When I was in high school, I had four English teachers and four literature teachers who insisted that we get our facts straight before we put anything to paper.
This was in the halcyon days of yore where sources were checked, facts were quantified and grades were dropped on the least whiff of plagerism.
Now, journalism seems to have all but faded away in the glaring, harsh light of MEDIA coverage.
The important thing is sales volume not truth.
Taking a quote out of context and twisting someone's words through inflection, comma placement and headlining has become a national sport.
The saddest part of all of this is that the media is not content to report news anymore. They have become what everyone of conscience feared. The media now decides what the news SHOULD be, crafts carefully a public image and tells us what our personal conscience should accept as relative truth.
They "doctor" photographs of gorey violence to add more blood as if horror isn't horrible enough.
They "spin" the words of truth to become statements of intolerance and bigotry to suit the 30 second headlines for the evening news.
The media has taken away the ideal of only reporting "the facts, ma'am, just the facts" and instead manufactures whatever version of truth is in political vogue.
The Roman Empire must have certainly employed newsmakers like these. The fall of private persons would never have been so spectacularly devastating otherwise.
We have 24-hour coverage of the debased, the debauched and the devilish. Show even a moral, decent and honest person a steady diet of this filth and it will have an effect, if only to dull the senses of what is right and what is wrong.
Contrary to public opinion being shoved down our throats by those who are spin doctoring the truth into a palatable lie, there are some things that ARE ABSOLUTES.
If we who know the truth refuse to stand up and say something, we will find ourselves out on a very dangerous limb that we have carefully sawed halfway through in our haste to be viewed as 'tolerant'.
Being tolerant has become a perversion of truth. It was never intended to be this way.
Allowing people to have room on the road of life to live and let live doesn't mean that they should do so at the peril of those who do not share the same views. Yet we have an entire subset of our culture that preaches exactly that.
If we refuse to espouse the opinion du jour that is being vomited forth from the rags and daily's and online sources, we are being bigoted and intolerant even if our personal beliefs and religious observances tell us for certain that what is being demanded is wrong.
Accountability in what is being published and read is essential if we are to prevent the collapse of our nation like the collapse of the Roman Civilization.
We are no different than they are. They succumbed to the Father of Lies and we are courting disaster by allowing him plenty of air time.
There is a saying that I believe to be true: "No one ever fell into a mud puddle who didn't first go too close to it." (Sterling W. Sill)
If we continue to skirt the edge of the puddle and skip around as if we are immune, we will eventually fall in and be coated with the filth that in prior days we would have abhorred.
I've started filtering which media sources I use and choose to believe. There is plenty of good out there that gets no air time.
It's a good idea to let some Light in on that Good News and remember that Christ had His detracters, but it never prevented Him from giving the truth as the message even when it made someone else mad.
October 11, 2010
October 8, 2010
Sharing isn't always a good thing...
It isn't ever said out loud.
To do so must violate some sort of private, secret, inviolable trust that keeps everyone sniffling, hacking and gagging their way through the fall and winter months like bags of viral filth.
I know being where you said you'd be is important. I get it.
In our own way, we all want to believe we are the indispensable quotient that makes the world go round, the sun shine and the planetary alignment create 'magic'.
Not so fast there, pardner...
I promise, if you take a few sick days to keep your snotty nose and dribbly eyes to yourself and actually take some rest, we'll ALL feel better.
However, that under normal circumstances is a sufficent warning left unheeded on a regular enough basis to make sure that we are compelled to share, incubate and harvest the mutated germs on a rotating scale.
There must be a secret schedule of which I remain blissfully unaware yet fall victim to quite often.
Family A is assigned to bring their germy selves to church and kiss everyone. The following week, Family G is assigned to bring a DIFFERENT mutation and reinfect the masses. The combination of the two variant forms is enough to keep attendance down for at least three full weeks.
But lest anyone think that good sense kicks in at this point, let me assure you that is not the case.
It's like they are in the lobby of the church telling everyone, "Yeah, I was pukin' up chunks of liverish looking stuff last night and had a fever of 732 degrees before the chills and gut wrenching explosive diarrhea set in, but when it was time to come to church I just couldn't miss… you should have smelled the bathroom and see the mess we all left in there. Bobby, Sissy and Mary Jane were all just heaving up their guts, but I was firm and told them 'We ain't gonna be missing seeing the Franchiones bless their new little one and I'm a gonna kiss that sweet baby all over it's little face'."
"Well, when I said that, they was up and dressed jack rabbit quick, although Bobby had to borrow a shirt from Buddy Earl because he blew chunks on it just as we was about to get buckled into the car. Made me kinda mad since them grits and eggs don't wash out of upholstery all that good, but we're here and that's what counts."
"Now, where is yor Daddy so I can give him some sugar….?"
You have to wonder about the level of sanity in the room at that point. I have actually asked people "Why did you come if everyone was sick today? The church won't fall down if you miss church to keep your mutated germ of the week at home to die a long, slow death in the privacy of YOUR home. I don't want what you have and neither does ANY ONE ELSE!"
They look at me like I am insane.
Sure thing, sugar booger. It's me that's nuts here...
While you are making smear slides and 24-hour Petri dish samples of your disgusting pus and phlegm, you can sing a song to pass your time:
(to the tune of "Now Let Us Rejoice")
Now let us all gather and share all our spittle
I'll sneeze and I'll dribble my germs onto you
And while you're not looking, I'll cough on your nostrils
And leave you sick and tired For the full week ahead.
Then I'll skip off laughing
'Cause I passed my germs off
and you'll be in the bed
feverish and half dead
But next week I will come back
and do it all over
and pass off all new germs
to all of your frail kin!
I wonder if they sell Lysol© in a tank sprayer...?
To do so must violate some sort of private, secret, inviolable trust that keeps everyone sniffling, hacking and gagging their way through the fall and winter months like bags of viral filth.
I know being where you said you'd be is important. I get it.
In our own way, we all want to believe we are the indispensable quotient that makes the world go round, the sun shine and the planetary alignment create 'magic'.
Not so fast there, pardner...
I promise, if you take a few sick days to keep your snotty nose and dribbly eyes to yourself and actually take some rest, we'll ALL feel better.
However, that under normal circumstances is a sufficent warning left unheeded on a regular enough basis to make sure that we are compelled to share, incubate and harvest the mutated germs on a rotating scale.
There must be a secret schedule of which I remain blissfully unaware yet fall victim to quite often.
Family A is assigned to bring their germy selves to church and kiss everyone. The following week, Family G is assigned to bring a DIFFERENT mutation and reinfect the masses. The combination of the two variant forms is enough to keep attendance down for at least three full weeks.
But lest anyone think that good sense kicks in at this point, let me assure you that is not the case.
It's like they are in the lobby of the church telling everyone, "Yeah, I was pukin' up chunks of liverish looking stuff last night and had a fever of 732 degrees before the chills and gut wrenching explosive diarrhea set in, but when it was time to come to church I just couldn't miss… you should have smelled the bathroom and see the mess we all left in there. Bobby, Sissy and Mary Jane were all just heaving up their guts, but I was firm and told them 'We ain't gonna be missing seeing the Franchiones bless their new little one and I'm a gonna kiss that sweet baby all over it's little face'."
"Well, when I said that, they was up and dressed jack rabbit quick, although Bobby had to borrow a shirt from Buddy Earl because he blew chunks on it just as we was about to get buckled into the car. Made me kinda mad since them grits and eggs don't wash out of upholstery all that good, but we're here and that's what counts."
"Now, where is yor Daddy so I can give him some sugar….?"
You have to wonder about the level of sanity in the room at that point. I have actually asked people "Why did you come if everyone was sick today? The church won't fall down if you miss church to keep your mutated germ of the week at home to die a long, slow death in the privacy of YOUR home. I don't want what you have and neither does ANY ONE ELSE!"
They look at me like I am insane.
Sure thing, sugar booger. It's me that's nuts here...
While you are making smear slides and 24-hour Petri dish samples of your disgusting pus and phlegm, you can sing a song to pass your time:
(to the tune of "Now Let Us Rejoice")
Now let us all gather and share all our spittle
I'll sneeze and I'll dribble my germs onto you
And while you're not looking, I'll cough on your nostrils
And leave you sick and tired For the full week ahead.
Then I'll skip off laughing
'Cause I passed my germs off
and you'll be in the bed
feverish and half dead
But next week I will come back
and do it all over
and pass off all new germs
to all of your frail kin!
I wonder if they sell Lysol© in a tank sprayer...?
October 7, 2010
Life Shows Up to Claim Us All
I'm sitting at a cancer treatment facility waiting on my Dad. His recent diagnosis for Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma brings an uncomfortable reminder of my own cancer battle several years ago. I am learning that none of us needs to feel immune to this equal opportunity offender.
While waiting for his name to be called, I ran into a friend from when our kids had been in band together. Cancer found her, too.
We mortal beings can be quite fragile.
We all want to be ten foot tall and bulletproof, but none of us is. Sadly, we all bear the reality of the physical Achilles heel that leaves it's wounds upon us and digs deep the scars of circumstance.
Treatment options are individual and varied and totally dependent upon what the magic blood test numbers tell them at each pit stop along the pathway that leads either to restoration or resolution of life into eternity.
Some are granted more time to spend with those whom they love, as I was.
Others are cruelly denied the blessing of "one more day" and must instead learn the bitter language of 'goodbye'.
Where the wheel of fortune stops is a mystery to us all.
There was a man who said that a lot of people wandered around after getting their diagnosis of cancer saying "why me?"
He said he believed that to be fatalistic to wonder why this had come. Instead, he told me, we need to say "why not me?" and look for ways to fight, pray and overcome.
Not all battles are won on this side of the finish line between mortality and eternity. By Divine design, some victories are etched in mortal suffering that can only be understood as we see them through the lens of Heaven.
I confess that I do not know the outcome of this all. But of one outcome I am certain. This world as it now stands is not our home. It's more like a way station between our beginning and our eternal destination.
We may be compelled to wade bitter waters of circumstance, ford the raging streams of adversity and drown our faces in the tears that are shed for the sorrow we feel for ourself and others.
But it is temporary.
The tides of opposition will be stilled and we will come off in the conquest that comes through faith in God's design.
In the meantime, we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other - literally AND figuratively. This is just a small moment.
I keep telling myself that.
But some days, that moment sure does last a long time.
While waiting for his name to be called, I ran into a friend from when our kids had been in band together. Cancer found her, too.
We mortal beings can be quite fragile.
We all want to be ten foot tall and bulletproof, but none of us is. Sadly, we all bear the reality of the physical Achilles heel that leaves it's wounds upon us and digs deep the scars of circumstance.
Treatment options are individual and varied and totally dependent upon what the magic blood test numbers tell them at each pit stop along the pathway that leads either to restoration or resolution of life into eternity.
Some are granted more time to spend with those whom they love, as I was.
Others are cruelly denied the blessing of "one more day" and must instead learn the bitter language of 'goodbye'.
Where the wheel of fortune stops is a mystery to us all.
There was a man who said that a lot of people wandered around after getting their diagnosis of cancer saying "why me?"
He said he believed that to be fatalistic to wonder why this had come. Instead, he told me, we need to say "why not me?" and look for ways to fight, pray and overcome.
Not all battles are won on this side of the finish line between mortality and eternity. By Divine design, some victories are etched in mortal suffering that can only be understood as we see them through the lens of Heaven.
I confess that I do not know the outcome of this all. But of one outcome I am certain. This world as it now stands is not our home. It's more like a way station between our beginning and our eternal destination.
We may be compelled to wade bitter waters of circumstance, ford the raging streams of adversity and drown our faces in the tears that are shed for the sorrow we feel for ourself and others.
But it is temporary.
The tides of opposition will be stilled and we will come off in the conquest that comes through faith in God's design.
In the meantime, we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other - literally AND figuratively. This is just a small moment.
I keep telling myself that.
But some days, that moment sure does last a long time.
September 24, 2010
Deep in my cow hearts, I only have cow eyes for you
Most days, I am not in contact with coolers filled with body parts. Generally speaking, that part of my life was years ago and faded out to a dim memory.
Today, however, was a revisiting of hauling pieces and parts to be used for scientific inquiry.
Since we have previously established in earlier postings that my legs are less than Rockettes ready, driving for long distances sometimes creates a problem.
To be specific, the van I drive has an interesting little peccadillo. The drivers side seat vibrates just enough that when you reach a certain speed on the highway, you get this odd little side to side motion that, when combined with the wobbly tires and odd shimmy of the van as a whole, produces a motion guaranteed to numb up your sciatic nerve.
The miles to Cullman have ensured that the nerve to my left gluteal region is, by now, hopelessly absent in function and my left leg drowsily follows behind it in a choreographed routine of anatomical abandonment.
When I get to my first stop along the way to pick up a load of cow hearts (no, I am NOT kidding), I realize I just might have a weensy bit of a problem.
You see, the jiggly, jouncy, vibrating and bouncy ride of my aging chariot has rendered my leg like so much navy blue clad Jell-o.
This can't be good. And, as it turns out, it isn't.
Yes friends and neighbors, I am here to testify to you that it is virtually impossible to exit from the DRIVER'S side of the vehicle with your entire left butt cheek and left leg numb to the gills. Prayers that you will somehow land on your right leg in a tortuously slow ballet of shifting weight and motion is comedy fodder for the people in the parking lot nearby.
While I don't mean to be the opening act for a comedy revue, it is. In retrospect, it must have looked awfully funny and awfully awkward to see someone trying to hitch themselves around to a standing position with no support from the left leg.
I am happy at this time for the handicap tag that hangs from the visor. At least there is a possibility it will explain the odd and jerky marionette like motions the other patrons of the establishment are seeing.
I'm also happy I'm at a meat processing facility and not near a bar. Other explanations for my lack of motor coordination would be evilly inferred...
When I can finally feel my leg and butt cheek again, I'm helping the nice stocky beef dude (who is kindly explaining to me about vacuum sealing and flash freezing cow hearts) to load them into the iced cooler I have brought along. I thank him for his help and especially thank the meat packing company for giving me so many of them in the name of students getting a high school diploma.
Heading back north, my next stop in Hartselle, the ride back has done nothing to improve my leg. On the contrary, it is a spreading evil. It is like a maniacal version of a massage, but instead of bringing relief, it brings loss of feeling, embarrassment and, eventually, a great deal of pain.
Did you know that accidentally landing on the leg that is numb makes a crunchy sound in a bad knee and ankle? Me neither. But it does. Sounds kinda like a bag of potato chips being squashed.
The nice young man at the next slaughterhouse regretfully informs me that he doesn't have the requisite number of bovine eyes for me. I assure him that the kids in my sister Xan's class will be happy to have ANY eyes at all.
The customer service area of his slaughterhouse is adorned with a host of taxidermied animals in various poses both threatening and just plain awesome. I told him so.
Xan would have like to have the mounted and stuffed animals for her classroom. Maybe that one kid who was high last year at school would have some kind of a freak out if he saw them... looking a him... wondering if anyone else saw them, too. But I digress...
Dragging my leg back out to the van, I'm thankful for the long drive home because I know it will numb the pain that is now creeping up to my brain. Opening the passenger side door to the van, it's time to start icing the eyeballs. Once in place, I shut the door, walk around to the other side, haul my unwilling carcass into the van and busy myself with closing the lid to the second smaller cooler.
Looking at the gas gauge in my unwilling chariot, I have concerns. The van isn't well known for it's high gas mileage and efficiency... Houston, we have a problem. How can that much gas go away that quickly??? Yikes!
Have you ever heard of the phrase "on a wing and a prayer"?
Well, I'm here to tell you that's exactly how my Jell-o leg and I made it to Athens with animal giblets in one piece. The people on the highway were FLYING past me as if 70 miles an hour was just not near Indy enough for them. Speed on brother, hell ain't half full and I'm sure they have reserved a spot just for you and your lead foot!
I found myself once again in my least favorite position. Semi in front, semi in back, semi to my left and another semi closing in on my 3 o'clock from the merge lane. As if he thought he could wedge that 18-wheeler between those other two and I'd never notice his presence, he crept closer. I hate it when they play monkey in the middle and I'm the monkey!! I could smell the Jimmy Dean sausage on his breath, people! And it wasn't a pleasing aroma!
Where is beaming technology when we need it???? I could wide beam his tail into deep space and send his truck right along with him!
Finally, one of the game-playing truckers pulled off at the next exit giving me a nano-second of breathing space. The van was going slightly uphill at that point which means that it was running as fast as the squirrel powered motor would allow... and losing speed with every turn of the tires. Nothing like a small grade to check out the relative power of squirrel versus horse.
Apparently, the other long distance truckers shining my bumper and side don't like following my van under those conditions because they peeled off from behind and whipped around me almost taking the paint and trim striping with them. The van rocked from side to side in their wake of wind. I'm just glad it wasn't raining...
At last, I reached the exit for Athens and got to Xan's to drop off the guts! Yeah! I was amazed at how happy their cat was to see me. I wonder why...?
Dragging a gazillion pounds of frozen cow hearts and a box of eyeballs into the house, I realized I was never destined in life to be stevedore. I'm just not built for the action.
The assorted guts are in their garage refrigerator now. I hope she remembers to tell the kids they will be there, otherwise I'll be blamed for their nasty surprise. But then again, it would be dang funny to hear them screaming at the cow eyes looking woefully upon them when they opened the door... muuahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
My assorted guts are now at home trying to regain feeling. And I'm left to wonder why that would be a good idea as the pain builds. I just have to remind myself that this is much like coming in from the snow... you have cold, numb hands that have to be reintroduced to proper function and it hurts a bit. So it follows that returning sensation to buttock and leg would also have a bit of a tingle... like a Taser hooked up to a Die-Hard battery.
I hope the students enjoy their guts and the effort taken to locate them because people at slaughterhouses and meat packing places sure ask a lot of funny questions when a person calls to ask about picking up a box of hearts and eyes.
Cue the "Godfather" music now...
Today, however, was a revisiting of hauling pieces and parts to be used for scientific inquiry.
Since we have previously established in earlier postings that my legs are less than Rockettes ready, driving for long distances sometimes creates a problem.
To be specific, the van I drive has an interesting little peccadillo. The drivers side seat vibrates just enough that when you reach a certain speed on the highway, you get this odd little side to side motion that, when combined with the wobbly tires and odd shimmy of the van as a whole, produces a motion guaranteed to numb up your sciatic nerve.
The miles to Cullman have ensured that the nerve to my left gluteal region is, by now, hopelessly absent in function and my left leg drowsily follows behind it in a choreographed routine of anatomical abandonment.
When I get to my first stop along the way to pick up a load of cow hearts (no, I am NOT kidding), I realize I just might have a weensy bit of a problem.
You see, the jiggly, jouncy, vibrating and bouncy ride of my aging chariot has rendered my leg like so much navy blue clad Jell-o.
This can't be good. And, as it turns out, it isn't.
Yes friends and neighbors, I am here to testify to you that it is virtually impossible to exit from the DRIVER'S side of the vehicle with your entire left butt cheek and left leg numb to the gills. Prayers that you will somehow land on your right leg in a tortuously slow ballet of shifting weight and motion is comedy fodder for the people in the parking lot nearby.
While I don't mean to be the opening act for a comedy revue, it is. In retrospect, it must have looked awfully funny and awfully awkward to see someone trying to hitch themselves around to a standing position with no support from the left leg.
I am happy at this time for the handicap tag that hangs from the visor. At least there is a possibility it will explain the odd and jerky marionette like motions the other patrons of the establishment are seeing.
I'm also happy I'm at a meat processing facility and not near a bar. Other explanations for my lack of motor coordination would be evilly inferred...
When I can finally feel my leg and butt cheek again, I'm helping the nice stocky beef dude (who is kindly explaining to me about vacuum sealing and flash freezing cow hearts) to load them into the iced cooler I have brought along. I thank him for his help and especially thank the meat packing company for giving me so many of them in the name of students getting a high school diploma.
Heading back north, my next stop in Hartselle, the ride back has done nothing to improve my leg. On the contrary, it is a spreading evil. It is like a maniacal version of a massage, but instead of bringing relief, it brings loss of feeling, embarrassment and, eventually, a great deal of pain.
Did you know that accidentally landing on the leg that is numb makes a crunchy sound in a bad knee and ankle? Me neither. But it does. Sounds kinda like a bag of potato chips being squashed.
The nice young man at the next slaughterhouse regretfully informs me that he doesn't have the requisite number of bovine eyes for me. I assure him that the kids in my sister Xan's class will be happy to have ANY eyes at all.
The customer service area of his slaughterhouse is adorned with a host of taxidermied animals in various poses both threatening and just plain awesome. I told him so.
Xan would have like to have the mounted and stuffed animals for her classroom. Maybe that one kid who was high last year at school would have some kind of a freak out if he saw them... looking a him... wondering if anyone else saw them, too. But I digress...
Dragging my leg back out to the van, I'm thankful for the long drive home because I know it will numb the pain that is now creeping up to my brain. Opening the passenger side door to the van, it's time to start icing the eyeballs. Once in place, I shut the door, walk around to the other side, haul my unwilling carcass into the van and busy myself with closing the lid to the second smaller cooler.
Looking at the gas gauge in my unwilling chariot, I have concerns. The van isn't well known for it's high gas mileage and efficiency... Houston, we have a problem. How can that much gas go away that quickly??? Yikes!
Have you ever heard of the phrase "on a wing and a prayer"?
Well, I'm here to tell you that's exactly how my Jell-o leg and I made it to Athens with animal giblets in one piece. The people on the highway were FLYING past me as if 70 miles an hour was just not near Indy enough for them. Speed on brother, hell ain't half full and I'm sure they have reserved a spot just for you and your lead foot!
I found myself once again in my least favorite position. Semi in front, semi in back, semi to my left and another semi closing in on my 3 o'clock from the merge lane. As if he thought he could wedge that 18-wheeler between those other two and I'd never notice his presence, he crept closer. I hate it when they play monkey in the middle and I'm the monkey!! I could smell the Jimmy Dean sausage on his breath, people! And it wasn't a pleasing aroma!
Where is beaming technology when we need it???? I could wide beam his tail into deep space and send his truck right along with him!
Finally, one of the game-playing truckers pulled off at the next exit giving me a nano-second of breathing space. The van was going slightly uphill at that point which means that it was running as fast as the squirrel powered motor would allow... and losing speed with every turn of the tires. Nothing like a small grade to check out the relative power of squirrel versus horse.
Apparently, the other long distance truckers shining my bumper and side don't like following my van under those conditions because they peeled off from behind and whipped around me almost taking the paint and trim striping with them. The van rocked from side to side in their wake of wind. I'm just glad it wasn't raining...
At last, I reached the exit for Athens and got to Xan's to drop off the guts! Yeah! I was amazed at how happy their cat was to see me. I wonder why...?
Dragging a gazillion pounds of frozen cow hearts and a box of eyeballs into the house, I realized I was never destined in life to be stevedore. I'm just not built for the action.
The assorted guts are in their garage refrigerator now. I hope she remembers to tell the kids they will be there, otherwise I'll be blamed for their nasty surprise. But then again, it would be dang funny to hear them screaming at the cow eyes looking woefully upon them when they opened the door... muuahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
My assorted guts are now at home trying to regain feeling. And I'm left to wonder why that would be a good idea as the pain builds. I just have to remind myself that this is much like coming in from the snow... you have cold, numb hands that have to be reintroduced to proper function and it hurts a bit. So it follows that returning sensation to buttock and leg would also have a bit of a tingle... like a Taser hooked up to a Die-Hard battery.
I hope the students enjoy their guts and the effort taken to locate them because people at slaughterhouses and meat packing places sure ask a lot of funny questions when a person calls to ask about picking up a box of hearts and eyes.
Cue the "Godfather" music now...
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