lovely, white color."

He looked at her, adoringly. "I'll see you at our Bible study sister. Now wish me luck. I'm giving our populace the very gates of hell".

And like the muddled peacock-soldier he was, the dodering, old politician rose to a stage set by other's practicing the craft of the liberal guild.

Tonight was truly a defining moment for the beaten giant.

Tongiht he would speak to that enemy in the cave.

Saints of the Godless

He paraded about like a Peacock.

Instead of feathers of such bright, Peacock color, here this man was rather bland.

With skin that looked like day-old putty, and the countenance to go with it, he did not seem the classical image of a Saint.

Yet, where this concept of secular cannonization is concerned, the Saint owes the marks in the book of Sainthood to the causes he represents.

Too often drunk (or drunk with that natural "high" that only hippies can grasp), his complexion was no doubt a reflection on the lifestyle he had led.

His cause was of the usual sort (for "they" had a cause for everything).

When he ran down the list of things to be "for", he had a real challenge in personalizing one for such a strutting example of bird, even where all bloated-breasted birds are concerned.

There were the people for the animals, and those dedicated to freeing Mandela. There were those who wish to clothe the naked (including naked animals), and those who wanted a Global Village. There was Greenpeace and its attempt to install a global air-conditioning system; or the Weathermen, who wanted to change the path of the wind.

Some men harness the winds, while the child curses its path and wishes to change it; turn it on and off for kite flying and other such life "events".

Such is the way of the spoiled children.

Their way, is a way of tantrum; and of parents who too easily give in.

And you could see it in his peers...in the other's who'd already attained Sainthood.

There was Abbe Hoffman, and Angela Davis. There were the Symbonese Liberation Army and the Chicago Seven.

Lest we never forget that paragon of Saints who went simply by "X".

Those latest seekers of this esteemed accord seem to focus so much on saving the planet.

"Global warming will kill us all. And you wish to fight your silly wars against terror. Really!"

But global warming was taken, and frankly, not a good cause for a Peacock.

So he strutted, with feather, like the fronds of a fern, glistening in the wind.

"My cause will come to me, just as my people. I will be their King, and over this cause, we will reign, supreme.".

And so he spent his days, strutting, glistening and waiting for his cause to come to him; his robes, and his place in the liberal hall of glory would be assured just as his cause becomes that of the ephemeral "celeb".

And in the wings, he paced, this white robed "Saint" of an order not unlike the Peacock; his feet were dusty, and the tired, worn leather of sandal cut deep...but his cause was not one for a communal salvation. For him, salvation rested solely in a God already fat from the spilled blood of war.

"My day is upon me," thought the tall, lanky, bearded one.

"My day is here."

Another tribute to N. G.

In the spirit of Nikki Giovanni I offer another poem.

Ken Blackwell's Dog

Kenneth Blackwell,
I bet it was your dog,
Your dog you S.O.B,
Your dog who did what dogs do
Right outside my door.

Mark Mallory's dog doesn't do that.
Mark Mallory's dog hugs people.
Mark Mallory's dog walks with people.
Mark Mallory's dog talks to people.

Kenneth Blackwell,
Your dog thinks you're white.
So your dog did what dogs do
Right outside my door.

Until I came home today I didn't know,
I didn't know you lived next door,
I didn't know you had a dog.
Kenneth Blackwell you S.O.B.

A Clerihew

Sean Hannity,
Of humble roots and burgeoning vanity,
Does not grasp Humanae Vitae,
But knows by heart veni vidi vice.

Definition of a Clerihew

(See inspiration for this Clerihew here)

Bain of the Frother Reborn

"Gather, here at my feet, to hear the tale of a chameleon's vapid retreat," the old fellow's eyes were wide and blue, his white beard flowing like river rapids, and his staff was raised to both welcome, and remind.

"Tis the tale of a creature, feared far and wide, for his ability to persuade, to cantor, to chide. His laugh was to laud, his smile abetting fraud, even sin; tis the tale of a glutton, of a monster, maudlin".

"He lived where he wished, and he went as he pleased. His rancor, so fat, his philosophy...diseased!

The Frothers they lived, and lived as they pleased. They stole from each other, and drove wise men to their knees.

This group plagued the land, like locust and frog, of epic proportion, a philosophy of fraud.

They were liars and cheats, these Frothers they were. Filthy and diseased, in both body and soul; they were worse than the leech, more invasive than fleas.

If given a chance, they'd infect all of man, with their poisoned, sick thoughts, their pestilence a machine against man YES! they would wrought.

Together the normals made impassioned plea, to return to the old day, to reject Frother's new way.

But the Frother kept twisting, infecting with sleaze, the hapless good people of virtue and once free.

The Frother enslaves with Lucifer's promise, of a world set free if only they would follow.

'Adopt brave new world, find life even in death, for in killing an innocent, self righteous Frothers find breath'.

And so would go the Frother and his plea.

Vast millions would follow, for their world is so cool, that filthy old Frother, and his maggot-like stool.

They'd take on the form of beauty and lore, to tempt all the hapless, to trick and to scorn.

The weak would succumb and the Frother would grow, his multitudes expanding, a kingdom of of sloven rube so demanding.

Would there be any hope for the normals this day? Their hope beyond this lies in their faith, but in this life only Frothers - Frothers who stench of the wraith.

And so go the normals, to here and beyond. They are chased by the devils, for a heart so pure is the envy of Frother, yet the Frother's great quod.

So it is this purity, that stands so opposed, to the Frother's wild ambling, the tweak at his nose.

He will run and he'll chase that beauty divine, but never attain it, a devil's thought like banshee will whine.

Come back to me children, come back one day...and I'll tell you the story of a Frother's last day".

Like a vapor the old man of white he faded in woods, white beard, white robe into white rapids did he fold.

And the children did go on dark, wooded path, with pure fear in their heart of the Frother's wild dance.