Category Archives: rants

The War Prayer, by Mark Twain

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Mark Twainvia Daily Kos. Twain would not permit this to be published until after his death, and given the potential for blowback I think we can all understand why. It reminds me of nothing so much as William S. Burroughs’ Thanksgiving Prayer. Watch the film on YouTube here.

O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.

O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

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pic o’ the day: parenting lite

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segway into parenting 

This is rather reminiscent of those “condensed bedtime stories” designed so that busy parents won’t have to spend much of their precious time with their precious offspring. Looks like somebody needs a little lecture on safety and a large one on not looking like an ass in public.

Where does she put the latte?

From a livejournal of faraway and exotic Seattle, via reddit.

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the seven stages of menopause

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via Archie, from whom I ruthlessly rent this image. Sue me, O Patriarchal One (IF you dare!)!

the seven dwarves of menopause

work out your road rage here

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smash! crash!

Instead of on innocent rollerbladers such as myself.

Because I will cut you, bitch!

Notorious novelist Chuck Pahowdoyouspellthatianuk has a new book out, but more importantly a new internet timewaster! Click here to play the Rant Game, which is all about causing the biggest possible car crash. My sister should be a natural!

concert etiquette and the hipster sombrero

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 Bing Crosby's hipster sombrero

Attention hipsters: Bing Crosby called. He wants his hat back.

The very first thing I said to Jeff was, “I didn’t realize that stupid hats were compulsory in hipsterism.” But, alas, they are, as a glance around us could tell.

Seriously, these things make those fake-fur cowboy hats you win at carnivals look like bowlers, dignity-wise and comparatively speaking. Whether composed of papier-mache made by artsie soon-to-be-ex girlfriends (once the guys parse the sublimated hostility expressed in the undeniably hideous chapeau), hand crafted  and painted felt from Granville Island artistes, or generic polyblend from a secondhand shop or Sears old men’s department, it appears that this ridonkulous stingybrim hat is a must-wear for this season’s male hipsters.

Which is bad news for concertgoers such as myself.

Not half stingy enough, I’m telling you.

Of course, it must be admitted that Feist, as a concert experience, rather sucks, so missing it because of the cranial fashion trends of neurasthenic, underfed singles wasn’t exactly a tragic loss, but still. You know that feeling you get, listening to her album, that her voice is too delicate an instrument to make it through an entire concert? Well that feeling is accurate: it can’t. It goes away about 2/3 into the performance and never comes back. It’s like that Brady Bunch episode where Peter’s voice is changing and they have to record the big single…painful.

When she forgot the words to her own songs and did her little Ashlee Simpson “maybe they won’t notice” jig, it would have been amusing to have been able to have watched.

Instead, I snuck peeks between the brim of the obviously balding guy two rows below and the aggressively spiked ‘do of the Sanjaya Lives activist in the row below him. The women at this concert don’t appear to have even eaten in the last three weeks, and could hardly be accused of taking up too much space, least of all with their stridently ironed hair or flapper-like headbands. Nope, it’s repression by the patriarchy, with dinky little hats.

Is that a metaphor?