Interesting Bullshit Factoid:


A female ferret will die if it goes into heat and cannot find a mate. (nature's case for a one-night stand)

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What's so "good" about it?

What's so "good" about it?

As oblivious as I am to anything religiously-oriented, apparently today is Good Friday. Kinda like Easter Jr. but without the eggs, baskets and gastrointestinal distress from chowing on partially hydrogenated bunnies. So I asked myself – what’s so “good” about Good Friday? Not wanting to take anyone’s word for it and buy into the concept blind, I had to do a little research. After all, what kind of a sheep would I be if I just took someone’s word for it that Friday’s really good? After some trolling on the interwebz, here’s what I came up with. And truth be told, it really should be labeled “Fan-fucking-TASTIC Friday.” Good is so pedestrian.

  • 1847: Cleavage would never be the same since on this day in history (April 10), Walter Hunt of New York City patented the safety pin. My sweater kittens are safe from wardrobe malfunctions and (you know you’ve done it…) zits for centuries to come will meet their demise at the point of this twisted little concoction.
     
  • 1866:  I make no bones about my love for animals. I have two dogs and two cats, all of which are rescue animals. On this day, the ASPCA was founded in New York City by philanthropist and diplomat Henry Bergh. Now if we could just shut down the senseless puppy and breeding mills, maybe America could wake up and realize there are countless shelter animals that have been abused, abandoned, bred without consideration or simply lost in the system that need loving homes. If I adopt one more, I’ll need my own shelter permit. I already refer to my car as “The Ark” for fuck sake.
     
  • 1906: If you’ve never read “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry and you’re reading my blog, Christ almighty get your ass to a library! On this day in 1906, the legendary author published his collection of short stories The Four Million which included the timeless tale about a couple, a gift and a moral never forgotten by those who have read it.
     
  • 1960: Swing, baby, swing…Brian Setzer was born on this day in 1960. The Stray Cats got me through my angst-ridden years and taught me that you can rock-out equally to both a bass guitar and an upright bass. He’s also gone on to create some bitchin’ modern renditions on classic big band music with the Brian Setzer Orchestra. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t Jump, Jive an’ Wail.
     
  • 1985: Prior to April 10 this year, no R-rated movie had ever placed in the box office top 10 og highest-grossing features. We can all thank Eddie Murphy for fucking that up for the conservatives in years to come with his performance in Beverly Hills Cop (the first one – and only GOOD one).

So yeah…screw “good” Friday. Good is a pansy-ass, non-committal word that boys and girls say to one another when we don’t want to tell you how we really feel. Have a Fan-Fucking-TASTIC Friday, my dear readers. Pry that sticky-ass wafer off the roof of your mouth, have a greedy swig from the communal cup, rend the ears off as many “chocolate” bunnies as you like and quit taking everyone else’s word for it that it’s good. If it’s merely good, then you need to try just a little bit harder.

pope

Buy one indulgence, get one free

It’s Wednesday morning and we’re set for another scorcher here in Las Vegas. Clear skies, high of 102, and I tell ya, not a Catholic in site to save my mortal soul from the wrath of hell’s sunshine that beats down on this city spawned from sin. Those pesky Catholics! Never one around when you need one.

It’s been a rough month for Catholicism, and I mean rough-like-I-ain’t-shaved-my-legs-in-seven days-while-camping-rough. Not only did the Vatican issue a paper reiterating much of Vatican II and continuing to justify the hypocrisy of the church as divine intention (and further ostracizing sects of their own faith), but they got beat-down by The Man in court to the tune of $600+ million since their “boyz” can’t keep their hands off of little boys’ toyz.

Why did the priest run down to JC Penny’s?

Because he heard little boy’s pants were half-off!

I’m disappointed, though. Really. I’m at a stage in my life where I’m open to searching, learning, and for the love of all that’s holy, there are days where I need some salvation. However, the Vatican has single-handedly ripped from my grasp all other options. Apparently (according to the literature released earlier this month), Orthodox churches are “defective” and that other Christian denominations are not true churches. Therefore, it’s pretty much sounding as if it’s “Catholicism or Bust,” and by “bust” I mean eternal damnation.

Not only that, but guess I really should just convert now, as the recent documentation also advises that any schools of religious thought other than the traditional Catholic faith, ”were not true churches but merely ecclesial communities and therefore did not have the ‘means of salvation.”

I tell ya:

I go to Baskin Robbins, I want ice cream.

I go to the Honda dealer, I want to buy a car.

I go to Home Depot, I want to be overwhelmed by do-it-yourself projects.

I go to church, I want salvation, goddammit!

I mean, why the hell else would I go to church? I have never had a craving for those sticky little unleavened wafers that your have to scrape off the roof of your mouth with your tongue and wash-down with a thimble full of Ripple. Do you honestly believe that the general churchgoing public goes to service because the pews are comfy? Absolutely not. They go for the soul-cleansing kumbaya, hoping that an hour of submission will redeem them from a week’s worth of sins. Funny…a week’s worth of cake doesn’t disappear after an hour on the treadmill, but what the fuck do I know? I’m a sinner, sinner, sinner.

Now, to further complicate matters as we—-the spiritually curious masses—seek an identity in a force higher than our own 3-1/2 inch black strappy sandals, the church that attests to their sole ability to deliver me to my salvation … wants to touch me naughty.

Quite frankly, the fact that I get “touched naughty” (over…and over…and…sorry. Distracted.) — would that not be one of the reasons I’m seeking salvation and redemption in the first place? I think it’s a shitty sports book where the house gets to play both sides of the line like this. AH! We need members…membership is down. Hmmmm…I KNOW! Let’s start having our priests touch young boys, generating a firm foundation for feelings of shame and thereby an entire generation of future followers of the doctrines of Catholicism! We’re offered a group discount on guilt in exchange for letting Father Jones do the Lord’s Work by way of our Underoos: buy one indulgence, get one free! Just like in feudal times.

By the way—have you tithed this month?

This week’s landmark settlement in favor of the 580 victims abused by clergy members within the Catholic church chimed-in at $660 million.

Well, slap me and call me “saved!” What does it take to get a priest to send a little of the Lord’s lovin’ MY way? Maybe one of ‘em could just graze a nipple and get my car paid-off.

(Small print disclaimer: I do acknowledge that I’m going to hell. As I’ve known this for quite some time, I already have property there. And I bought low.)

While that’s all I’ll say about that matter, I’ll move abruptly into what I consider to be the unmitigated gall of a “good ‘ol boys club” boasting membership totaling one-sixth of the world’s population (Statistical Yearbook of the Church 2005. Libreria Editrice Vaticana) to pass judgement on what IS and what is NOT valid in any sense of the word.

Pardon me, as I’m just a woman and all (not held in the highest regard by the Vatican community, I acknowledge, but please bear with me), but … weren’t you and your esteemed colleagues just ordered to pay damages for sexual misconduct, molestation, and other abuse allegations against your direct constituency, Mr. Roman Catholic Church? You’re trying to tell me that, in Western society, a child molester or convicted sex felon must report to the authorities, can have no further affiliation with children, must stay a certain distance from schools, and live a life branded by (justifiable) stigma because of his previous actions … yet you, Mr. Roman Catholic Church, can persist in your teachings, elitist pontifications, hypocritical white papers, and legacy of guilt — after having been ordered to pay over $745 million dollars in damages to the victims your religion has left in its wake? Ah yes. I see the logic now. GOD said it was OK …. (splashing acid in my eyes)

While one might be inclined to take everything that’s come out of my mouth (?) thus far in this week’s Redheaded Fury as I have a problem with Catholicism, or organized religion for that matter — I beg of you, no, no, no, no, and, um… NO! Pull off your blinders, as I’m pointing the finger at religion when it uses divine intent as an excuse for hypocrisy and elitism! I have the utmost respect for those who are committed to a personal system of beliefs that allows them to live a fuller and more enriching life. It’s the fundamental hypocrites, those who will admonish you for your deeds and then point to the distance, shrieking, “LOOK! ELVIS!” and the moment you turn to look, they’re buggering your wife and washing away the bad taste in their mouth with some of that communal wine from the big chalice that Mrs. Molasky just backwashed in, with which I have a problem.

When the leaders we entrust to perpetuate a school of thought, doctrine, or specialty violate that trust by misusing or misdirecting that knowledge for their own gain (or kink), to where are we supposed to turn? How can we ever know that our “hired hand” is being on the up-and-up with us, especially when it comes to the life-changing potential of spiritual development? It’s why cults persist, fanaticism is likened to brainwashing, and ultimately why some choose to leave the fold inside which they’ve been reared in search of other solutions.

Personally, I left the Christian fold many a year ago (for me, it wasn’t so much a single “fold” as an entire oragami experience). Have I had my challenges along the way? Most certainly. I’ve tried returning to church, wondering if there’s something I’ve missed. Was I not giving this structured environment a chance? Why are the songs always written in that key I can’t sing in? Am I overdressed? Do I believe in any of this? I could be hiking right now. Holy shit — how many times can you say “amen” in an hour? Regardless of any inner dialogue that reaffirms my choice to depart from the effervescence of ecumenical comfort, I have no ill thought for those who choose to remain.

Whatever belief system we adopt as our own throughout our years on this mortal coil, I think it’s essential to live a good life. I can’t abide by a corporation disguised as a religion (Mr. Roman Catholic Church, Mr. Southern Baptist Church, Mr. Mormon Temple!) that repeatedly adopts the practice of open admonishment of those who differ. Last I learned in Sunday School (when I wasn’t changing the words of a favorite children’s church song to, “Jesus loves me, I’m impressed—he’s a guy who wears a dress…miniskirts and formals, too…some are pink and some are blue.”) is that compassion and tolerance are two fundamental principles within the Christian faith — and many other religions as well. What religion or belief system is so superior that it bears the right to burn at the stake those who see things differently?

I’m disappointed that the Catholic Church chooses to issue edict that openly states superiority and specifically names other belief systems as “defective” since they don’t acknowledge the Pope as their main homeboy. As well, I’m quite confident that the Most Rev. Joseph Pepe D.D. of the Archdiocese of Las Vegas would fail to find the humor in one of my favorite jokes: “I’ve found Jesus…I have him in the trunk!” They don’t even want to know where I keep my Pope.

I am also disappointed that a religion has brought upon itself $745 million in collective fines in seven years on account of allegations of sexual misconduct by those entrusted with people’s souls and spiritual development. If you consider that the number of victims in the two lawsuits total 1058 persons, that renders each incident of sexual misconduct (assuming, incorrectly of course, that there was only one incident per victim) a value of $704,158.79.

Pat, I’ll take “I Left My Salvation in Little Johnny’s Pants” for $704,158.79, please. Oooooooooh! The Daily Double!

I’m faced with a quandary here as I evaluate my options for redemption, and I’m sure the redemption-seeking public-at-large is as well. It’s likely that I’m beyond redemption (as I was ex-communicated back in 2001 from associations with any entity affiliated with “Jesus” after mentioning to someone that—hey! MY gardener’s name was Jesus, too…how much does your Jesus charge and can he fix a bubble-drip irrigation system?) However, I’ve found over the past several years that just trying to live a good life has paid me dividends that I could never have imagined. I am left wondering, however, if there is a section of Purgatory reserved for those who used hypocrisy as a weapon during their lifetime, a weapon to instill guilt, a sense of inferiority, and fear. I find free will to be the most incredible gift that this human existence has to offer us, and just have a (fundamental) problem with any belief system that comes along and preaches that free will? Bah—forget about free will. You’ll be much happier as a sheep. (not a Catholic sheep, mind you…ew. Or should I say “ewe?”)

So, my Salvation-Seeking public. Scroll back up to the top of this week’s blog and show me on the Pope doll where I’ve touched you during my diatribe. If you touch the “magic spot,” you, too, could be the lucky winner of a fractionalized interest in a $660 million dollar legal settlement! This is a limited-time offer, so don’t delay. While elitist religions may persist and always be at the ready to diminish your capacity to engage in free thought, the money won’t last forever! Act now, my friends, and without delay.

Please see below for contest rules.

Contestants must have accepted Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior. Gardeners, bus boys, dishwashers, and other day laborers named Jesus are not eligible for this promotion. Fundamentalist Christians (aka “posers”) and other non-Orthodox Catholics and their families are also excluded from participating as you must show proof of eligibility for Salvation when claiming your prize.  Promotion not valid in Utah.
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Apparently, I was hosting a NASCAR event in my house this morning.  Aside from being fundamentally opposed to stock car racing as a matter of course, I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if the green flag hadn’t dropped at

two

thirty

A

fucking

M.

I was jolted from the oddest dream as one of my feline dependents used my right breast as a launching pad for one of his paws, tore across the bed, and was most certainly followed by cat #2 in a tear-ass race to make it downstairs.  I distinctly heard a “whump!” followed by a hiss, more claws furiously grasping for purchase on the hardwood floors, and the sound of what I can only assume was one of them blowing a tire and having to head to the pits for repair.

Here’s the problem:  when I’m up, I’m up.  There’s no gentle linger as my body slips back into dreamland, no stolen 2 hours of slumber before the alarm goes off signaling “GYM TIME!”  I was undeniably, undoubtedly, and inarguably

awake.

It’s really quite pathetic to go to the gym at 3AM.  Actually, I don’t know why I’d call it pathetic.

I pathetically went to the gym.

After serving hard time on the elliptical machine followed by a parole stint on the recumbent bike, I sprung myself from the fitness pokey around 4:30AM and meandered back to my abode.

Huh.  Weekly grocery delivery still wasn’t there.  Okey dokey.

I did see, though, that the sun was starting to come up in the East.  The sun caused the outline of the mountains in the distance to sport a honeyed glow as the remaining night sky threatened to fade into the decadent hues of indigo that reminded me of sleep deprived.

I can’t tell you the last time I sat on my front porch, but this morning, I did.  It was probably before hell moved into Vegas for the summer like some godforsaken snowbird, but it had definitely been awhile.  I sat with my book (current read: ”We” by Robert Johnson), cradled by an avocado green patio chair and over the course of the next hour, I watched the birth of yet another day come into view.  Between paragraphs and absorbing thoughts on the psychology of “we,” I forgot about sleep lost and feelings of feline robbery.  With each glimpse I took of the horizon, with every centimeter of amber that became flame and then yielded to familiar tones of sky blue, I became even more glad that I was sitting there on my porch at that hour.

I think as I said in the last installment of Redheaded Fury that I find the greatest pleasures in life not from those times where I’ve scheduled myself into oblivion and primed myself for the predictable.  Rather, those times where I’m thrown-off by “life” force me to open my eyes to something I would have otherwise not seen. 

I could have gotten up at 4:30AM as I have all week, thrown on my gym clothes, gone for a run or whatnot, and gone about the usual morning routine that eventually leads me to my daily grind.  Not today, though.  A not-so-gentle mammary maiming led me to one of the most peaceful mornings ever, and admittedly, it wasn’t by my own design.

My groceries finally arrived.  They were out of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, so my delivery guy threw-in some free samples (bless his heart) … 4 chocolate milks, a brick of sharp cheddar, a tub of cookie dough (DOH!), and some extra veggies.

I hope they’re out of the cookies next week, too.

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