Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
We Are One Debris
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Discarded outside by an errant child
Culturally appropriates among the leaves
It seems to want to join its fallen brothers
Raw and natural in their native state
In multicultural deconstructions
Like, you know, all spiritual and stuff
Becoming one existential leaf-mold
Filtered through November’s hipster glasses
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Welding and Philosophy
Lawrence Hall Hall, HSG
Mhal46184@aol.com
Welding and Philosophy
Recently a candidate for public office stated that America needs fewer philosophers and more welders.
Someone countered this allegation, and then someone else counter-countered, and then I turned the page and read the funnies.
One concludes that those promoting this artificial quarrel are neither welders nor philosophers, for while not all philosophers are welders, all welders are philosophers.
“Philosophy” (I’m told the word is Greek; I don’t know any Greek beyond “Kyrie Eleison.”) means, quite simply, love of wisdom. By extension, philosophy applies to rational thought.
Roget’s International Thesaurus, 3rd Edition, 1962 lists 68 elementary metals, 101 alloy metals, and eight leaf metals. This fifty-year-old book, an ordinary desk reference for any reader, mentions 177 different metals. A welder would respond with “Only 177? What a quaint old book. This must be for children, for there are many more metals than that.” The welder knows this because he is a philosopher, a lover of wisdom.
Welding is the science of applied metallurgy. A welder accomplishes a lifetime of study and a whole lot of rational thinking in order to cut, bend, blend, and shape those 177+ metals or any combination thereof in the ways he (or she) wants. The welder does not cut, bend, blend, or shape those metals without a plan. He cannot plan to cut, bend, blend, or shape metals without a deep knowledge of metallurgy, electricity, chemistry, physics, geometry, gasses, health, safety, and goodness knows what else. A welder might cut, bend, blend, and shape metals on a high building on a high mountain, where the changing air means he must adjust his chemistry, or far beneath the waves, where he must adjust his chemistry, know all about deep-water diving, and watch out for sharks.
A welder must also ask himself if he may with good conscience cut, bend, blend, and shape metals for specific purposes. If he is part of a team maintaining an oil field his conscience is clear, for despite the facile opinions – hardly rational thoughts - of the shallow-minded, drilling for oil is a very good thing. Without oil we don’t exist. If, however, a welder is asked to help construct a gallows, a bomb, a warship, or some other engine for the destruction of his fellow humans he will want to search his soul in the matter. Sergeant Kalashnikov may have developed his rifle with only the safety of the Soviet state in mind, but in the end neither he nor the Soviet State could control his invention, which has since been used against the Soviet State, its successor state, and lots of other folks.
To infer, then, that a welder is not a philosopher is a failure in philosophy, a failure to think, a failure to love wisdom. One might as well (or unwell) say that a woman cannot be a mother because she is also a daughter and a doctor, that a pilot cannot also be a cowboy and a merchant, or that Saint Paul could not be an Apostle because he was also a tentmaker and a Roman citizen. All humans, as Plato is said to have said (I’ll ask him the next time I see him), by nature want to know things. Knowledge does not come packaged in discrete categories. Thus, a farmer is by nature a biologist, chemist, geologist, and lots of other things, and to put all this knowledge together, that is, to synthesize it, he must also be a philosopher. Dreams and wishes and hopes and ideologies do not make the corn grow.
A politician who makes a public statement suggesting that philosophers and welders are discrete categories of being is either not thinking or is thinking malevolently. Perhaps the politician does not want philosophers – that is, ordinary thinkers – because they might examine his finances, his writings and speeches, his ideologies, and his actions with and against others, and determine for themselves whether or not he is worthy to represent them.
Roman legend speaks of Cincinnatus, a farmer and a wise man (for they are the same thing), who was plowing his field when a deputation of citizens came to ask him to lead Rome and save the City from invaders and from its factions. So Cincinnatus left his plow, took his cloak from the fence post where he had laid it, and went to rule Rome for a year. When the year was over, and Rome was saved, Cincinnatus returned to his farm, flung his old cloak over the same fence post, and continued his plowing.
That’s the stuff – not a philosopher-king, but a philosopher-worker.
Tyrannies cannot exist if there are philosophers; republics cannot exist without them.
-30-
Mhal46184@aol.com
Welding and Philosophy
Recently a candidate for public office stated that America needs fewer philosophers and more welders.
Someone countered this allegation, and then someone else counter-countered, and then I turned the page and read the funnies.
One concludes that those promoting this artificial quarrel are neither welders nor philosophers, for while not all philosophers are welders, all welders are philosophers.
“Philosophy” (I’m told the word is Greek; I don’t know any Greek beyond “Kyrie Eleison.”) means, quite simply, love of wisdom. By extension, philosophy applies to rational thought.
Roget’s International Thesaurus, 3rd Edition, 1962 lists 68 elementary metals, 101 alloy metals, and eight leaf metals. This fifty-year-old book, an ordinary desk reference for any reader, mentions 177 different metals. A welder would respond with “Only 177? What a quaint old book. This must be for children, for there are many more metals than that.” The welder knows this because he is a philosopher, a lover of wisdom.
Welding is the science of applied metallurgy. A welder accomplishes a lifetime of study and a whole lot of rational thinking in order to cut, bend, blend, and shape those 177+ metals or any combination thereof in the ways he (or she) wants. The welder does not cut, bend, blend, or shape those metals without a plan. He cannot plan to cut, bend, blend, or shape metals without a deep knowledge of metallurgy, electricity, chemistry, physics, geometry, gasses, health, safety, and goodness knows what else. A welder might cut, bend, blend, and shape metals on a high building on a high mountain, where the changing air means he must adjust his chemistry, or far beneath the waves, where he must adjust his chemistry, know all about deep-water diving, and watch out for sharks.
A welder must also ask himself if he may with good conscience cut, bend, blend, and shape metals for specific purposes. If he is part of a team maintaining an oil field his conscience is clear, for despite the facile opinions – hardly rational thoughts - of the shallow-minded, drilling for oil is a very good thing. Without oil we don’t exist. If, however, a welder is asked to help construct a gallows, a bomb, a warship, or some other engine for the destruction of his fellow humans he will want to search his soul in the matter. Sergeant Kalashnikov may have developed his rifle with only the safety of the Soviet state in mind, but in the end neither he nor the Soviet State could control his invention, which has since been used against the Soviet State, its successor state, and lots of other folks.
To infer, then, that a welder is not a philosopher is a failure in philosophy, a failure to think, a failure to love wisdom. One might as well (or unwell) say that a woman cannot be a mother because she is also a daughter and a doctor, that a pilot cannot also be a cowboy and a merchant, or that Saint Paul could not be an Apostle because he was also a tentmaker and a Roman citizen. All humans, as Plato is said to have said (I’ll ask him the next time I see him), by nature want to know things. Knowledge does not come packaged in discrete categories. Thus, a farmer is by nature a biologist, chemist, geologist, and lots of other things, and to put all this knowledge together, that is, to synthesize it, he must also be a philosopher. Dreams and wishes and hopes and ideologies do not make the corn grow.
A politician who makes a public statement suggesting that philosophers and welders are discrete categories of being is either not thinking or is thinking malevolently. Perhaps the politician does not want philosophers – that is, ordinary thinkers – because they might examine his finances, his writings and speeches, his ideologies, and his actions with and against others, and determine for themselves whether or not he is worthy to represent them.
Roman legend speaks of Cincinnatus, a farmer and a wise man (for they are the same thing), who was plowing his field when a deputation of citizens came to ask him to lead Rome and save the City from invaders and from its factions. So Cincinnatus left his plow, took his cloak from the fence post where he had laid it, and went to rule Rome for a year. When the year was over, and Rome was saved, Cincinnatus returned to his farm, flung his old cloak over the same fence post, and continued his plowing.
That’s the stuff – not a philosopher-king, but a philosopher-worker.
Tyrannies cannot exist if there are philosophers; republics cannot exist without them.
-30-
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini-as-a-Hippie Complex
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini Complex
Can you remember the last time you visited someone’s house and it didn’t have all those hippie commandments posted all over the walls? You know, those pretend-antique signs telling you to do stuff, like “DANCE AS IF NO ONE IS LOOKING.”
The logical rejoinder would be “Why the (Newark) should I?” but then you’d be talking back to a sign.
And then there is “EAT. LOVE. PRAY.”
Really, does anyone need a made-in-China sign tacked to the wall in order to remember to eat? One longs to see a sign that says “STARVE. HATE. INDULGE IN VAGUE, FUZZY THOUGHTS.”
People’s walls are beginning to look like jail reception areas, or maybe a cosmic boot camp, only with crystals and some groovy Peter, Paul, and Mary sounds instead of “NO SMOKING,” “REMAIN SEATED,” “NO TALKING,” and “STAND ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS.”
Here’s another Miz Bossy Beatnik life instruction: “LIFE ISN’T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS. IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.” Well, just as you wish, but if you dance in the rain around here you’re likely to get struck by lightning.
“LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED.” Oh, I dunno, something to eat, clothes, shelter – these are needful too
“DO NOT FOLLOW WHERE THE PATH MAY LEAD. GO INSTEAD WHERE THERE IS NO PATH AND LEAVE A TRAIL.” The problem here is that the National Park Service posts their own signs telling you not to do any such thing.
“FOLLOW YOUR HEART.” Aw, now, couldn’t you follow your pancreas instead?
‘THINK DEEPLY, SPEAK GENTLY, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH A LOT, WORK HARD, GIVE FREELY, AND BE KIND.” Wait, wait, don’t tell me – that’s from the Bible. Or Shakespeare. Or NCIS.
“BREATHE BELIEVE EMBRACE SHARE SMILE LOVE LIVE LAUGH CREATE TRUST CARE BREATHE CARE SING.” Yes, I believe those sentiments come from the Internal Revenue Service. Or maybe that was a comforting little something Sergeant Schneider sang as a lullaby to us lads at Camp Pendleton.
Even Christmas candies now tell us what to do. The foil wrapper around a chocolate ordered me to “HIT SNOOZE X 5.” The sequel to that would be my boss advising me that my services are no longer required.
Another wrapper instructed me to “GET LOST ON PURPOSE.” Happily, I’m not a truck driver.
And another: “BECAUSE YOU CAN.” Because you can what? Is there a cause that goes with that because? Is there a moral or ethical sanction functioning here?
Only one bossy sign would sound just right: “TAKE DOWN THE BOSSY SIGNS TELLING PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.”
Let us return to decorating our walls with lovely pictures instead of with edicts. Something classy, like dogs playing poker.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini Complex
Can you remember the last time you visited someone’s house and it didn’t have all those hippie commandments posted all over the walls? You know, those pretend-antique signs telling you to do stuff, like “DANCE AS IF NO ONE IS LOOKING.”
The logical rejoinder would be “Why the (Newark) should I?” but then you’d be talking back to a sign.
And then there is “EAT. LOVE. PRAY.”
Really, does anyone need a made-in-China sign tacked to the wall in order to remember to eat? One longs to see a sign that says “STARVE. HATE. INDULGE IN VAGUE, FUZZY THOUGHTS.”
People’s walls are beginning to look like jail reception areas, or maybe a cosmic boot camp, only with crystals and some groovy Peter, Paul, and Mary sounds instead of “NO SMOKING,” “REMAIN SEATED,” “NO TALKING,” and “STAND ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS.”
Here’s another Miz Bossy Beatnik life instruction: “LIFE ISN’T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS. IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.” Well, just as you wish, but if you dance in the rain around here you’re likely to get struck by lightning.
“LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED.” Oh, I dunno, something to eat, clothes, shelter – these are needful too
“DO NOT FOLLOW WHERE THE PATH MAY LEAD. GO INSTEAD WHERE THERE IS NO PATH AND LEAVE A TRAIL.” The problem here is that the National Park Service posts their own signs telling you not to do any such thing.
“FOLLOW YOUR HEART.” Aw, now, couldn’t you follow your pancreas instead?
‘THINK DEEPLY, SPEAK GENTLY, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH A LOT, WORK HARD, GIVE FREELY, AND BE KIND.” Wait, wait, don’t tell me – that’s from the Bible. Or Shakespeare. Or NCIS.
“BREATHE BELIEVE EMBRACE SHARE SMILE LOVE LIVE LAUGH CREATE TRUST CARE BREATHE CARE SING.” Yes, I believe those sentiments come from the Internal Revenue Service. Or maybe that was a comforting little something Sergeant Schneider sang as a lullaby to us lads at Camp Pendleton.
Even Christmas candies now tell us what to do. The foil wrapper around a chocolate ordered me to “HIT SNOOZE X 5.” The sequel to that would be my boss advising me that my services are no longer required.
Another wrapper instructed me to “GET LOST ON PURPOSE.” Happily, I’m not a truck driver.
And another: “BECAUSE YOU CAN.” Because you can what? Is there a cause that goes with that because? Is there a moral or ethical sanction functioning here?
Only one bossy sign would sound just right: “TAKE DOWN THE BOSSY SIGNS TELLING PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.”
Let us return to decorating our walls with lovely pictures instead of with edicts. Something classy, like dogs playing poker.
-30-
Santa Claus Hijacks a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Santa Claus Being Bad
Santa Claus began Advent by hijacking a helicopter in Brazil.
A man dressed as the larcenous old elf hired a helicopter at a Sao Paulo airfield for a flight. Santa then forced the pilot to set the aircraft down in a rural area where he and that girl from Ipanema tied up the pilot, abandoned him, and flew away singing “And to all a good night!”
Suspicion immediately fell upon the USA’s jolly Secret Service, those merry pranksters loaded with booze and automatic weapons. If an undocumented helicopter appears in the presidential fleet, questions might be asked in Whoopsie’s Adult Night Club just off K Street in the Magic Kingdom of D.C.
Presidential candidate Donald Trump immediately blew to the occasion: “We’ve, got, y’see, these mobs of alien Santa Clauses flying over our borders and no one but I can stop ‘em.”
President-Elect Hillary Clinton denied receiving any campaign contributions from Santa Claus.
The president of Turkey, Tayyip Erdogan, threatened to shoot down the helicopter if it violated Turkish air space, Turkish air space being whatever Mr. Erdogan says it is.
President Vladimir Putin of Russia took off his shirt and punched out a shopping mall Santa in St. Petersburg.
Students at the University of Missouri demanded that reporters stop talking about Santa Claus pinching a helicopter since this takes attention away from them and their specialness.
The Dalai Lama said “Let us be one with the crystals of helicopterness so that the healing sands of peace and harmony may sift through the holistic sunrise of the optimal oversoul and actuate the full potential of my 501C.”
The United Nations voted a resolution blaming the helicopter theft on global warming, and sent Americans workers the bill.
Fox News demanded boots on the ground for nation-building at the North Pole. Fox News says boots on the ground because boots on the ground sounds ever so much nicer than saying young Americans are to be killed in yet another undeclared war.
Local television outlets all over the world labeled the helicopter hijacking iconic because the FCC requires them to use the term several times during every broadcast. They don’t know what it means; they just say it.
In response to the Santa helicopter threat, West Point armed all its cadets with semi-secret M24 Flying Pillows of Death.
Westboro (who don’t know how to spell “borough”) Not-Really-Baptist Church blamed Starbuck’s.
China declared the helicopter to be sovereign Chinese territory.
In the Hallmark Christmas movie version the helicopter hijacker is a newly-widowed father and stockbroker named Ridge whose adorable little daughter Chloe-Zoe is conflicted about why Santa Claus allowed her mother to die. Ridge didn’t really hijack a helicopter; he only rented it to make some plot-gap point to Chloe-Zoe. The helicopter pilot is Brooke, a spunky, independent, thirty-something single woman who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus. Ridge and Brooke meet-cute and then they hear jingle bells and fall in love and get married while snowflakes fall and Chloe-Zoe gives a thumbs-up to the generic central-casting clergyman whom she knows to be Santa Claus in disguise.
Santa Claus stealing a helicopter - that makes no more sense than people beating up each other for discount vegetable steamers for Christmas.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Santa Claus Being Bad
Santa Claus began Advent by hijacking a helicopter in Brazil.
A man dressed as the larcenous old elf hired a helicopter at a Sao Paulo airfield for a flight. Santa then forced the pilot to set the aircraft down in a rural area where he and that girl from Ipanema tied up the pilot, abandoned him, and flew away singing “And to all a good night!”
Suspicion immediately fell upon the USA’s jolly Secret Service, those merry pranksters loaded with booze and automatic weapons. If an undocumented helicopter appears in the presidential fleet, questions might be asked in Whoopsie’s Adult Night Club just off K Street in the Magic Kingdom of D.C.
Presidential candidate Donald Trump immediately blew to the occasion: “We’ve, got, y’see, these mobs of alien Santa Clauses flying over our borders and no one but I can stop ‘em.”
President-Elect Hillary Clinton denied receiving any campaign contributions from Santa Claus.
The president of Turkey, Tayyip Erdogan, threatened to shoot down the helicopter if it violated Turkish air space, Turkish air space being whatever Mr. Erdogan says it is.
President Vladimir Putin of Russia took off his shirt and punched out a shopping mall Santa in St. Petersburg.
Students at the University of Missouri demanded that reporters stop talking about Santa Claus pinching a helicopter since this takes attention away from them and their specialness.
The Dalai Lama said “Let us be one with the crystals of helicopterness so that the healing sands of peace and harmony may sift through the holistic sunrise of the optimal oversoul and actuate the full potential of my 501C.”
The United Nations voted a resolution blaming the helicopter theft on global warming, and sent Americans workers the bill.
Fox News demanded boots on the ground for nation-building at the North Pole. Fox News says boots on the ground because boots on the ground sounds ever so much nicer than saying young Americans are to be killed in yet another undeclared war.
Local television outlets all over the world labeled the helicopter hijacking iconic because the FCC requires them to use the term several times during every broadcast. They don’t know what it means; they just say it.
In response to the Santa helicopter threat, West Point armed all its cadets with semi-secret M24 Flying Pillows of Death.
Westboro (who don’t know how to spell “borough”) Not-Really-Baptist Church blamed Starbuck’s.
China declared the helicopter to be sovereign Chinese territory.
In the Hallmark Christmas movie version the helicopter hijacker is a newly-widowed father and stockbroker named Ridge whose adorable little daughter Chloe-Zoe is conflicted about why Santa Claus allowed her mother to die. Ridge didn’t really hijack a helicopter; he only rented it to make some plot-gap point to Chloe-Zoe. The helicopter pilot is Brooke, a spunky, independent, thirty-something single woman who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus. Ridge and Brooke meet-cute and then they hear jingle bells and fall in love and get married while snowflakes fall and Chloe-Zoe gives a thumbs-up to the generic central-casting clergyman whom she knows to be Santa Claus in disguise.
Santa Claus stealing a helicopter - that makes no more sense than people beating up each other for discount vegetable steamers for Christmas.
-30-
Christmas - It's All About Stealing Other People's Exploding Stuff
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Christmas – It’s All About Stealing Other People’s Exploding Stuff
Most people, the sort who have jobs and lives, first learned of the existence of they-don’t-really-hover-boards through news reports of house fires and robberies.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are battery-powered toys upon which the operator stands while the gadget wheels him or her about until its batteries perish. Then the operator charges the batteries until they explode and set fire to everything around them. They’re sort of like a certain American-made electric car, only with two wheels instead of four.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are expensive, flimsy, prone to self-arson, and useless. Naturally they are very desirable to those for whom Star Wars is their religion and Che Guevera is their prophet.
Doubtless there are deputations of the cartoon-tee-shirted appealing to city councils everywhere to commit millions of tax dollars to build they-don’t-really-hover-board parks so that, following the success of midnight basketball, the Republic might be saved from cultural and moral decay.
The theft of they-don’t-really-hover-boards has become as common as fist-fights in the Ukrainian parliament. In Wisconsin a man (so to speak) put a gun to a seven-year-old girl’s head in order to rob her of her it-doesn’t-really-hover-board. Thus the poor girl was endangered twice, first by a lemming parent who gave her an explosive device and then by a worm with a firearm.
There’s nothing that says “man” like stealing a toy from a child at gunpoint.
When that he-man takes the stolen it-doesn’t-really-hover-board to his room and its batteries start a fire that destroys all his Will Ferrell posters, will he sue the kid for microaggression?
Donald Trump will promise to stop all they-don’t-really-hover-boards at the borders, Marco Rubio will ask for the child’s credit card number, Bernie Sanders will demand free they-don’t-really-hover-boards for all the unemployed, Hillary Clinton will deny taking illegal campaign contributions from the little girl, Ted Cruz will blame Canada, Sinead O’Connor will blame the Pope, the President will blame the renegade culture of assault batteries, Moustache Guy on Fox News will blame public schools, Turkey will blame Russia, and Vladimir Putin will rip off his shirt and take down a Toys ‘R’ Us with one punch, maybe two.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Christmas – It’s All About Stealing Other People’s Exploding Stuff
Most people, the sort who have jobs and lives, first learned of the existence of they-don’t-really-hover-boards through news reports of house fires and robberies.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are battery-powered toys upon which the operator stands while the gadget wheels him or her about until its batteries perish. Then the operator charges the batteries until they explode and set fire to everything around them. They’re sort of like a certain American-made electric car, only with two wheels instead of four.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are expensive, flimsy, prone to self-arson, and useless. Naturally they are very desirable to those for whom Star Wars is their religion and Che Guevera is their prophet.
Doubtless there are deputations of the cartoon-tee-shirted appealing to city councils everywhere to commit millions of tax dollars to build they-don’t-really-hover-board parks so that, following the success of midnight basketball, the Republic might be saved from cultural and moral decay.
The theft of they-don’t-really-hover-boards has become as common as fist-fights in the Ukrainian parliament. In Wisconsin a man (so to speak) put a gun to a seven-year-old girl’s head in order to rob her of her it-doesn’t-really-hover-board. Thus the poor girl was endangered twice, first by a lemming parent who gave her an explosive device and then by a worm with a firearm.
There’s nothing that says “man” like stealing a toy from a child at gunpoint.
When that he-man takes the stolen it-doesn’t-really-hover-board to his room and its batteries start a fire that destroys all his Will Ferrell posters, will he sue the kid for microaggression?
Donald Trump will promise to stop all they-don’t-really-hover-boards at the borders, Marco Rubio will ask for the child’s credit card number, Bernie Sanders will demand free they-don’t-really-hover-boards for all the unemployed, Hillary Clinton will deny taking illegal campaign contributions from the little girl, Ted Cruz will blame Canada, Sinead O’Connor will blame the Pope, the President will blame the renegade culture of assault batteries, Moustache Guy on Fox News will blame public schools, Turkey will blame Russia, and Vladimir Putin will rip off his shirt and take down a Toys ‘R’ Us with one punch, maybe two.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
-30-
Prince Albert's Christmas
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Prince Albert’s Christmas
Even the best prepared among us cannot anticipate everything contingency, and so everyone finds himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral) in a series of traffic jams and shopping lines just before Christmas, feeling that perhaps Scrooge was right.
Advent, after all, is intended to be a season of quiet reflection, not a descent into the serial cruelties of a Secret Santa gift exchange. Cue Scrooge stealing Tiny Tim’s crutch.
And then there is the annual cycle of What Christmas is Really All About selfies on the telescreen, as if that topic weren’t covered far more accurately in the Gospels.
One cannot get through Advent without being told yet again that the happy little nonsense song about the twelve days of Christmas is a secret Catholic catechism. Sure, and each candy cane is poisoned by cackling vampire Jesuit Templar Masonic spies who are guardians of Jesus’ earthly DNA which they have concealed for centuries in a mysterious glowing brussels sprout buried in a Prince Albert can behind a convenience store directly across from Oak Island in Nova Scotia in a direct solar-lunar-astral line with Jerusalem which must be true because it was on tellyvision.
Heaven knows what dark mysteries silly men who ought to know better might find in “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Since your ‘umble scrivener has not been vouchsafed any new revelations about Christmas, he submits instead a few family-friendly, non-Scrooge, no-shopping-required wheezes suitable for Twelfth-Night merriment around a merry bonfire:
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, yes, son, we do.”
Small boy: “Then you’d better let him out before he suffocates!”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, no, son, we don’t.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Prince Albert is, like, you know, so yesterday. However, we do have a festive selection of cigars rolled from Cuban-seed tobacco by barefoot maidens who breathe clean mountain air and think pure thoughts. Now this cigar, the Hoya de Bulgaria, is a bargain at only $25 plus applicable taxes.”
Small boy: “I sure miss Prince Albert.”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Yes, and he needs to get out; people are waiting in line.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy making a prank call: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Receptionist: “You dialed the wrong number; this is the No Puffin hotline.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “A can of what?”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “I say, young chap, this is England. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “This is Newfoundland, lad. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin, eh.”
Small boy: “Eh?”
Whenever we hear a good joke, a real groaner, we think of those who would enjoy it. But sometimes we realize that a dear friend is no longer with us. This is as true during Advent or Christmas as any other time as we remember with sadness someone who was at the Christmas Eve liturgy last year is not here this year. And so the joke remains unsaid, or perhaps sent only in silence, as the candles are lit in the darkness. The universe is said to have no limits at all, so merry laughter too must a part of the eternal merry Christmas.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Prince Albert’s Christmas
Even the best prepared among us cannot anticipate everything contingency, and so everyone finds himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral) in a series of traffic jams and shopping lines just before Christmas, feeling that perhaps Scrooge was right.
Advent, after all, is intended to be a season of quiet reflection, not a descent into the serial cruelties of a Secret Santa gift exchange. Cue Scrooge stealing Tiny Tim’s crutch.
And then there is the annual cycle of What Christmas is Really All About selfies on the telescreen, as if that topic weren’t covered far more accurately in the Gospels.
One cannot get through Advent without being told yet again that the happy little nonsense song about the twelve days of Christmas is a secret Catholic catechism. Sure, and each candy cane is poisoned by cackling vampire Jesuit Templar Masonic spies who are guardians of Jesus’ earthly DNA which they have concealed for centuries in a mysterious glowing brussels sprout buried in a Prince Albert can behind a convenience store directly across from Oak Island in Nova Scotia in a direct solar-lunar-astral line with Jerusalem which must be true because it was on tellyvision.
Heaven knows what dark mysteries silly men who ought to know better might find in “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Since your ‘umble scrivener has not been vouchsafed any new revelations about Christmas, he submits instead a few family-friendly, non-Scrooge, no-shopping-required wheezes suitable for Twelfth-Night merriment around a merry bonfire:
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, yes, son, we do.”
Small boy: “Then you’d better let him out before he suffocates!”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, no, son, we don’t.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Prince Albert is, like, you know, so yesterday. However, we do have a festive selection of cigars rolled from Cuban-seed tobacco by barefoot maidens who breathe clean mountain air and think pure thoughts. Now this cigar, the Hoya de Bulgaria, is a bargain at only $25 plus applicable taxes.”
Small boy: “I sure miss Prince Albert.”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Yes, and he needs to get out; people are waiting in line.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy making a prank call: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Receptionist: “You dialed the wrong number; this is the No Puffin hotline.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “A can of what?”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “I say, young chap, this is England. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “This is Newfoundland, lad. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin, eh.”
Small boy: “Eh?”
Whenever we hear a good joke, a real groaner, we think of those who would enjoy it. But sometimes we realize that a dear friend is no longer with us. This is as true during Advent or Christmas as any other time as we remember with sadness someone who was at the Christmas Eve liturgy last year is not here this year. And so the joke remains unsaid, or perhaps sent only in silence, as the candles are lit in the darkness. The universe is said to have no limits at all, so merry laughter too must a part of the eternal merry Christmas.
-30-
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Thanksgiving - Places for Everyone
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Thanksgiving – Places for Everyone
Somehow there are places enough for everyone
A tectonic shifting of tableware
A tsunami of saucers, plates, and bowls
The good Thanksgiving and Christmas settings
A rare bottle of Chateau du Supermarket
Gallons of iced tea, and soda for the kids
So many at the children’s table this year
And who will now sit in Grandfather’s place?
This year he dines at that Table in Paradise
Where there are always places enough for everyone
Mhall46184@aol.com
Thanksgiving – Places for Everyone
Somehow there are places enough for everyone
A tectonic shifting of tableware
A tsunami of saucers, plates, and bowls
The good Thanksgiving and Christmas settings
A rare bottle of Chateau du Supermarket
Gallons of iced tea, and soda for the kids
So many at the children’s table this year
And who will now sit in Grandfather’s place?
This year he dines at that Table in Paradise
Where there are always places enough for everyone
Aves Lost and Found - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Aves Lost and Found
Like years one’s Aves softly slip away
Across the lips and heart as songs of love
Unlike lost years, one’s Aves come again
Mhall46184@aol.com
Aves Lost and Found
Like years one’s Aves softly slip away
Across the lips and heart as songs of love
Unlike lost years, one’s Aves come again
The Chestnut Street Cafe - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Chestnut Tree Café
Another glass or two of Victory gin
A drag on a Victory cigarette
A game of chess, idle conversation
Nothing to do now, and no place to go
A corner table just for them
Ungoods confessed and shriven by the State
Cautionary examples doing penance
Beneath the ever-busy telescreen
Purging themselves of ambiguities
Awaiting only the bullet of love
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Chestnut Tree Café
Another glass or two of Victory gin
A drag on a Victory cigarette
A game of chess, idle conversation
Nothing to do now, and no place to go
A corner table just for them
Ungoods confessed and shriven by the State
Cautionary examples doing penance
Beneath the ever-busy telescreen
Purging themselves of ambiguities
Awaiting only the bullet of love
Old Robes - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Robes
“Lest our old robes sit easier than our new”
-Macbeth II.iiii
A re-sale blazer is liturgical
The appointed vestment for ordinary time
Dignified, yet humble and comfortable
Vested in the sacristy at Goodwill
Five dollars’ worth of human dignity
Free of ornaments and advertisements
A good old coat, blessed in its past owner
Now tried before the looking glass, approved
Then out onto the altar of the world
To celebrate again the mass of life
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Robes
“Lest our old robes sit easier than our new”
-Macbeth II.iiii
A re-sale blazer is liturgical
The appointed vestment for ordinary time
Dignified, yet humble and comfortable
Vested in the sacristy at Goodwill
Five dollars’ worth of human dignity
Free of ornaments and advertisements
A good old coat, blessed in its past owner
Now tried before the looking glass, approved
Then out onto the altar of the world
To celebrate again the mass of life
Two Drowsy Old Dogs - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two Drowsy Old Dogs
The adventures are pretty much over now
And the field gear was turned in long ago
An old dog dozes in front of the fire
Dreaming of rabbits he chased as a pup
An old man dozes over an open book
Dreaming of what was, and what might have been
In letters, words, and lines upon a page
Shaped into mountains and rivers of fire
And sunrise over the rim of the world
Where awaits the greatest Adventure of all
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two Drowsy Old Dogs
The adventures are pretty much over now
And the field gear was turned in long ago
An old dog dozes in front of the fire
Dreaming of rabbits he chased as a pup
An old man dozes over an open book
Dreaming of what was, and what might have been
In letters, words, and lines upon a page
Shaped into mountains and rivers of fire
And sunrise over the rim of the world
Where awaits the greatest Adventure of all
The Dying Romantic Mathematician - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Halloween Storm - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Storm
October’s wind and rain are being bad
They beat against the windows and the walls
Demanding to be let inside the house
Then thunder and lightning from the darkness leap
And shout “Baroom! Barrrrrrroooom! Boom! Boom!” and “Boo!”
Small children burrow deeper beneath the covers
Along with Bunny, Bo-Peep-Sheep, and Bear
And giggle through the stormy night because
It’s just Old Thunder laughing like Santa Claus,
And October’s wind and rain, making life fun
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Storm
October’s wind and rain are being bad
They beat against the windows and the walls
Demanding to be let inside the house
Then thunder and lightning from the darkness leap
And shout “Baroom! Barrrrrrroooom! Boom! Boom!” and “Boo!”
Small children burrow deeper beneath the covers
Along with Bunny, Bo-Peep-Sheep, and Bear
And giggle through the stormy night because
It’s just Old Thunder laughing like Santa Claus,
And October’s wind and rain, making life fun
The Unbeliever's Rosary- Poem
The Unbeliever’s Rosary
On the Occasion of a Passing
Say:
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Then say:
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Followed by:
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
Then tie a stuffed toy to a chain-link fence, check your emails, take a selfie, and depart in peace.
The Deposit of Faith - a Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Deposit of Faith
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Our ancient Faith is a tangle of ruins
Where Aves and Paters are never heard
The only sounds now are ghosts arguing
Accusing each other of desecration
And keyboards clattering in ecstasies
Of outrage at synods droning in time
To the bowel sounds of bitter partisans
Other than gossip and mutual sneers
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Deposit of Faith
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Our ancient Faith is a tangle of ruins
Where Aves and Paters are never heard
The only sounds now are ghosts arguing
Accusing each other of desecration
And keyboards clattering in ecstasies
Of outrage at synods droning in time
To the bowel sounds of bitter partisans
Other than gossip and mutual sneers
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Twinky-Twank Jesus - a Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Twinky-Twank Jesus
These are my church clothes; it’s all about me
Dressed to praise Jesus in my sneaks and my tee
I’ve got my electric worship guitar
Drums, keyboard, and cymbals (but no sitar)
MY Bible all dressed in a fluffy pillow
I’ll clap and sing, and sway like a willow
I’ll wave my hands all up in the air
Which is good for drying my armpit hair
Twinky-twank is salvation, don’t you see
And Jesus is lucky to have precious me!
Mhall46184@aol.com
Twinky-Twank Jesus
These are my church clothes; it’s all about me
Dressed to praise Jesus in my sneaks and my tee
I’ve got my electric worship guitar
Drums, keyboard, and cymbals (but no sitar)
MY Bible all dressed in a fluffy pillow
I’ll clap and sing, and sway like a willow
I’ll wave my hands all up in the air
Which is good for drying my armpit hair
Twinky-twank is salvation, don’t you see
And Jesus is lucky to have precious me!
So Who's the Snowflake?
Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
So who’s the Snowflake?
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves…”
- Julius Caesar I.ii.140-141
A good citizen is always hesitant to believe anything that flashes across the little screen of The Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz). While respecting this caveat, the reports of students at something called Mizzou expressing anger that the murders of over 100 people in France displaced attention from the students’ hurt feelings are not surprising (http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-rise-of-the-college-crybullies-1447458587,
http://nypost.com/2015/11/13/sorry-kids-a-real-movement-needs-more-than-hurt-feelings/, http://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2015/11/14/mizzou-campus-activists-and-black-lives-matter-complain-about-paris-stealing-the-spotlight/.)
Most people have never been blessed with the opportunity to study at university. Last week some of the privileged few, alleging hurt feelings based on nyah-nyah he-called-me-a-bad-name moments never substantiated, demanded the submission of the university administration. Over hurt feelings. As in a Soviet show trial in the 1930s and 1940s the president abased himself and resigned. Unlike the sequel to a Soviet show trial, he was not shot.
And now the protesting Mizzouzi snowflakes – who weren’t treated even to a whiff of tear gas – are outraged that their look-at-me-me-me moment has expired as the world turns its attention to other young people, young people who were murdered during a sustained attack in Paris.
The immaturity and the bullying of Missouzi students has been well noted. However, none of this should be a surprise. What else have they ever known? That is how they were raised. Consider the adult – adult - role models the Mizzouzi students (so to speak) have known since infancy:
The Secret Service
Bill Cosby
The NFL
The Veterans’ Administration
Bradley / Chelsea Manning
General Petraeus and his flying harem
President Clinton
Senator Clinton
Al Sharpton
Al Gore
The Diocese of Boston
Black Friday shoppers who trample people to death
John Kerry and his band-aid Purple Heart
The 50% who don’t vote in presidential elections
The 90+% who don’t vote in school board elections
The Khardassians
Jerry Springer
That strange woman who twerks
The View
The Brothers Castro
Helicopter parents
The list could go on and on.
In sum, why should Junior be expected to show good manners and remove his cap at a funeral when his father doesn’t remove his, and his mother is taking a selfie? Why should Zoey Kloey restrain herself from yelling obscenities when that is how her grandmother expresses herself?
There are rumors that this is not consistently so – rumors that there are young people who want thoughtful sermons, not guitar sing-alongs; genuine challenges and risks of failure, not participation ribbons; Tolkien and Chesterton and Lewis and even Dostoyevsky, not coloring books; real music, not three-chord poseurs shrieking propaganda; soap and water and vigorous health, not self-disfigurement; a few turns with a pipe wrench instead of making a Power Pointless Presentation; sunlight slanting across the autumn woods, not vampire videos in a dark, unclean room; a day on the deer stand instead of smoking marijuana behind a dumpster.
Sadly, when young people do try to better themselves and grow up to take a man’s place or a woman’s place in the worlds, their efforts are often in defiance of the poor role modelling by the grownups around them.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
So who’s the Snowflake?
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves…”
- Julius Caesar I.ii.140-141
A good citizen is always hesitant to believe anything that flashes across the little screen of The Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz). While respecting this caveat, the reports of students at something called Mizzou expressing anger that the murders of over 100 people in France displaced attention from the students’ hurt feelings are not surprising (http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-rise-of-the-college-crybullies-1447458587,
http://nypost.com/2015/11/13/sorry-kids-a-real-movement-needs-more-than-hurt-feelings/, http://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2015/11/14/mizzou-campus-activists-and-black-lives-matter-complain-about-paris-stealing-the-spotlight/.)
Most people have never been blessed with the opportunity to study at university. Last week some of the privileged few, alleging hurt feelings based on nyah-nyah he-called-me-a-bad-name moments never substantiated, demanded the submission of the university administration. Over hurt feelings. As in a Soviet show trial in the 1930s and 1940s the president abased himself and resigned. Unlike the sequel to a Soviet show trial, he was not shot.
And now the protesting Mizzouzi snowflakes – who weren’t treated even to a whiff of tear gas – are outraged that their look-at-me-me-me moment has expired as the world turns its attention to other young people, young people who were murdered during a sustained attack in Paris.
The immaturity and the bullying of Missouzi students has been well noted. However, none of this should be a surprise. What else have they ever known? That is how they were raised. Consider the adult – adult - role models the Mizzouzi students (so to speak) have known since infancy:
The Secret Service
Bill Cosby
The NFL
The Veterans’ Administration
Bradley / Chelsea Manning
General Petraeus and his flying harem
President Clinton
Senator Clinton
Al Sharpton
Al Gore
The Diocese of Boston
Black Friday shoppers who trample people to death
John Kerry and his band-aid Purple Heart
The 50% who don’t vote in presidential elections
The 90+% who don’t vote in school board elections
The Khardassians
Jerry Springer
That strange woman who twerks
The View
The Brothers Castro
Helicopter parents
The list could go on and on.
In sum, why should Junior be expected to show good manners and remove his cap at a funeral when his father doesn’t remove his, and his mother is taking a selfie? Why should Zoey Kloey restrain herself from yelling obscenities when that is how her grandmother expresses herself?
There are rumors that this is not consistently so – rumors that there are young people who want thoughtful sermons, not guitar sing-alongs; genuine challenges and risks of failure, not participation ribbons; Tolkien and Chesterton and Lewis and even Dostoyevsky, not coloring books; real music, not three-chord poseurs shrieking propaganda; soap and water and vigorous health, not self-disfigurement; a few turns with a pipe wrench instead of making a Power Pointless Presentation; sunlight slanting across the autumn woods, not vampire videos in a dark, unclean room; a day on the deer stand instead of smoking marijuana behind a dumpster.
Sadly, when young people do try to better themselves and grow up to take a man’s place or a woman’s place in the worlds, their efforts are often in defiance of the poor role modelling by the grownups around them.
-30-
"At this Point, What Differend Does it Make?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
“At This Point, What Difference Does it Make?”
The Constitution, through a series of complexities including the Electoral College (and, hey, is their team going to a bowl game this season?), provides for the election of certain federal officials through a cloud of obscure words and run-on sentences, and a complete lack of paragraphing. Quick, now, sort this out:
The Electors shall meet in their respective states, and vote for President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the person voted for as Vice-President, and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, directed to the President of the Senate;-The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the votes shall be counted;-The person having the greatest number of votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person having such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the vote shall be taken by states…
Got all that?
This is only the beginning of an excerpt from Article II, modified by the 12th Amendment, itself later modified by the 20th Amendment. To understand the Constitution requires neither an attorney nor the Delphic Oracle, but a miracle. If our repeatedly patched-up, added-on, and torn-from Constitution were a building it couldn’t pass the plumbing code in Tupelo, Mississippi.
At present the Constitution seems much ignored anyway, with rule by executive and judicial fiat, and now selection of candidates by comedy programs on declining television networks.
Is there a presidential candidate in the last three or four election cycles who hasn’t been required to present himself or herself for an inquisition by talk shows, comedy shows, or the screaming coven on daytime teevee?
Imagine George Washington in a comedy sketch – “Okay, George, we’ve got this really funny set-up. You’re back at Jumonville Glen in 1754, okay, ha-ha…?”
Or President Truman – “Right, then, it’s 1945, late at night in the White House; you are in prayer for hours about whether to use the atomic bomb, and an aide sneaks up behind you and pops a balloon. What a classy network comedy moment, eh!”
Lyndon Johnson could guest on Gilligan’s Island in a skit about the Professor performing an emergency appendectomy on the President, bungled by Gilligan’s well-meaning attempts to help. The President then holds Gilligan up by his ears. Broadcast date 4 August 1964.
Given that broadcast television is declining, perhaps in 2019 potential candidates will be selected by the number of their electronic friends on MyFaceSpaceBook. President Justin Bieber right there in your in-box, pitching a shrieking hissy-fit so intense that his junior high school tattoos fly off.
In the meantime, stay tuned for next week’s Dancing with the Stars featuring Kim Jong Un.
On this Veterans’ Day we may well reflect on how all of us, especially young Americans in the military deployed in hot zones all over the world, deserve constitutional government, not arbitrary rule by personalities in two of our branches of government while most – there are noble exceptions - of the members of the third branch sit around, form committees, and investigate things without results.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
“At This Point, What Difference Does it Make?”
The Constitution, through a series of complexities including the Electoral College (and, hey, is their team going to a bowl game this season?), provides for the election of certain federal officials through a cloud of obscure words and run-on sentences, and a complete lack of paragraphing. Quick, now, sort this out:
The Electors shall meet in their respective states, and vote for President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the person voted for as Vice-President, and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, directed to the President of the Senate;-The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the votes shall be counted;-The person having the greatest number of votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person having such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the vote shall be taken by states…
Got all that?
This is only the beginning of an excerpt from Article II, modified by the 12th Amendment, itself later modified by the 20th Amendment. To understand the Constitution requires neither an attorney nor the Delphic Oracle, but a miracle. If our repeatedly patched-up, added-on, and torn-from Constitution were a building it couldn’t pass the plumbing code in Tupelo, Mississippi.
At present the Constitution seems much ignored anyway, with rule by executive and judicial fiat, and now selection of candidates by comedy programs on declining television networks.
Is there a presidential candidate in the last three or four election cycles who hasn’t been required to present himself or herself for an inquisition by talk shows, comedy shows, or the screaming coven on daytime teevee?
Imagine George Washington in a comedy sketch – “Okay, George, we’ve got this really funny set-up. You’re back at Jumonville Glen in 1754, okay, ha-ha…?”
Or President Truman – “Right, then, it’s 1945, late at night in the White House; you are in prayer for hours about whether to use the atomic bomb, and an aide sneaks up behind you and pops a balloon. What a classy network comedy moment, eh!”
Lyndon Johnson could guest on Gilligan’s Island in a skit about the Professor performing an emergency appendectomy on the President, bungled by Gilligan’s well-meaning attempts to help. The President then holds Gilligan up by his ears. Broadcast date 4 August 1964.
Given that broadcast television is declining, perhaps in 2019 potential candidates will be selected by the number of their electronic friends on MyFaceSpaceBook. President Justin Bieber right there in your in-box, pitching a shrieking hissy-fit so intense that his junior high school tattoos fly off.
In the meantime, stay tuned for next week’s Dancing with the Stars featuring Kim Jong Un.
On this Veterans’ Day we may well reflect on how all of us, especially young Americans in the military deployed in hot zones all over the world, deserve constitutional government, not arbitrary rule by personalities in two of our branches of government while most – there are noble exceptions - of the members of the third branch sit around, form committees, and investigate things without results.
-30-
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Given the numbers of garage sales, yard sales, flea markets, and resale shops, and telescreen shows about them, one wonders how much of the national economy at present is based on the population selling their old stuff to each other. In line with the times, I’m thinking of starting my own internet resale site. I’ll call it MeBay:
Cheap – two first-class tickets on an airplane owned by a leasing company in one country, flown by a SomethingJet airline based in another country, and crewed by a bunch of folks who can’t understand each other.
Hitler’s Childhood Rubber Ducky – we’ve got, like, papers and stuff, like, provenance, y’know, to prove it.
Bargain Landfill – made-in-China electronics. Sold by the ton. Some of it might not be all that toxic.
Scientology – a granola bar with an image of L. Ron Hubbard that appears in a glowing green color when the lights are turned off. The world’s greatest scientists have not been able to explain this mystery. Imported.
Ancient Critters - the skin of a genuine chubacabra. Or maybe a sophomore. Just the thing for your ManBro Toronto Blue Jays corner.
Carpeting – from John Boehner’s office. Smoke detectors sold separately.
Blimp – a fixer-upper. According to the U.S. government blimp technology is the future of surveillance technology. You and your friends will enjoy the Hindenburg experience aboard your own genuine military surplus blimp as this nation continues its progress into the 19th century. Some re-assembly required.
Stock Certificates – Enron, Radio Shack, Pan Am, Westinghouse, Kodak, Texaco, Hudson’s Bay. Begin saving for your future now.
Black Rifles – in a crumbling adobe warehouse just south of Magdalena, New Mexico our investigators found a cache of Viet-Nam-era Black Rifles in the original boxes. Never used. Some of them might not jam every two or three rounds. Maybe.
Doctor Zhivago – a rare first edition in the original English. With a certificate of authenticity.
Music – from 1962, Frank Sinatra Sings the Best of Happenin’ Elvis. LP record. Mint condition. Together with random Pez dispensers of the 1945 Boston Red Sox.
Fine Art – a velvet painting of President Reagan, Stephen Harper, Vladimir Putin, Teddy Roosevelt, and Rin-Tin-Tin playing poker. A classic.
Sherlock Holmes – a matched set of combination Holmes and Watson apple corers and pencil sharpeners.
Sergeant Preston of the Yukon – The Lost Episodes. These rare VHS tapes were discovered in a secret vault in an abandoned (and said to be haunted) Tim Horton’s in Salvage, Newfoundland. Most people don’t know that Sergeant Preston of the Yukon episodes were used as training films in the RCMP for years. “Hush, you muskies!” Or something.
You really want that C.I.A.N.S.A.N.C.I.S. blimp, don’t you! Nobody can tell us we’re behind the Russians and the Chinese in military technology. Have they got a blimp? Nooooooo.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Given the numbers of garage sales, yard sales, flea markets, and resale shops, and telescreen shows about them, one wonders how much of the national economy at present is based on the population selling their old stuff to each other. In line with the times, I’m thinking of starting my own internet resale site. I’ll call it MeBay:
Cheap – two first-class tickets on an airplane owned by a leasing company in one country, flown by a SomethingJet airline based in another country, and crewed by a bunch of folks who can’t understand each other.
Hitler’s Childhood Rubber Ducky – we’ve got, like, papers and stuff, like, provenance, y’know, to prove it.
Bargain Landfill – made-in-China electronics. Sold by the ton. Some of it might not be all that toxic.
Scientology – a granola bar with an image of L. Ron Hubbard that appears in a glowing green color when the lights are turned off. The world’s greatest scientists have not been able to explain this mystery. Imported.
Ancient Critters - the skin of a genuine chubacabra. Or maybe a sophomore. Just the thing for your ManBro Toronto Blue Jays corner.
Carpeting – from John Boehner’s office. Smoke detectors sold separately.
Blimp – a fixer-upper. According to the U.S. government blimp technology is the future of surveillance technology. You and your friends will enjoy the Hindenburg experience aboard your own genuine military surplus blimp as this nation continues its progress into the 19th century. Some re-assembly required.
Stock Certificates – Enron, Radio Shack, Pan Am, Westinghouse, Kodak, Texaco, Hudson’s Bay. Begin saving for your future now.
Black Rifles – in a crumbling adobe warehouse just south of Magdalena, New Mexico our investigators found a cache of Viet-Nam-era Black Rifles in the original boxes. Never used. Some of them might not jam every two or three rounds. Maybe.
Doctor Zhivago – a rare first edition in the original English. With a certificate of authenticity.
Music – from 1962, Frank Sinatra Sings the Best of Happenin’ Elvis. LP record. Mint condition. Together with random Pez dispensers of the 1945 Boston Red Sox.
Fine Art – a velvet painting of President Reagan, Stephen Harper, Vladimir Putin, Teddy Roosevelt, and Rin-Tin-Tin playing poker. A classic.
Sherlock Holmes – a matched set of combination Holmes and Watson apple corers and pencil sharpeners.
Sergeant Preston of the Yukon – The Lost Episodes. These rare VHS tapes were discovered in a secret vault in an abandoned (and said to be haunted) Tim Horton’s in Salvage, Newfoundland. Most people don’t know that Sergeant Preston of the Yukon episodes were used as training films in the RCMP for years. “Hush, you muskies!” Or something.
You really want that C.I.A.N.S.A.N.C.I.S. blimp, don’t you! Nobody can tell us we’re behind the Russians and the Chinese in military technology. Have they got a blimp? Nooooooo.
-30-
Monday, October 26, 2015
A Few Fragmented Thoughts in Search of a Thesis
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Few Fragmented Thoughts in Search of a Thesis
A cracker purported to be from the Titanic (how do they know?) has been sold for $23,000 at an auction. That’s no big deal; crackers that old were packaged in C-rations.
Or maybe they were talking about one of y’r ‘umble scrivener’s relatives.
Maybe we should sort through our pantries and find genuine antiques to sell – “Hey, John Jacob Astor was carrying this bag of potato chips aboard the Titanic – you can have it for a mere $23,000.”
Election ballots should feature a “none of the above” option at the bottom.
The literacy challenge of our time is for any news writer to generate an article without using “iconic,” “absolutely,” “actually,” “jaw-dropping,” “ground-breaking,” “makeshift shrine,” “_____ of the century,” “worst _________ ever recorded,” or “raising awareness.”
“Snowflake” as a metaphor for a spoiled brat should be good for another month or so.
The recent synod in Rome seemed to be the Church’s equivalent of a staff meeting – a bunch of people sitting around and talking about stuff while hoping some brave soul will make a motion to adjourn.
The death penalty is inappropriate. No judge, jury, prosecution, or defense is without human error. If a man is wrongly imprisoned, he might someday be released. If he has been killed by the state, a “We’re sorry” and a settlement are meaningless. If we really believe in a culture of life then the death penalty should be ended. Except for advertisers whose pop-ups block the Orwellian telescreen.
Chris Christie, who used to be somebody, was recently chastised by Amtrak for being loud and obnoxious while aboard a train. And we had forgotten about this great hope for the Republican Party, who celebrated him for being loud and obnoxious. And then Ted Cruz was the great hope. And then somebody else. And now a wealthy bigot. Once upon a time the Republicans were the party of Eisenhower and Reagan. Now their leadership of both the Republican and Democratic parties is a guest list for one of those old-women-screeching-at-each-other shows.
When Ireland won her independence from the British Empire a century ago she then sadly forsook her ancient traditions, murdered a number of her truest sons, and formed yet another tawdry republic whose ethics would disgrace a Chicago street gang. Ireland has been blessed with many great artists, poets, musicians, and good folk, but they seem unwilling to vote for a government that respects them.
Perhaps modern Ireland’s greatest gift to the world was Maureen O’Hara, who died last week at the age of 95. Ireland, although a republic, from 1920 until her death had a great queen in the fiery redhead from Dublin. Maureen O’Hara - ‘Tis Herself indeed.
-30-
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
