Tag Archives: religion

Fooling God

plants
Saturday morning on the veranda

THIS SATURDAY is somewhat different than most, so I thought I’d gossip with you about it.

Normally, Saturdays are identical. My child bride is in her private kitchen out by the property wall, preparing her pastries for the afternoon sale on the big plaza downtown.

But not today.  She’s going to church this morning.

But first, here’s what I’m doing, and it’s not much different than what I do every Saturday morning. I make rounds under the cursed peach tree scooping up fallen peaches to toss out.

Then I sweep the veranda. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I hear a lively Mexican tune blaring from the backstreet neighbors. I also hear the electric pump that’s sending water from the underground cistern to the tank atop the roof. And I hear birds. Lots of stuff to listen to.

Soon I’ll be hearing the lawnmower and weedeater because Abel the Deadpan Yardman arrives later to trim the grass.

The sky is blue. The air is crisp. The lawn is wet because it rained quite a spell last night, making sweet sounds.

Now here’s why she’s going to church. It’s to fool God.

Relatives often ask us to be godparents to the endless array of babies they birth because we look like the best deal going in the family. Problem is that our marriage was only a civil one, not a religious one. A judge connected us, and that’s not good enough to be godparents. I suppose we’re seen as living in sin.

There has been a recent spate of new babies among the bunny-breeding kin, so we received at least two new invites to godparenting. I pass. But my child bride really wants to. There’s nothing she loves more than babies.

This morning, she’s pretending to be single to get the proper paperwork, so she can be a godmother without me tagging along. The proper paperwork requires a three-hour instruction from a priest. She’s doing that in a church downtown.

I hope she remembers to remove her wedding ring.

This amuses me while I sweep the veranda and wait for Abel to cut the grass that I’ve already liberated of fallen, rotting peaches.

It’s a lovely morning.

Less than a tithe

This is our neighborhood church. Built, I’m guessing, in the 1500s.

WE USUALLY don’t answer the doorbell because it’s often passing kids goofing around or someone selling something we don’t want. And it’s almost a two-block round trip from inside the house to the front gate and back. That more than anything.

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A Catholic spell

I come from country people who were never anything but Baptists or Methodists that I know of.

In spite of that, I was deposited in a Catholic school for kindergarten and First Grade in Albany, Georgia, about 10,000 years ago. My mother did it because it had the best reputation in town, education-wise.

My sister was sentenced there too. My sister had imagination, however, or maybe it was just childish ignorance. She came home one day and announced that she’d changed the Holy Water, freshened it up with stuff from the tap.

Neither the priest nor the nuns ever noticed, which tells me that Holy Water’s fame is overstated somewhat.

My mother, before enrolling me, made the nuns promise they wouldn’t try to turn me into a Catholic, and they did so promise because, one imagines, our money looked green.

However, one day I came home with the report that, after having misbehaved in some way, I was made to kneel on rice before a painting of the Virgin and beg forgiveness.

Mother took me out of the school at that point, and I left Catholicism forever if you don’t count that my second ex-wife is a recovering Catholic, and Mexico is full of Catholics.

My child bride does not seem to be a Catholic, but the environment rubs off. Her father was an atheist and her evil stepmother, after father died too young, became a Jehovah’s Witness, one of those pests at your front door.

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Speaking of doorbells

As I was saying, we rarely respond to the doorbell here at the Hacienda unless we are expecting someone.

But my child bride was toiling in her pastry workshop the other day when the doorbell rang — it rings both out there and here in the house — and since there was little walking involved, she opened the little speakeasy portal in the steel gate.

Two ladies were there, and they were not pesky Jehovah’s Witnesses, but Catholics on a collecting mission.

You see our neighborhood church up top? It is very old, and it’s in bad condition. We were informed that City Hall has agreed to chip in a percentage for a much-needed restoration, but residents here in our poor barrio have to pony up too.

We were being asked to pony up, so we ponied.

We learned that the amount one is asked to contribute is based on how well-off you look. In our hardscrabble neighborhood, we look quite well-off, so we were asked for 1,000 pesos.

We paid for the sake of architecture.

I think the Vatican should pay for the entire restoration, but it doesn’t seem that Headquarters pays us much mind.

I hope enough money is raised because I like the church. I see it every weekday morning during our exercise walk. I’ve rarely been inside, but I hear singing at times, and I see funerals and weddings there. All part of the tapestry hereabouts.

Sweet diversity

ALL YOU need is love. This nutty notion was born in the 1960s with the hippies, and it’s traveled down the years branded into the hearts of the hippies’ children and grandchildren.

The concept’s basic error is that all cultures are of equal value, that people around the world think the same.

The basic error is why so many support open borders, both literally and figuratively.

Open borders in Europe has led to Amsterdam and Sweden and Paris where Mohammedans run amok.

Closer to home, it’s led to places like Dearborn, Michigan, where now live lots of people who want to murder you.

Blame the Beatles. And ignorance.

Down the mountain

cafe
Are we in Paris?

WE DRIVE down the mountain every week to the state capital, mostly for shopping at Costco and Superama.

And to grab a lunch.

We rarely go directly into the center of town because traffic is snarly, and free parking is hard to find.

Yesterday, while my child bride was doing chores, I drove downtown for a look-see. That array of sidewalk tables sits across from a music conservatory called Las Rosas.

The Roses.

When I lived in the capital for seven months in 2000, I occasionally ate here. At the time there was only one establishment on this end, and another on the far end.

Those in the middle were not there.

cops
Cops, cops, cops.

Mexicans are fond of protesting in the streets and highways. More often than not, it’s teachers who want guaranteed jobs and the right to bequeath those jobs to unqualified relatives at retirement. Teachers also loath competence tests.

To counter these malcontents, police often take to the streets en masse. That’s what you see in the second photo. They were just standing there in body armor and shields.

I saw no impending strife nearby, so …

Being a cop must be very boring at times.

church
Scads of churches.

Sidewalk restaurants, cops and churches. The state capital is full of churches. That’s one just above. I snapped the photo while sitting on a bench in a plaza of yet another church directly behind me. Churches galore.

We sit at sidewalk eateries. We want guaranteed jobs. And we kneel and pray everywhere. All of those things happen in quantity down the mountain in the state capital.

It’s only 40 minutes away.

Thirty minutes if you really haul butt.

Pray for Europe

ENCOURAGING multiculturalism is a very bad idea.

You see it in the growing strife across the United States. The Trump-Hillary conflict is at heart a conflict between multiculturalists and nationalists.

The antonym of multiculturalist is nationalist.

As Europe is bludgeoned into multiculturalism by screwball governments, you see growing strife there too.

And violence.

People of different religions, beliefs, languages and race do not sit comfortably in the living rooms of their opposites. In a perfect world, they would sit there comfortably, sharing tea, crumpets and conversation, but that world doesn’t exist.

Borders have always existed.

Tearing them down is a fool’s endeavor.

The Iliad Institute, formed after the suicide of a French nationalist named Dominique Venner, made the above video, which celebrates the distinctive history of Europe.

It’s a mindset that America should encourage.

Mexico does not celebrate multiculturalism. We celebrate Mexicanism. We are nationalist. That’s good.

Yea for Islamophobia!

islam
The true War on Women.

IS ISLAMOPHOBIA bad? Not at all. But it’s not the preferred term due to phobia’s definition as an irrational fear.

And trepidation in the face of this so-called religion — a beast philosophy — is quite a rational response.

The photo shows a young Indonesian woman who broke the Mohammedan rule against being alone in a room with a man to whom she was not married.

Just being in the room. That’s all.  Gadzooks!

She is a lucky one. She only received a public lashing instead of stoning to death or the ever-popular beheading.

Or being drowned in a cage. Or being thrown off a cliff. Or being hanged from a construction crane. Or being burned alive.

You can read the details here. It’s important to publicize this stuff in order to spread “Islamophobia” far and wide.

These are the people President Barry embraced in 2009 as he kicked off his term with the infamous Apology Tour.

Perhaps you voted for him. Not once, but twice.

Gadzooks! Bet you’re red-faced now.

Dying to music

noteWALKING THROUGH the living room the other day, the FM station was playing a nice classical work, and I thought, “That would be good to die to,” and I envisioned falling forward onto the ceramic floor, dead as that doornail.

I was in a good mood when the thought struck me, and dying in a good mood is desirable. Dying to music is common in movies, but I wonder how often it happens in real life. Not much, I think.

A sudden death, which is how I want it, would reduce the chances of dying to good music, something that likely requires planning. Which is best? Dying suddenly to no music or a prolonged demise to good music. The sudden death wins out because you want to go fast, music or not.

Good mood, fine music, healthy and sudden. That’s how I want to sail away. Of course, a sudden death contradicts the notion of healthy, but let’s imagine it was an unknown heart problem that brought down the curtain. Just thinking you’re healthy till the final moment is enough.

But if a sudden death isn’t in the cards, I would like some good music playing on Departure Day. Kitaro’s Light of the Spirit is the top pick, something I’ve loved since the late 1990s. Downing some ecstasy and turning on that Kitaro tune is a religious experience in itself.

Try it. You’ll see.

A close runner-up would be one of a number of songs by the appropriately named Dead Can Dance. A real standout is their Host of Seraphim, a fine piece to shuttle you off into that distant space where resides whatever God or Goddess you put your money on.

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(A close runner-up to Host of Seraphim is Yulunga. About the 3:18 mark on the video, it moves into high gear visually, going multicultural in a spectacularly fine way.)

Protestant goombah

WHY DO CATHOLICS have a Main Man, but Protestants do not?

The Catholics, due to having a main man, get lots of press coverage. Protestants lack that. They are a fractured people.

I am neither Protestant nor Catholic, but I believe in balance.

attire
Man

So I propose that Protestants unite to choose a Main Man — maybe even a Main Woman because Protestants, as a rule, are less hidebound than Catholics. Well, some of them.

A convention must be held, perhaps akin to Burning Man, where Protestants can come together. This will require plenty of compromise because Protestants are a mixed bag, ranging from high-toned Presbyterians to Westboro Baptist Church crackpots.

After a Main Man — or Woman — is chosen, a Protestant Vatican must be decided upon. Outside of the United States is preferable so visits to Washington will seem more special, inspiring more press coverage.

Somewhere in the Middle East is a fine choice since Jesus Christ walked thereabouts. As the Catholic Pope has armed guards and a bulletproof vehicle, the Protestant Main Man — or Woman — will need this too, due to being around so many pissed-off Mohammedans.

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Woman

All of this will require money, so an expanded tithe must be applied to all Protestant denominations.

Twenty-five percent sounds about right.

This will finance a huge Protestant Palace among the Mohammedans. And then there’s the Wardrobe.

As the Pope wears women’s clothes, the Protestant Main Man should do likewise. It will attract attention. If a Main Woman is chosen, a James Bond tuxedo will serve the purpose.

After a Main Man (Woman) is named, a Protestant Palace situated, armed guards hired (with suitable frippery), at least two bulletproof Hummers at the door, the only thing left to do is make smoke and water holy.

Then head to Washington, D.C.

Good Aussie sense

THE AUSSIES are admirable. They enforce their borders, as all intelligent nations do. Get caught in Mexico without permission, and you’ll be booted out unceremoniously. Well, unless you’re part of the mobs of Central Americans just passing through on their way to the Rio Bravo.

That amuses us. Don’t jump off the roof of the train though.

I do not support multiculturalism or diversity as a national policy because it leads to grief and mayhem. A quick glance at the United States or borderless Europe these days offers proof positive of that. Devotion to diversity is, of course, a part of politically correct nuttiness.

The Aussies realize that Australia is for Australians. You can move to Australia, but you must do it legally, and I imagine Australia wants you to learn English, assimilate, get a job, and doff your chador.

And say “mate” a lot.

Nations that work best are mono-cultural, mono-lingual, mono-religious, and citizens sport the same skin tone. Commonalities are the building blocks of a nation, the sine qua non.

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Note: A related story from The Federalist.