Watching our country descend into banana republic territory (see the Babylon Bee for more about that), I came across this graphic on MeWe. I find it eerily disturbing. Click the image for a larger, readable view.
That may be ten years old, but it also might be a scarily accurate prediction of our present situation . . .
Peter
I had to laugh at this headline at the Babylon Bee.
It stems from a controversy over Dove's hiring of a Black Lives Matter activist as a self-proclaimed "Dove ambassador" helping to promote "fat liberation".
Beauty giant Dove is facing a Bud Light-style boycott for partnering with controversial Black Lives Matter activist Zyanha Bryant, who was previously accused of getting a white student expelled over “misheard” comments.
. . .
It is just the latest backlash against controversial partnerships by big companies, most notably Bud Light, which has suffered a huge financial hit after teaming up with transgender activist Dylan Mulvaney.
Bryant, a student activist at the University of Virginia, had accused [Morgan] Bettinger of referring to BLM protesters as “good speed bumps” in the summer of 2020 — only to later admit she likely “misheard” her.
She campaigned to get the white student suspended from campus, and Bettinger’s record shows she faced disciplinary actions for her comments, which she fears may hinder her ability to get into law school.
Greg Price, the communications director for the State Freedom Caucus Network, said the decision to ignore that controversy and pick Bryant as an ambassador “is what actual privilege in America looks like.”
“BLM activist completely ruined the life of an innocent white girl with a false accusation of racism and gets a brand deal with Dove while Morgan Bettinger was kicked out of school and now needs medication in order to sleep.”
There's more at the link.
In a brilliant parody report, the Babylon Bee responded:
"This is the new depiction of Dove beauty," said Unilever marketing executive Marsha Rainwater. "Who wants to look at majestic, graceful doves and thin, statuesque women when you can buy products with fat manatees that have morbidly obese spokesmodels endorsing them? Our thoughts exactly."
The company made headlines last week when it announced it was partnering with 400-pound Black Lives Matter activist Zyahna Bryant to portray a more inclusive stance on body image. "It helps score us some ‘woke points,'" explained Rainwater. "Plus, we had a ton of excess food left over from a company banquet that we needed to clear out, so having an enormous, insatiable beast roaming the halls is beneficial in other ways, too. It's a win-win!"
Again, more at the link.
The satirists at the Babylon Bee frequently enliven my day with their snide remarks about the fatuous stupidity that so often surrounds our society. More power to them!
(I bet my friend and bestselling author Larry Correia is laughing too!)
Peter
The Babylon Bee has put out an invaluable chart, allowing one to identify one's disability, gender, race/creed, and a bonus attribute as well. They call it an "Oppression Identifier". The combinations are hysterical! Click the image for a larger view.
It's taken from the Bee's new book, "The Babylon Bee Guide to Wokeness", which will be published on November 2.
I'd say it'll be essential reading in today's world - as well as good for a lot of laughs! I'm obliged to the Babylon Bee for providing us with unfailing non-'woke' amusement in a world that takes the 'woke' far too seriously.
(Question - is something non-'woke' actually asleep, or merely dozing? Does political correctness equal partisan insomnia?)
Peter
The celebrated McSweeney's Internet Tendency has turned its satirical attention to the menu at Olive Garden, a chain of Italian-style restaurants in the USA, and re-written it in the style of horror doyen H. P. Lovecraft. Here are a couple of excerpts samples.
Fried Calamari
Tendrils crusted in grit assail my palate. Begotten of the sea, yet containing the essence of a carnival. Fried and without end. At once I feel refined and base, but melancholy grips me when I spy the dressings within which this dismembered cephalopod is to dip. A mixture resembling coagulated plasma, and the other… spicy milk? A crème, surprisingly smooth but savory. This contradictory breach of decorum and smattering of flavors inspires terror within my heart of hearts. Hope absconds from this place.
. . .
The Tour of Italy
A terse presentation of memories, three to be precise. A chicken, but unclucking. A plate of worms, wriggling in saucy terror. And then, horror unbounded, a cube of entombed layers coated in a crimson, comestible smear. Dreams fleeting and reborn, of monoliths—Pisa—floating mid-air and dripping gruel. A gurgling voice emerged from the deep, a chaos that did not speak a mortal tongue, a promise emitted: “Unlimahtated brrrrurdstihks!”
There's more at the link. Definitely giggle-worthy!
Recently, a newer member of our North Texas Writers, Shooters and Pilots Association told us that her only exposure to Italian food had been at Olive Garden franchises. Those of us who know more about Italian food immediately assured her that she didn't know it at all, and took her off to a local, authentically Italian restaurant to introduce her to the real thing. It only took her a couple of mouthfuls to understand exactly what we meant!
(If any of you should visit Luigi's while passing through Wichita Falls, the food is excellent. If you're particularly hungry, try their 24" pizza - but be warned, it's immense! I think they keep it on their menu as a challenge for the young trainees at Sheppard Air Force Base up the road. Leave room for their tiramisu for dessert.)
Peter
Last week I came across two YouTube videos that had me rolling in the aisles. They're compilations of the greatest moments of comedy from the Pink Panther movie series, starring the late Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau, the bumbling detective who always creates mayhem and havoc, but somehow solves the crime anyway.
The first video is the general comedy of the series. The second is every attack made on Clouseau by his manservant Cato (at Clouseau's direction, to keep his reflexes sharp - sort of). Together they add up to about an hour's viewing, all of it side-splitting. Enjoy!
A good laugh is good for the soul, and the comedy team from the Pink Panther series provided a lot of them - for which God bless them! Most are no longer with us. One hopes they're still providing laughter and merriment in the next life.
Peter
I've long enjoyed Jewish humor for its self-deprecating light-heartedness, and its sometimes surprisingly deep insights into the heart and soul of people in general. There are many classics of the genre out there, and some have become very popular in the general community.
David M. Bader is a Jewish author who's definitely made the crossover to widespread non-sectarian acceptance. From his first book, "How To Be An Extremely Reform Jew" in 1994, his humor and witticisms have been widely quoted and admired (so much so that much of it is now spread across the Internet without attribution to him as the author). I've enjoyed several of his books, which include (in roughly chronological order):
Today's snippet will be from two of his books. I'll start with his most recent work, "The Book of Murray: The Life, Teachings, and Kvetching of the Lost Prophet".
Introduction
In the modern world, the lives and teachings of biblical prophets often seem remote and dim in our consciousness. And of all these narratives, The Book of Murray may well be the dimmest. This little-known work, a relatively recent addition to the religious canon, has baffled biblical scholars since its discovery. Still, it is assigned reading at some universities and seminaries, possibly because it is very difficult to get anyone to read it voluntarily.
The saga of how The Book of Murray first came to light begins in the land of Israel in ancient times. It resumes centuries later in Boca Raton, Florida, on the 14th hole of the golf course at Kibbitzing Pines Country Club. There, on either his third or fifteenth attempt to chip out of a sand trap (accounts vary), retired hosiery importer Leo Plotnick struck something hard and hollow.
When he investigated, he was surprised to discover a buried earthenware vessel. Inside it were scrolls of parchment, untouched and unread for thousands of years, filled with sacred writings painstakingly inscribed with a primitive stylus, all covered with some sort of mold that was murder on his sinuses. Among these scrolls, now known as the Boca Scrolls, was one bearing the title The Book of Murray.
Experts who examined The Book of Murray immediately questioned its authenticity. How had scrolls purporting to be from biblical times made their way to Florida? Why were they so different in both tone and appearance from other ancient scrolls? Most importantly, why was there no mention of anyone named Murray in other biblical texts? The result was a schism among biblical scholars so great that a number of them called for the manuscript to be taken back to the golf course and reburied in an even deeper hole.
The historical significance of The Book of Murray began to emerge only when carbon dating showed that the scrolls were indeed quite old. Soon after, stains on the parchment—confirmed to contain trace amounts of brisket—were removed to reveal the complete text. For years, scholars had been puzzling over the stark contrasts between modern Judaism and the world of the Israelites of the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings. Leviticus might contain guidance on keeping kosher, but where was the scriptural support for pocketing a dinner roll from a buffet “for later”? In The Book of Murray, scholars finally found answers. Here was the missing link that showed that today’s Jews and their ancestors had more in common than previously seemed imaginable.
And yet, The Book of Murray continues to raise as many questions as it answers. Who was Murray? Will his teachings add significantly to our understanding of important religious principles? And why was his book buried where it was?
Prophetic words spoken in one age are not always entirely intelligible in another. This is especially the case when, as with The Book of Murray, they were not entirely intelligible the first time around. For all its difficulties, though, The Book of Murray offers a unique perspective on the distant past that explains much about the present. Three thousand years after it was written, Murray’s age-old yet oddly contemporary wisdom still teaches us much about ourselves.
The prophets of ancient Israel—men such as Amos, Isaiah, and Jeremiah—while divinely inspired, were deeply involved in the world around them. So too was Murray. The pages that follow remind us that these men of God were very much students of the human condition. They also remind us that some of them were better students than others.
David M. Bader
August 2010
Chapter 1
The Birth of the Prophet
And it came to pass that the descendants of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob went into Canaan, for they sought water and pasture for their flocks. And it was a place of peaceable hills and valleys, with rains that came in due season, low crime, low taxes, and a goodly public school system. Verily, it was a land flowing with milk and honey.
And they were called the Tribe of Levi (Relaxed Fit) and these were their generations: Jedidiah begat Zedidiah, and Zedidiah begat Zebediah, and Zebediah begat Obadiah, and Obadiah begat Irving. And Irving took unto him a wife, Francine, and they were called the Silvermans. But they were without child and begat no one.
And the Silvermans prayed and beseeched the Lord to open Francine’s womb, yet her womb remained closed. And they made burnt offerings of rams and heifers and loaves of barley to the Lord, but it availed them not. And they offered coffee rings and bagels and white-fish salad to the Lord, yet she did not conceive. And they tried everything, even sex, but still she was barren of child. And they wept.
Then Francine went up to Mount Sinai to seek counsel from the Lord. And she went up also to a specialist at Cedars Sinai for a second opinion. And she promised the Lord that, if he would give her a child, she would give the child up in service unto the Temple for all the days of his life, though not all the evenings. And the Lord heard her prayers and answered them.
So it came to pass that she bore a son. And they called him “Murray,” meaning “he whose parents have planned his life without consulting him.” And they were sad no more.
Chapter 2
The Early Years
And when the child was weaned, his mother brought him to the Temple with three bullocks, one ephah of flour, and a box of Pampers. For though he was weaned, he was not yet toilet trained. And she said unto the High Priest of the Hebrews, “Here is the child I promised the Lord. He shall abide with thee and serve the Lord for all the days of his life, though not all the evenings.”
And the High Priest of the Hebrews said, “Um, thanks but no thanks. Really. We’re fine here.”
And Murray went back home and remained there.
And when Murray was older, his mother returned him to the Temple once more that he might abide there and serve the Lord. And the child did remain to minister unto the Lord before the High Priest of the Hebrews to the best of his ability, which was not great. For on parents’ day, the High Priest did upbraid his mother with harsh words, saying, “Thy son speaketh barely a word of Hebrew.”
And she said unto him, “Is that such a big deal?”
And the High Priest of the Hebrews answered, “At this point in history, it’s our only language.”
And Murray’s mother was ashamed and she did weep and wail and rend her garments. And she insisted unto the High Priest that Murray was very gifted and that he just tested poorly.
Yet despite his mother’s prayers for him, Murray continued to worship below his grade level until it was quietly suggested that he pursue a less demanding vocation, such as goat herding or advertising. For though he was promised to the Lord, he was a washout.
So Murray departed from the House of the Lord and went forth into the house of his parents, specifically the finished basement, where he dwelt rent-free.
And he found work among the crops in the fields, planting in the planting season and harvesting in the harvest season.
For to every thing there is a season: a time to sow, a time to reap, and a time in between to work as a bartender.
And Murray also did odd jobs in the orchards and vineyards. And though his pay was meager, Murray was content, because he was a humble person and because it was all off the books.
Next, here are some samples from "Zen Judaism: For You, a Little Enlightenment".
If you wish to know The Way, don't ask for directions. Argue.
Be here now. Be someplace else later. Is that so complicated?
To find the Buddha, look within. Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers. Each flower blossoms ten thousand times. Each blossom has ten thousand petals. You might want to see a specialist.
Let go of pride, ego and opinions. Admit your errors and forgive those of others. Relinquishment will lead to calm and healing in your relationships. If that doesn't work, try small-claims court.
The enlightened monk attains permanent liberation - Nirvana. The unenlightened returns again and again to the wheel of suffering. Infinite deaths, infinite rebirths, infinite circumcisions.
If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?
Enlightenment is a sudden, wordless understanding. Stop telling everyone already.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Forget this and attaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.
Do not kvetch. Be a kvetch. Become one with your whining.
If you meet the Buddha on the path, show him the photos of the grandchildren.
Drink tea and nourish life. With the first sip, joy. With the second, satisfaction. With the third, Danish.
What use is profit? Can accumulating money day after day in a trade or business truly bring satisfaction? Of course not. For that, one must go shopping.
To practice Zen and the art of Jewish motorcycle maintenance, do the following: get rid of the motorcycle. What were you thinking?
From his high vantage point, the Buddha was able to perceive with complete clarity not just the past and the present but also the future. Practicing Zen, you, too, can begin to anticipate what others, with less elevated perspectives, cannot. Then you can say, "I told you so."
One inch of meditation, one inch a Buddha. Inch by inch, through constant meditation, you can reach his six-foot height. Then meditate a little longer to get the waistline.
Enter into your inner self and behold the eye of the soul. Gaze upon your original face before you were even born. Shocked? Remember, this was before the nose job.
Zen is not easy. It takes effort to attain nothingness. And then what do you have? Bupkes.
Gentle, self-deprecatory humor. Both books are classics of their kind.
Peter
The Babylon Bee does it again.
Popular New Ejection Porch Automatically Launches Vaccine Evangelists Into The Stratosphere
An American manufacturer has been overwhelmed with preorders for its brand new "ejection porch," which is specially designed to detect when Biden's vaccine evangelists are at your door so it can launch them into the stratosphere.
Dang! A product I'd willingly pay big money to buy, but it's only a satire! Now, if we can just persuade the Bee to partner with an entrepreneurial spirit to actually build it . . . hello? Calling Mike Lindell? Mike???
Peter
The satirists at the Babylon Bee are outdoing themselves these days - hence the strident attempts by those with no sense of humor to shut them down, or censor them, or do anything at all to stop them making fun of the perennially anal-retentive.
Remember the NFL's recent sickening politically correct kowtowing to Pride Month? That's right - the "Football is Gay" video. Well, the Bee took that ball, ran with it, and spiked it hard in the humor end-zone.
Starting this season, The National Football League will allow refs to throw rainbow-colored flags on the field if they catch any players not being gay enough.
"Listen-- it's 2021. Football is gay. Always has been," said Commissioner Roger Goodell. "Unfortunately, we still have a few players living in the past who need to get with the program. If we catch anyone in our league not being totally gay all the time, you can bet we'll be nipping that in the bud!"
Some of the new penalties being introduced include:
- Failure to skip
- Failure to cuddle after contact
- Badly coordinated outfit
- Not enough men on the field
- Delay of coming out
- Being Tim Tebow
- Not enough holding
There's more at the link.
Even gay people are cracking up over that one - particularly the edited photograph. I found one social media post where an openly gay NFL fan quipped, "Hey - there's a [flag without the L] on that play!" Not-safe-for-work hilarity ensued (which is why I won't link to the post and its replies, so I don't have to exorcise this computer).
My sincere thanks to the staff of the Babylon Bee for providing so much fun, laughter and debunking of the politically correct. They're in the finest tradition of satire throughout history, and right up there with the best. If any of them ever find themselves within striking distance of North Texas, they're welcome to join us at a supper gathering of the North Texas Writers, Shooters and Pilots Association. The food is good, the company is friendly and the laughter flows freely. They'll feel right at home.
Peter
Clever Texans have implemented a new strategy to stop Californians from fleeing their terrible state and ruining Texas with the same policies. Sneaking up to Oklahoma in the middle of the night, brave defenders of the Lone Star State installed "Welcome to Texas" signs atop the "Welcome to Oklahoma" signs surrounding Texas's neighbor.
Californians, whose minds have been slowed from years of marijuana, sushi, and the patchouli of hippies, won't be smart enough to notice the difference and will settle down in Oklahoma, not realizing they moved to the wrong state.
. . .
Oklahomans, annoyed by their new Californian neighbors constantly saying "dude" and "bro," have hatched a plot to move the Welcome to Texas signs to Nebraska.
Outside [Lieutenant-Colonel Digby's] office milled a large crowd of journalists, photographers and cameramen; and through them he and Lilyworth threaded their way. Flash lights flashed, questions flew, Lilyworth looked nunly and Digby, time after time, snapped "No comment" - which made him feel importantly powerful - like a trade union leader emerging from yet another conference with the Prime Minister about yet another calamitous strike.
"Are you prepared to at last tell us," demanded the doyen of the journalists, "where Sister Theophila resides?"
"No," replied Digby, climbing into his jeep.
"May I have your autograph, please, Sister?" asked a genial looking man from M.I.5 disguised as Lord Thomson of the Sunday Times. He offered a sheet of glossy paper on which he hoped she would leave her fingerprints for the edification of his boss - who was convinced that Theophila was a Russian spy.
Smiling sweetly, Theophila shook her head, kept her Russian fingers on her rosary beads and settled herself, like a virgin martyr, on the seat beside Digby. Who, starting the jeep, drove it straight at the nearest journalists. Leaping aside, his victims rushed for their hired cars and roared off in pursuit, their colleagues' cars behind them.
At the first crossroad a station wagon cut crazily into their convoy. It was black with nuns and hunched over its wheel was a Mother Superior who knew no more of the Highway Code than she did of the Kama Sutra.
A second station wagon joined them when they halted at a traffic light. Ignoring the mandatory red (because the Mother Superior who drove was color blind) it howled past their convoy - urged on by its complement of nuns - thereby obliging a corporation bus to go hard amidships and demolish a bookshop.
"That's a Protestant bookshop those bloody nuns have pushed us into," roared the Protestant bus driver.
"Good thing too," shouted one of his Catholic passengers. "Full as it is of filth that any decent country would ban."
At which the Protestant conductor hit him on the head with his non denominational ticket machine; and a Catholic girl hit the conductor on the head with her pill-packed handbag; and war broke out in the bus.
Leaping out of his cabin, the driver rushed to the intersection and screamed for the police, the Special Constabulary and the Army: and was just about to scream for the United Nations as well when a third station wagon full of nuns knocked him down and ran him over.
Skidding to a halt the other side of the intersection the Mother Superior sent one of her Sisters back to examine the victim.
"Are you a Catholic," enquired the Sister gently. "Shall I fetch you a priest?"
"I'm a Protestant and I want a doctor," gasped the bus driver.
"And isn't that just like you heretics?" murmured the Sister - letting his head crash back onto the road. "Condemned to eternal damnation though you be, it's your bodies you think of still, never your souls." And, leaping to her feet, ran back to the station wagon - which roared instantly off on its errand of mercy.
Arrived there, it found it was late. The enviable Sister Theophila was already being ushered through the front line by Corporal Campbell - and behind her marched a determined phalanx of earlier nuns led by two other Mothers Superior.
"Christ, Lily," murmured Campbell, "you've got a Papal f***ing escort."
By way of answer Lilyworth merely flexed a muscle in the arm held by Campbell: then walked alone into a tumultuous no-mans-land.
From a position of safety, Michael O'Reilly, a half brick in his hand, surveyed Theophila with a mixture of resentment and fear. Resentment, because the mob would turn on him if they caught him throwing his missile; fear, because he'd be expelled from the Breakaway Branch of the Unofficial I.R.A. if he didn't throw it.
Torn between fear of the mob and fear of the I.R.A., he hesitated: and while he did so the first of three Mothers Superior thrust through the front line - her subordinates, like black chickens after a black hen, following behind.
"Holy Mother of God," breathed O'Reilly, terrified, "more of 'em." But his terror of the I.R.A. was even greater than his terror of mob and church combined: so, furtively - in the great, still silence that enveloped Sister Theophila - he took aim.
And threw, just as the first of the Mothers Superior drew level with Theophila.
"Ooh, s**t," gasped Theophila, breaking her vow of silence as pain seared upwards.
"For that, Sister," rebuked the Mother Superior (as O'Reilly again took aim) "you'll say ten Hail Mary's..."
"But look what he's done," hissed Theophila, hoisting her habit to reveal a hairy, bleeding leg.
"Sister!" thundered the Mother Superior: and then (O'Reilly having thrown his second brick) herself shrieked and - hoisting her habit - stared incredulously at her stockinged bleeding leg.
"Forget the ten Hail Mary's," she snarled. "I'll get you a Plenary Indulgence instead." Then bellowed: "Reverend Mothers, Sisters - charge!"
And, grimly, habits hitched, oval, well-scrubbed faces very un-nunlike, they charged. And the mob, in several hundred different directions, fled. And Theophila, turning soldierlike on her heel, made her way back through the black regiment of her Sisters in Christ to Digby and his Army jeep.
"Drive," ordered Digby, "like the clappers of hell."
But Sister Theophila drove off very sedately - followed by all the Press in all the hire cars in Belfast. Followed until the first road block. Through which she, armed with her permit from Digby, passed almost instantly. While the Press cars were halted, and thoroughly searched. And found, every one of them, to be carrying arms. For the very good reason that arms had been hidden in them while their occupants were out watching Sister Theophila's most recent triumph over the forces of juvenile un-reason.
"You're under arrest for gun running," the occupants of each car were told.
"We're Press," screamed the doyen, to whom nothing so outrageous had happened since his arrest as an Israeli agent by the Irakis simply because he was circumcised.
"If you say so," said Digby's men politely, because Digby had told them, whatever they discovered in the journalists' cars, even if it was nothing, that they must be polite. "But you're also gun runners; so get out of your Mercedes Benzes and come this way, if you please, or do we have to f***ing shoot you?"
The Olympus mob was foregathered at what is perhaps one of the world’s fishiest eating establishments. There might be places equally fishy, but certainly no place could get itself fishier. It far surpassed the sea god’s fondest expectations, for more fishiness per square foot was crammed into the shabby, antiquated room than he had ever believed possible outside of his spray-crested realm.
The room was not lacking in personality. It had an atmosphere entirely its own. In it were to be found some of the smartest and most desperate fish eaters in the city — fish eaters in on the know.
Whereas fish fanciers congregated at the Aquarium a few blocks south to gaze ineffectually at humiliatingly indifferent fish, the habitués of this river-front room — the real natural-born fish eaters of serious purpose and honest intent — came here with much heavier business in view. Their object was not merely frivolously to contemplate fish. Far from it. They came here to do something about fish, something positive and definite, something held clearly in mind. In short, to eat the things.
One cannot tell by observing a person looking at a fish whether that person is genuinely fond of fish or thoroughly detests them — loathes them, in fact. The fish watcher might be doing either one of two things — gloating over the incarceration of the fish, or deriving enjoyment from the contemplation of their stupid activities. No such doubt can exist when observing a person eating fish. One can tell at a glance whether that person is sincerely fond of fish or is merely tolerating the fish until something less disagreeable turns up, such as tripe.
The true fish eater never hides his light beneath a bushel unless it happens to be a bushel of oysters or clams. Fish eaters are frank about it. And if not extremely careful they can develop into terrific bores.
The restaurant was redolent of fish. Outside, the streets were slippery with them — lined with fish markets. Pretty nearly every water-loving creature that ever swam, crawled, oozed, or drifted seemed to have settled in the neighborhood. In this district no fish need ever feel lonely. Few ever did, because most of them were quite dead.
The Hawk party were seated at a large round table. There was ample elbow-room and a feeling of spaciousness. It was a table designed to hold a great many fish or one lightweight whale — as many as a party of ten could decently eat at one sitting. Perseus had placed his head beside his chair on the sawdust-sprinkled floor. He had done this because the negro waiter had refused to approach the table until the disconcerting object was out of sight. Mercury had laid aside his caduceus, and Neptune had slipped his trident under the table. Diana had left her bow at home.
“To begin with,” began Mr. Hawk, “does anyone here want fish?”
“The very word revolts me,” Venus declared. “This is no place for the goddess of love. I belong in a night club.”
“Ask the waiter to bring us a cup,” said Hebe in a low voice, “and fill it from that flask you have on your hip. The gods are getting low.”
Neptune was too bemused to answer his host’s question. His eyes were fixed on an ice-tank on the top of which reposed in horrid state a number of ill-tempered-looking lobsters. Unable to bear the sight any longer, the great man left the table and laid violent hands on two of the ugliest, most anti-social-looking crustaceans Mr. Hawk remembered ever having seen. With this wickedly animated pair of pliers he returned to the table and prepared to do battle with them there and then in cold blood.
“Those damn things are worse than my snakes,” Perseus complained. “Look at the faces on them.”
“I can’t bring myself to look at him,” said Diana. “He’s actually going to eat the things alive.”
The negro waiter’s eyes were doing something good in the line of popping. “Gawd, brother,” he muttered to an associate, “that pitchfork-toting party is one tough gentleman. See him snapping at them great big green rascals.”
“Would you mind going away to some secluded corner and fighting out your battles alone?” Venus asked her uncle.
“Tooth against claw,” observed Mercury. “I bet on the teeth.”
“What’s wrong with the lot of you?” demanded Neptune, sighting at the table between the jagged claw of one of his opponents. “I always tackle ‘em this way.”
A few of the more advanced fish eaters in the room were regarding the sea god with attentive admiration. They had never tried lobsters quite so fully alive themselves and were anxious to see just how one went about it.
Although aware of the attention Neptune’s impulsive action was attracting to the table, Mr. Hawk retained his self-possession. He reached over and quietly but firmly removed one lobster from Neptune’s grasp; then with his left hand he removed the other. The god was too astonished to protest effectively. The scientist nodded to the waiter.
“Take these things outside,” he said, “and cook them.”
Neptune gazed after the departing waiter in speechless indignation, then turned to Mr. Hawk. “What did you want to do that for?” he demanded.
“Had I known previously,” replied Mr. Hawk quietly, “that you wanted to fight lobsters, I’d have made more suitable arrangements.”
“But I always polish off a couple of live lobsters before I wire into the fish,” the god protested.
“I was unfamiliar with your habits,” the scientist explained with a faint smile. “However, I think you’re going to enjoy these lobsters just as well. They’re delicious when they’re broiled.”
“Are they?” Neptune exclaimed, his face brightening up. “I can hardly wait.”
“You didn’t,” remarked Mr. Hawk briefly.
To punish a judge taken in judicial crim. con. by fining him or sending him to jail is a bit too facile and obvious. What is needed is a system (a) that does not depend for its execution upon the good-will of fellow jobholders, and (b) that provides swift, certain and unpedantic punishments, each fitted neatly to its crime.
I announce without further ado that such a system, after due prayer, I have devised. It is simple, it is unhackneyed, and I believe that it would work. It is divided into two halves. The first half takes the detection and punishment of the crimes of jobholders away from courts of impeachment, congressional smelling committees, and all the other existing agencies—i.e., away from other jobholders—and vests it in the whole body of free citizens, male and female. The second half provides that any member of that body, having looked into the acts of a jobholder and found him delinquent, may punish him instantly and on the spot, and in any manner that seems appropriate and convenient—and that, in case this punishment involves physical damage to the jobholder, the ensuing inquiry by a grand jury or coroner shall confine itself strictly to the question of whether the jobholder deserved what he got.
. . .
Say a citizen today becomes convinced that a certain judge is a jackass—that his legal learning is defective, his sense of justice atrophied, and his conduct of cases before him tyrannical and against decency. As things stand, it is impossible to do anything about it ... if he is a Federal judge he never comes up for re-election at all, for once he has been appointed by the President of the United States, on the advice of his more influential clients and with the consent of their agents in the Senate, he is safe until he is so far gone in senility that he has to be propped up on the bench with pillows.
But now imagine any citizen free to approach him in open court and pull his nose. Or even, in aggravated cases, to cut off his ears, throw him out of the window, or knock him in the head with an axe. How vastly more attentive he would be to his duties! How diligently he would apply himself to the study of the law! How careful he would be about the rights of litigants before him! How polite and suave he would become! For judges, like all the rest of us, are vain fellows: they do not enjoy having their noses pulled. The ignominy resident in the operation would not be abated by the subsequent trial of the puller, even if he should be convicted and jailed. The fact would still be brilliantly remembered that at least one citizen had deemed the judge sufficiently a malefactor to punish him publicly, and to risk going to jail for it.
A dozen such episodes, and the career of any judge would be ruined and his heart broken, even though the jails bulged with his critics. He could not maintain his air of aloof dignity on the bench; even his catchpolls would snicker at him behind their hands, especially if he showed a cauliflower ear, a black eye or a scar over his bald head. Moreover, soon or late some citizen who had at him would be acquitted by a petit jury, and then, obviously, he would have to retire. It might be provided by law, indeed, that he should be compelled to retire in that case—that an acquittal would automatically vacate the office of the offending jobholder.
Look out, Beyond Meat -- a new competitor has emerged in the market of turning vegetables into a food that tastes just like meat. But while companies like Beyond Meat use laboratories to turn vegetables into something tasty, this new process uses a much more natural method: feeding the vegetables to a cow.
The startup, which goes by the much simpler brand name of “Meat,” came upon this process after using hundreds of millions of venture capital dollars to research how to turn vegetable products into something delicious that could be used as a burger. “Vegetables are ugly and horrible, and no one likes them,” said Meat researcher Winston Sullivan. “We tried everything to make them edible, but nothing worked -- except maybe covering them in ranch dressing. But then we saw this creature, a cow, was eating the vegetables -- because it was so dumb and didn’t know any better or something -- and somehow afterward it became filled with tasty meat. It was amazing.”
SAN FRANCISCO (AP) – A local software innovator has created the perfect armor for deflecting individual accountability in the form of a new app called Blame-a-Lyzer, which helps you select just the right target group of people who have absolutely nothing to do with your life that you can blame for most, if not all, of your personal problems.
Blame-a-Lyzer creator Dr. Emmett Lathrop Brown said the idea for the app just “came to him” when he slipped off the edge of his toilet while hanging a clock in his bathroom and hit his head on the sink.
“I was so embarrassed,” said Brown. “I had this big bandage on my forehead, and I was just trying to imagine how I was going to explain it to people. I must’ve spent an hour trying to come up with a story that didn’t make me look like a complete idiot. Finally, I decided to blame my dog, Einstein, for the fall. But afterward I got to thinking – why did I waste so much time coming up with a scapegoat for something that was my own fault? Then I thought – why not create an app that will do it for me so I don’t have to waste the time? I mean, the alternative was to just take responsibility from the get-go, and brother, THAT ain’t happening!”
Fiocchi – “I carry a Kel-Tec.”
Glaser Safety Slug – “I carry a Glock 7. Its made in Germany. It doesn’t show up on airport X-ray machines and it costs more than what you make in a month!”
Federal Premium Hydra Shock – “I used to be a cop.”
Corbon DPX – I have A.D.D. and am easily distracted by shiny… SQUIRREL!”
Sellier & Bellot – “I am a member at more than three gun forums, and I buy all of my ammo online.”
Hornady Critical Defense – “I drive a mini van and shop at IKEA.”
And then there is the systemic hate for my rigidly male monosexual identification and my pronounced pro-chick agenda. Too often those of you who are genderfluid deny the identity of those of us who are gendersolid.
Finally, it is time to reject society’s paradigm of unphallused privilege. This bias results in interlocking systems of domination that produce the conditions under which oppressed peoples like me are forced to live, and usually manifests in me getting called whenever someone needs help lifting something heavy.
Those of us who wield a penis demand that you cease your dehumanizing unmale gaze and validate the manly values that stand firm against your anti-testicular hegemony.
