Anonymous painting courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
I’m telling my daughter the brightest version of something that is true, and something that we all need to remember: that the best way to deal with death and the afterlife is to remember, always, that it’s our behavior right now that decides which path we’re on. It’s a good thing to spend some time thinking about death, not to terrify ourselves or to revel in dark things, but to shed some light on our present choices.
Simcha Fisher’s greatest fan suggested rerunning this piece for Throwback Thursday. This post ran in March of 2013, during the Papal Conclave, back when things were stupid. I had forgotten all about the “Pope will be arrested if he leaves Vatican” rumor! Enjoy this glimpse into all that we have left behind, before this year’s stupidity train has a chance to gather steam.
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Catholic Memes has a nice summation of the stupid things the secular media just can’t stop saying:
This feeding frenzy of factoids, irrelevancies, red herrings, and bogus trivia is just going to accelerate. These are people who don’t know anything about the Church, don’t want to know anything about the Church, and, most importantly, are willing to believe just about anything about the Church.
All right, it’s fun to track this kind of thing, why not take it up a notch? It’s getting easier and easier to fake people out. I mean, if “Friends of Hamas” grew legs because it was too good to check, then why not . . .
Amigos de Torquemada. A super elite cabal open only to men descended from cardinals who have done things that even Alyosha Karamazov is still mad about. On hot summer nights, the Amigos can be seen skulking about the seedier districts of Rancho Santa Fe, kicking over recycling bins and maybe even playing a few rounds of ding-dong ditch, because they are MIRED IN SCANDAL.
Pretty please, if some talking head sticks a microphone under your nose on your way out of confession this Saturday, won’t you, oh won’t you bring up the Amigos de Torquemada? I want to see Chris Matthews gagging on his own tongue in his hurry to break the story. Or maybe we could send up a trial balloon about . . .
The Prophecy of Wallaby. Even more obscure than the Prophecy of Malachy, scholars have recently uncovered these ancient lines etched on the side of a termite hill on the outskirts of Yarrawonga, Victoria, presumably during a short-lived and ill-conceived attempt by an especially ambitious band of Carthusians to re-evangelize the Irish convicts, who had no time for that. The Prophecy of Wallaby predicts that the next pope will have been born in a month which doesn’t not have an “r” in it . . . or does it???
Or wait, have you heard? Some of the more conservative cardinals still retain the archaic tradition of using nuns as hassocks. And some of them haven’t changed their socks in weeks!
FLASH: As soon as Benedict XIV settled into his helicopter and the pilot turned off the “no smoking” sign, he burned a photo of Ashton Kutcher. Just because.
DID YOU KNOW? We all know that if the smoke is white, we have a new pope; if it’s black, the conclave could not come to an agreement. Well, as one of his final acts of barbaric oppression, the former Pope Benedict XVI signed his name to a new bit of dogma: if the smoke is yellow, that means it’s now a mortal sin for women to complain about their husbands leaving the toilet seat up.
THIS JUST IN: In order to squelch any possibility of transparency or an open and honest dialogue, the Swiss Guard has been spotted in and around the Sistene Chapel, installing super sensitive metal and explosive detectors, electronic device jammers, and an eleven-ton ball made out of stone that will CRUSH YOU. The Catholic Church. That’s how we roll. With eleven-ton balls of stone.
Little known fact about the inner workings of the conclave: Of course they could elect a female pope if they wanted to. They just don’t want to.
And finally, the greatest tip of them all: Cardinal Mahony is actually horse meat.
Between FEMEN, climate change, and that ill-considered paintball showdown between Rocco Palmo and Bishop Coyne in the Sala Clementina, the last thing the Vatican needs to do is take any chances with any werewolves. You know there’s room in the papal apartments. They could put newspapers down on the floor if they’re worried about the marble. (I suggest L’Osservatore Romano, because please.)
These are a few of my favorite posts! And this is a picture of Maria von Trapp, for real, from her naturalization application:
I would not have put a frog in her chair. Not. At. All.
Here are some of my favorite posts from 2014. I’ve only included ones that appeared in full on Patheos, and not on the Register or anywhere else. Sorry there are so many. I guess we know who my greatest fan is. (Not Maria von Trapp.)
JANUARY began really rough, with the loss of our tenth child on New Year’s Day. We also put boxers on the dog, enjoyed the most flatulent version of Greensleeves ever, heard why abortionists love graphic abortion photos, and speculated aboutwhether or not Taylor Marshall is, in fact, the Walrus.
FEBRUARY Was full of classy dames, extremely useful progesterone cream, and some breastfeeding bullies, as well as reasons why good people can have a larf when there’s transgendered politicians or Russian olympics involved, and of course butt music from Hell,
MARCH brought three cisgendered bears, plague puppets that made God say “gevalt,” and an intensely divisive post about love and marriage, where I pointed out that God is faithful, but most of us are not marrying God.
Bonus: A word from Irene, who knows that Christ is not baloney.
APRIL was the cruelest month, mixing Let It Go,which was not tolerable, with polio, which apparently is. It turned out we still needed feminism and that I forgot how to shirt; we taught the kids how to Jew, and the mailman wondered what was the deal with us people.
MAY saw the advent of my long-desired hate sites, a survey of the educational squalor that is Fisherland, a few clarifications for parents who feel like they have failed but hard, and one slice of Christianity without so much adorable puppydog in it. And thefirst in the Catholic Artist of the Month series, with Timothy Jones.
Bonus: my mother on a motorcycle
In JUNE, I changed my tune, revealing that all my major muses are from Warner Brothers, that even fat fatties can have a nice time in a bathing suit, why we tell our girls they are pretty without fearing that this will cause their brains to fall out, andhow we spend our time when we are B.O.R.E.D.
Bonus: Benny looking especially dangerous.
JULY was full of summery things like Issues Guy the Sex Sponge, wifely obedience and how I stopped freaking out about it, a step-by-step guide on how to poop, a flap (ho ho) over foreskin idolatry, and another Catholic Artist of the Month, Matthew Good, and boy is he good.
Henry William Pickersgill – Meisterwerke der Malerei. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons
AUGUST explains why I prefer dumb kids, what to do if you’re Catholic and depressed, where Ann Coulter can stick her exegesis, and what I told that little baby I’m still missing.
Bonus: Holiness is a numbers game, you filthy relativist
SEPTEMBER was a month for lovingly packed baggies full of tuna, romance advice, a guide for non-scientists who have to deal with science, and the reason I never say I’m blessed.
Bonus: Moving past the urge to truth bomb
OCTOBER brought us the third Catholic Artist of the Month, Neil Carlin, Mercola’sgroundbreaking move to literally blow smoke up your ass to cure Ebola, and adevastatingly adorable peek into Benny’s maternal impulses.
Bonus: bizarro printable masks for your bizarro kids
As NOVEMBER loomed, we wrestled with Persistent Systemic Weirdness, we examined the fruits of the Legion of Christ, we wondered what God could possibly mean by asking us to go get some butter, and Bad Mama had her say.
Bonus: Thanksgiving advice from Dear Simcha
And finally DECEMBER came with a whimper and a bang, lugging fifty gift recommendations you should totally bookmark, a defense of saying “I have to go to Mass,” a refusal to defend “Mary Didja Know,” a solemnity full of feathers in my cap and black eyes, a wonderful Chickentime simply had, and of course what happened that time my husband’s grandfather went to a boozed-up Raymond Chandler for help.
And that was 2014.
I’m just trying to sprinkle my fiancee’s ashes at Lens Crafters! Why does everyone run away from meeeee?
Ever read a story a couple of times from a couple of different sources, and you still end up going, “But why did the president of Argentina adopt a Jewish boy to prevent him from becoming a werewolf who will eat unbaptized babies, grandfather, why?”
And then it comes to you: Argentina is the Florida of the world. Things happen there, and there doesn’t have to be a reason. It’s just Argentina, that’s all.
Heck, maybe they’re onto something. Here’s musical precedent:
This whole premise is sweaty.
photo courtesy of Wellcome Images
The bill’s sponsor, state representative Keith Murphy of Bedford, describes the practice as unethical.
“To me there’s something fundamentally wrong about strapping a baby boy to a board and amputating perfectly healthy, normal tissue,” says Murphy.
The American Association of Pediatrics doesn’t agree that the practice is “fundamentally wrong.” In an August, 2014 statement, they said (emphasis mine):
Evaluation of current evidence indicates that the health benefits of newborn male circumcision outweigh the risks and that the procedure’s benefits justify access to this procedure for families who choose it, however, existing scientific evidence is not sufficient to recommend routine circumcision. Therefore, because the procedure is not essential to a child’s current well-being, we recommend that the decision to circumcise is one best made by parents in consultation with their pediatrician, taking into account what is in the best interests of the child, including medical, religious, cultural, and ethnic traditions.
Sanest thing I’ve heard all year. Give the parents lots of sound, medical information, and then let them make up their own minds when they’re deciding how to get their kids the best care for their circumstances.
Merry Christmas, everybody! I offered up Midnight Mass for all of you, especially for anyone who is lonely or grieving or in pain today. Thanks for another wonderful year of company.
Over at the Register today, nine artists have graciously shared their lovely Madonna and Child artwork with us. Here is just one, by 16-year-old painter Noyuri Umezaki:
Check out the rest here.
Fellow Patheosi and National Catholic Register blogger and all around Catholic pants expert Simcha Fisher and her rambunctious crew will be on the radio with me today at 6 PM Eastern talking about all things Christmassy (and maybe Hannukkahy too).
To listen to Catholic and Enjoying Live! on line go here at 6:00 PM EDT. The show is live, so feel free to call in at 1–866–333–6279 and you can chat. And if you want to hear archived shows interviewing such folk as Sherry Weddell, Brandon Vogt, Steven Greydanus, Tom McDonald, Dale Ahlquist, Tricia Bolle, Kevin O’Brien, and Elizabeth Stoker-Bruenig, go here.
I literally can not think of a literally better way you could spend an hour of your Christmas eve, and I mean that literally. Would love to chat if you want to call in!
After seventeen years, you think you have heard all the stories, but I heard a new one this evening. Not especially Christmas-y, but I know at least a few of you who will appreciate the hell out of this.
My husband’s grandfather was Steve Fisher, a pulp novelist and Hollywood screenwriter and producer. Back in the 40′s, he’s writing the screen adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s Lady in the Lake and finds himself stumped, trying to figure out certain aspects of how the mystery unfolded, and how the relationships worked.
So in desperation, he goes to Raymond Chandler’s door and knocked. Chandler opens the door, and clearly has at least half a snootful already. So TaTa Steve introduces himself and explains his dilemma, and asks for help.
Chandler says, “I got my check, I don’t give a shit.” Slams door. End scene.
Just thought you might like to know.
Today I learned the word “macaronic,” which refers to a style of work where all kinds of languages are thrown together, not necessarily in the most elegant or scholarly way. Like, apparently, a peasant dumpling.
Read about and hear the rest of ten of my favorite pieces of Christmas music at the Register.
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