quote o’ the day: there are three kinds of men

Will Rogers, yo!Stolen, again, from Archie’s Archive (or is that aerchie’s aerchive? I can’t do Latin on this keyboard, I don’t think Firefox supports it!).

There are three kinds of men:

  1. The ones that learn by reading.
  2. The few who learn by observation.
  3. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence.

~~Will Rogers

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Technorati me!

pervy pilgrims punished!

I guess this is just not my day for taking the high road, eh? I seem to have made a complete recovery from dignity, and in record time! Ah well, best to plunge ahead before this is totally out of date.

wig wearing wenchWell, it’s already kinda sorta over by several centuries, but it doesn’t seem to have hit the blogosphere yet in any major way, so I’m claiming it. What we have here is an article about the kinds of sexual crimes the Pilgrims had in their laws, and the kind and number and,  in several cases, names, of the people who transgressed those laws, along with some fun assorted tales of what happened to them after that.

It is instructive to note that a good 50% or more of these crimes take place regularly in the bathrooms and on the dance floor at Celebrities, but that’s neither here nor there. We shall not even mention the Pumpjack, because that’s more appropriate for a discussion of the punishment than the crimeChained Male. Yes, don’t kid yourself; ain’t nothing the Pilgrim Fathers of America liked to see as much as a Pilgrim Mother or Pilgrim Young’un of America trussed up like a gimp and bent over in a set of stocks.

It cannot be said (as it is of those whose sole knowledge of this period is that one Demi Moore movie) that they punished the victims rather than the perpetrators, but they didn’t believe in letting them feel left out, either, as you can see from this excerpt of the full MSNBC article.

Leviticus provided their guidance and that Old Testament book is not exactly nuanced. Sodomy? Death. Bestiality? Death. Man has sex with his daughter-in-law? Death. Adultery? Death. You get the picture.

The laws of Plymouth Colony echo Leviticus. You could be sentenced to death for sodomy, rape, buggery and, for a time, adultery. (Sodomy and buggery might be synonymous to us, but buggery apparently referred more to bestiality.)

Some Christian preachers today quote Leviticus 20, approvingly arguing that both the Old and New Testament are the infallible word of God.

And on his farm he had a sheep…
In practice, though, even the Pilgrims did not typically enforce death for sex. In fact, only one person was put to death for a sex crime in the colony, poor Thomas Graunger, a teenage farm boy who, perhaps flush with the surge of hormones, turned to those he knew best. His story could make you look at the Thanksgiving turkey in a whole new way.

Governor William Bradford recounted the tale:

“He was this year detected of buggery, and indicted for the same, with a mare, a cow, two goats, five sheep, two calves and a turkey … He was first discovered by one that accidentally saw his lewd practice towards the mare. (I forbear particulars.) Being upon it examined and committed, in the end he not only confessed the fact with that beast at that time, but sundry times before and at several times with all the rest of the forenamed in his indictment.”

As punishment, he was forced to watch all the animals killed. At first, the court had a problem figuring out which sheep Thomas favored — sheep looking pretty much alike — but Thomas helpfully pointed out his sex partners. After being killed, they were buried in a pit, and then Thomas himself was hanged. If you wonder what the animals did to deserve it, Leviticus was cited by the court: “If a man lie with a beast, he shall surely be put to death; and ye shall slay the beast.”

Though Thomas was the only person executed Hiya Pilgrim, new in town?for a sex crime, punishments were still brutal. Even for lesser crimes, like fornication, you could receive whippings, brandings, wearing a Hawthorne-esque scarlet letter, time in the stocks, fines and banishment. Yet if court records are any indication, there was no shortage of colonists willing to tempt fate. 

Read the rest here

the wit and wisdom of the Simpsons

to alcohol!

Parents are always complaining that there is nothing educational, life-affirming or decent in children’s television programming. Usually right before they fire up yet another round of Grand Theft Auto.

In any case, we here at the ol’ raincoaster blog beg to differ. There is, in fact, an excellent cartoon show which teaches kids the real life lessons that they will come to rely on as they learn to make their way in this crazy, mixed-up world we live in.

Lessons like “When adults hate their jobs they don’t quit. They just do them really, really half-assed.”

From West Egg via Fark:

Homer to Billy Corgan (of the Smashing Pumpkins): “Thanks to your gloomy, depressing music, my children no longer hope for the future I can not afford to give them.”
Corgan: “Yeah, we try to make a difference.”

Homer: The code of the schoolyard, Marge! The rules that teach a boy to be a man. Let’s see. [enumerates them on his fingers] Don’t tattle. Always make fun of those different from you. Never say anything, unless you’re sure everyone feels exactly the same way you do. What else…
The whole cast

Lisa: [sigh] I’ve got to stop being so petty. I should be Alison’s friend, not her competitor. I mean…she is a wonderful person…
Bart: Way to go, Lis. I mean, why compete with someone who’s just going to kick your butt anyway?
Lisa: [pause] I prefer my phrasing.

Homer: So, I realized that being with my family is more important than being cool.
Bart: Dad, what you just said was powerfully uncool.
Homer: You know what the song says: “It’s hip to be square”.
Lisa: That song is so lame.
Homer: So lame that it’s… cool?
Bart+Lisa: No.
Marge: Am I cool, kids?
Bart+Lisa: No.
Marge: Good. I’m glad. And that’s what makes me cool, not caring, right?
Bart+Lisa: No.
Marge: Well, how the hell do you be cool? I feel like we’ve tried everything here.
Homer: Wait, Marge. Maybe if you’re truly cool, you don’t need to be told you’re cool.
Bart: Well, sure you do.
Lisa: How else would you know?

unclear on the concept

stolen from Gawker. Location, location, location!

Not Chick Lit...Chick Lit.

the biggest, bestest Bond Girl of all

kiss kiss bang bang 

And with the best chest, if you ask me.

In the realm of carnal beauty there is no shortage of icons. From Helen of Troy to Brigitte Bardot to Carmen Electra, the competition has always been brutal and the loser taken hindmost…or, wait…you know what I mean.

At the very pinnacle of sexual desirability are the Bond Girls. From the blonde, slinky Honey Ryder to the brunette, slinky Vesper Lynd, Bond Girls have always been seen as the very definition of female hotness, driving men cooler than Bond into raging hormone frenzies and irrationally long wait times at NetFlix. Their faces and bodies have launched a million suavetés, convincing Red State palookas and sub-Arctic lumberjacks alike that all they need to do is look good in the monkey suit and drink Martinis and the ladies will come swarming.

Bond and girlsAnd we will, you know.

I was at the Urban Mixer West End Martini Tour, along with a hundred perfect, and perfectly friendly, strangers, and quite a variety of garb was on display; we had some people in jeans, we had many in suits and cocktail dresses, and we had one man in a tuxedo.

And he was surrounded by women, all night. Are you taking notes, boys?

For the record, my Bond Girl name is Faith Mountain. Dayum, I could do better than that; lessee, um, uh, well, how about Jeanine ToniqueButter Tartt? Pandora Box?

In any case, I ran across this on the Guardian site, and it’s one of the funniest things I’ve read in ages. As always with Jeanette Winterson, I’m not sure I agree but I do enjoy. It’s well-written, it’s witty, and it is very well-informed. The research must have been gruelling, poor thing.

And as anyone ’round these parts could tell you, if you want an honest evaluation of girls, ask a lesbian.

The Biggest Bond Girl of All:

My mission, and I chose to accept it, was to watch Bond movies and summon up some firepower on the Bond women. I could gun down the pathetic sexism of early Bond, or the patronising raised eyebrow of mid-Bond, and we could detonate the tortured hero of Brosnan Bond, and, guess what? I will. But first, let’s agree that Bond movies are fabulous fun.

I don’t know which I enjoy more – the cars or the girls. I didn’t buy my 3-litre BMW because I saw Goldeneye, but I was very upset when Bond got the Z8 in The World Is Not Enough. Why? I can’t afford to spend £80,000 on a car, even though I long for a champagne cooler under the handbrake. Driving round Cheltenham without one is a mini-roundabout too far. If I knew there was a Dom Perignon ’53 ready to drink on touchdown in the multistorey car park, I would feel less like machine-gunning Burger King, as I pass it for the 20th time in a traffic labyrinth that could have been devised by Dr No