Well March is over and so is my time as a guest blogger. Thank you all for reading and commenting. I now return to the caves in my desert.

Farewell

bottomless sloth.

[I the Cubeland Mystic, a sinner and bondservant of the most High, swears that no mind altering substances were consumed during the transcribing of this vision.]

Lickona’s mullet was the best indicator of his mood. In days past soft mullet curls, lank, oily, sacramental, hung down dripping with hope and promise. In those days, like King David, he stripped to his hemp loincloth to bring in the harvest with his vassals and tenants. He danced before the Lord and his queen, and he would call to her, “Look, I am France!” And she delighted in him and brought forth many children. His lands yielded up their bounty, and new oil and wine flowed from the stone presses, and all was well. In those days, they beat their swords into plowshares, and his children played contentedly beneath the Cedars of his land.

But those days were gone now. Today his mullet was dry, and there was no party in the rear. It was a Psalm 22 mullet—a Good Friday mullet. The extreme tightness of the curls was only surpassed by the unbearable tightness he felt in the “undiscovered country” of his loins. The hot wind blew through his mulletinous curls, and they shook like dead Aspen leaves as he stood on his patio deck surveying his lands. From a distant village the church bells tolled cocktail hour, and the peasants in the downwind valleys forsook their tools. There would be much fornicating in the villages tonight. He prophesied. The hot winds proclaimed the truth of it.

Resolute, he lifted the silver flask from his glass patio table, and took a swig of vodka. Then he put it into his backpack next to the cocktail shaker and ice. Followed by his laptop, Iphigenia, with the gunmetal keyboard. Next his chrome plated Colt 45 automatic, and then a leather purse containing a hundred golden drachma looted from the Siege of Troy. He then lifted his War Axe, Draíocht, high into the air. “Oh Draíocht, reveal to me my true face!” He thundered like a Celtic king. He unsheathed the mighty War Axe from its black leather cocktail shrug to peer at his reflection in the highly polished steel. He straightened his black bow tie, and brushed some cracker crumbs from his tux jacket’s lapel. He admired the dry cleaner’s craftsmanship in removing the bloodstains from the white cummerbund. I look smarter than a New Yorker cover. He thought sheathing Draíocht into its black leather cocktail shrug, and hooked it onto his belt. Once he used it to cleave the helms of a thousand fierce Viking warriors, now he only wore it to cocktail parties, and from it flowed witty banter.

He zipped his backpack, and slipped it over his tuxedo jacket. He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a single double-ought buckshot shell, and wrote the word “LIBERATION” on it with a red Sharpie. Picking up the Mossberg, he chambered the shell, and clipped the weapon to the backpack. He laid upon his shoulders a pick and shovel like the beam of the cross. Thus begin the journey beyond the zip line and barbed wire to the far reaches of his vast Californistani estate, and the foothills of the mighty Sangre de Cristo mountains.

Invest in a big sound system for the full experience. Tool might be out there for a lot of you, or not your cup of tea. I often listen while walking in the desert. It get’s me psyched up for austerity! It is for your Friday listening pleasure.

UPDATE: Angelico points out that with respect to pain, “Trent Reznor and Johnny Cash say differently.” I say two different reactions to the problem of pain. One positive the other negative. Hurt, does not help me get psyched up for austerity, but powerful nonetheless.

USDA is buying 7 million pounds of pink slime for school lunch programs.

Officially termed “Lean Beef Trimmings,” the product is a ground-up combination of beef scraps, cow connective tissues and other beef trimmings that are treated with ammonium hydroxide to kill pathogens like salmonella and E. coli. It’s then blended into traditional meat products like ground beef and hamburger patties.

When I come into my village after a long fast out on the desert I often get guff from the villagers. I hear their scorn, “Oh look here comes mystic, lets get off the street because he will say something negative!” OR “Go back to the desert mystic, we don’t want you to kill our buzz!” I can’t blame them, they are probably all juiced up on Zoloft. Human kind cannot bear very much reality. But seriously, how can one be positive when our taxes go to pay for people to buy “Lean Beef Trimmings” for school lunch programs? It is basically gristle mixed with poison, and then mixed into hamburger so you can feed more children for less money. This is the extent of government imagination–feed poison to kids. At their trial I can hear the defense now, “Hey I was just following orders.” With all the other crap going on in the world today, this is like pouring ammonium hydroxide into the wounds.

Oh yeah and this, Ryanair is proposing serving up adult features for in-flight entertainment. Can you imagine your twelve year old son sitting next to some dude watching a porno on a flight from London to Italy? I guess Ryanair can. Maybe you’ll get a Soylent pink burger with your in-flight entertainment, and a happy landing? Perhaps somewhere in Greece.

Here is a good resource for information about the Jesus Prayer.

Mrs. Duffy, During Mass I thought about why Eve ate the apple despite her surroundings. She chose to take her eyes off the Beauty. What do you think?

Lickona looked up from his gunmetal keyboard and surveyed his lands. A herd of Rhode Island Reds thundered across the plains of his vast Californistani estate. The dust so thick that it choked the downwind valleys for as far as the eye could see. Poultry Barron, Egg Ranchero, Land holder. There beneath the zip line beyond the barbed wire sat his old friend Death sunning himself like lightning, and reading Cosmo. His sickle stuck bolt upright out of the holy earth curving the light of the sun. Draped over the sickle like a sail was his death-black robes, the heavens breathed and filled them, billowing, making the earth spin faster. At Death’s right a little table, upon it sat a large pitcher of margaritas, a plate of limes, and a bowl of Tostitos. He poured himself a glass and held it up to Lickona. He took a sip and put it down. He cupped his hands to his mouth, “Thank you for your hospitality. Been working too much lately, and I need a little sun.” He shouted.

Lickona cupped his hands to his mouth. “Yeah, you’re looking a little pale. You’re always welcome. My tequila is your tequila.” He shouted back. Then he drew down the curtains shroud like, ordained, purposeful steely adamant, and blew the cracker dust from his keyboard. He wrapped his rosary around his wrist like a sadhu, and pulled his 45 out of the desk drawer and placed it next to his laptop. In the corner behind him was his Mossberg semi auto locked and loaded. He thumbed his bowie thoughtfully for moment before driving it into the desk. “I will redouble my efforts!” He said to the heavens in deadly earnest. He slowed his heartbeat like a word-sniper, and then set sail like Odysseus upon the wine dark sea to return to his queen. He longed to hold his little ones, and feel their breath on his cheeks. He begin to type, and wild sacramental Beauty flowed from his finger tips like light. And that night he slept the sleep of the just in the arms of his queen.

http://www.alphonsecomic.com/donate

PayPay account. Takes less than 90 seconds. It is only $40K

The whole world is depending on your support.

Help resist before Agent Smith turns you into fertilizer.

I hit Snopes on the authors name. I googled it. I kind of thought maybe it was joke like the Larry Doyle “satire”. (It ain’t satire if you believe it Larry.) I am holding out hope this is some kind of joke or satire on medical ethics or something like that, but I am afraid it is not. No one would be more pleased than I if this was all a terrible mistake. I’d love to be the fool in this case.

This little gem from The Telegraph is arguing that killing babies is no different than abortion. Even adoption could pose a risk on the mother’s mental well being and hence it is morally permissible to kill a healthy newborn in such cases. The Telegraph article was kind enough to link to the actual Journal of Medical Ethics article in PDF form. I actually downloaded it and read the whole thing. It is all in there, they are asserting that it is morally permissible to kill your newborn. HHS now this. WWAD? (What Would Alphonse Do?)

Here is the abstract from the Journal of Medical Ethics article:

ABSTRACT
Abortion is largely accepted even for reasons that do not have anything to do with the fetus’ health. By showing that (1) both fetuses and newborns do not have the same moral status as actual persons, (2) the fact that both are potential persons is morally irrelevant and (3) adoption is not always in the best interest of actual people, the authors argue that what we call ‘after-birth abortion’ (killing a newborn) should be permissible in all the cases where abortion is, including cases where the newborn is not disabled.

It goes on to give their justifications for this abomination. You all should read it. It is not that long. They sound a lot like these guys.

I love this line the most from the Telegraph article in defense of the “medical ethicists”.

Speaking to The Daily Telegraph, he added: “This “debate” has been an example of “witch ethics” – a group of people know who the witch is and seek to burn her. It is one of the most dangerous human tendencies we have. It leads to lynching and genocide. Rather than argue and engage, there is a drive is to silence and, in the extreme, kill, based on their own moral certainty. That is not the sort of society we should live in.”

They justify murder and are surprised when people get all bent out of shape.

When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

“There is no movement of Catholics using the medium of cinema to do what Flannery O’Connor did with the short story or what Walker Percy did with the novel,” she said. “And when we do make a movie, we don’t use the medium anywhere near how it should be used.” Barbara Nicolosi

What does Nicolosi mean here by no movement? What is she doing then with ActOne? If she said there is no legal corporation doing what O’Connor or Percy did I would agree. At least nothing immediately comes to mind. However, what the heck is this whole enterprise over here about? Is Korrektiv not a movement?

Yes, in my opinion, it is. This comes to the point of why I agreed to guest blog in the first place. With my schedule it is very difficult, but I want to discuss how hopeful I am for the future. My guest blogging time grows short, but within that time I hope to inspire you all to keep struggling and resisting despite the difficulties of getting your works viewed and appreciated. What attracted me to this site a few years ago was the tag line “bad Catholics, blogging at a time near the end of the world.” I am still not sure what “bad Catholics” means, but I am certain that we are blogging at a time near the end of the world. I am uniquely privileged to see the implosion of our civilization in a microcosm, and simply am able to extrapolate to the broader impacts. I’ve seen the future and it is bleak, boring, and a cage. It is a virtual gulag with comfortable quarters and three squares a day. Hence the earlier Tolkien post, and another planned before I run out of time.

What Korrektiv is doing is providing a community of thought that will sustain Christian civilization as the materialism that “leaders” embraced, continues to occupy and expand into territory that Christians have ceded. Korrektiv is a movement, and even some members have used their skill to do what O’Connor and Percy did with their skills in their time. Some members have written scripts, and have attempted to engage the culture through their works. That is just film, but what about other projects? There is poetry and stories, and I am sure a few of you have some visual art up your sleeve–crafts too.

I liked the OSV article and largely agree with Nicolosi’s comments. However, this type of story grows old and tiresome. What is to be done? As the blog prophet I feel obligated to warn you of the approaching doom. Maybe that is a strong assertion. People enjoy the prophet in film and stories because they see that the prophet is correct fifteen minutes later during the big reveal. In real life, not so much. It’s hard to believe that the world is crumbling down when it crumbles so slowly and with little discernment, especially if one lives on clean streets and has penicillin. But it has been crumbling for decades even a century or two if one cares to look. The shadow has fallen. Tell me I am wrong. Engage me. Argue with me. Please! Prove to me that the materialism we have chosen will not run it course to the bitter end.

But I do know there is hope, and it is in the arts. I am convinced of it. I am convinced that “Beauty will save the world.” Indeed. I am committed to that idea, and know it is true. I live my life within a great Beauty, but I fail more often than not to convey it to all of you. As long as you keep working there is a movement to resist the shadow, and from your work you give hope to others to resist it too. Never give up or get discouraged, no matter how many times you are rejected. If you are a Christian artist the whole world is depending on you right now, so hope, I do, and become all flame.

(Disclaimer: I had no idea what JOB posted nor did we communicate before hand. Just saw it now myself.)

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, “Abba, as far as I can I say my Little Office. I fast a little. I pray. I meditate. I live in peace and as far as I can. I purify my thoughts. What else am I to do?” “What else,” Abba Lot says, “can I do?” Then the old man stood up, stretched his hands towards heaven and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire, and he said to him, “If you will, you can become all flame.”

The mystic asks in light of the Doyle post below, when will our U.S.A.’s balkanization commence?

I am not. Check this out by Larry Doyle on Huffington Post Comedy site.

It seemed way over the top, and I was thinking about actually Snopeing this, but dug deeper on HuffPost, and found something like an explanation and claiming satire. I guess he got duffied, and is defiantly asserting his intent. Basically he is explaining the joke rather than apologizing.

This is the explanation here.

(He probably hates Tolkien too.)
(NOTE: Please note the use of our new word in a sentence, “he got duffied”)