You know, it’s going to be very hard for me to read scholarship of any sort from here on without thinking of this.
I have totally been sucked in by this show on the Sci-Fi channel–“The Real Exorcist,” which appears to be a giant infomercial for this charlatan. The most disturbing thing about this, as far as I can tell, is that he answers to no one, there’s no one he’s checking in with to make sure he’s not completely off course.
And I wonder what a practicing Christian makes of his ideas about generational curses. I have to admit, I find it… well, I have mixed feelings about it. After all, I do believe that a family shares luck and could, therefore, share bad luck.
But I’m not Christian. And I wouldn’t explain it as some kind of handed-down demon.
And I can’t help but wonder about the theology behind this idea that you could be lost to your god based not on your own actions, but on the actions of some far distant relative. Doesn’t that absolve you of some level of personal responsibility?
I don’t know. It’s curious.
He gives me an icky vibe, though, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.
I mean, other than the fact that he hits people with Bibles.
Edited to add: It reminds me of a little better done “Paranormal State.”
This dog snoring here next to me would tell you how she spent the morning tied to a tree while the Butcher layered five hammocks on top of each other and napped in the top-most one and how she had to bark and bark and bark at me to get my attention about what an idiot he was being and how we left her to go to lunch, but came back to torture her by taking her through the carwash, which is apparently the worst thing you can do to a dog after, oh, taking her to the vet, which we also did.
America, I must report that they were very sweet to my dog. And she seemed happy to see everybody! So, who knows what the fuck to make of that. But it made for a much more enjoyable trip to the vet. She got her stitches out and the nurse said she was, and I quote, “Very well-behaved” and the doctor says she has to wear her cone for the next week, just because he didn’t like some of the redness on her scar, but after that, we just have to keep her from running around like a wild animal until after Christmas.
And we can give her a bath!
So, exciting day for the dog all around.
If Obama is really the son of Malcolm X, is it no longer relevant that he was secretly born in Kenya but issued an Indonesian passport? Is it better or worse proof that he’s a secret Muslim? Would that make his “real” name Barack X? I find that difficult to say, the “ack” and then the “ecks” right in a row like that. Once this is determined to be “true”, can we settle on either Barry X or Barack el-Shabbaz, both of which have a nice ring?
Whew. I know we’re a nation of conspiracy theories, but have we ever had a guy surrounded by such elaborate conspiracy theories before he’s even elected president?
Anyway, I talked to the Butcher (who is having a birthday, but more excited that it’s the Fonz’s birthday and he gets to share it) and he said that when he went to vote, the woman who checked his registration told him that they had more people turn out on the first day of early voting than voted at all in the last election.
I keep waffling back and forth about whether pollsters have taken this into account. I just don’t know. Maybe some of you politicos can weigh in on this. But I wonder–what if 90% of every African American who can vote does? And, in a less likely scenario, what if conservatives don’t bother to show up to vote, because the numbers seem so far apart? I just keep an eye on Hobbs, who seems to be turning his attention to rallying the troops and I can’t help but wonder if, even in Tennessee, where McCain would seem to have an insurmountable lead, the TNGOP isn’t worried that Democratic enthusiasm coupled with conservative apathy might throw a wrench in things farther down the ticket.
I don’t know. But I wonder anyway.
You know, my favorite thing about the “Barack Obama is the secret son of Malcolm X” thing is trying to imagine the pitch meeting.
Malcolm X, in 1960.
“We need you to impregnate this white girl.”
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Rob Huddleston asks
So you think that if I hung a stuffed Barack Obama from the tree in my front yard that I would even be allowed time to remove the offending implement? Or would the enlightened liberal thought police have already torched my house before I got home?
And I have a couple of small questions, like “How big is Huddleston’s front yard that folks could show up and burn down his house in the time it took him to walk from the tree to his house?” and “If Obama is really the Anti-Christ, won’t he just be able to use his supernatural powers of EVIL to burn down Huddleston’s house without involving the ‘thought police’? Is the Anti-Christ really so wimpy that he has to have liberals do his dirty work?”
But the big question i have, in all seriousness, is “Why do you feel cheated that you can’t hang an effigy of Obama in your front yard?”
Do you know what kinds of people hang Sarah Palin in effigy? Sick fucks.
Do you feel cheated out of being a sick fuck? You’re sitting around upset that you don’t feel comfortable being publicly evil? You’re mad that you don’t feel safe letting your neighbors know how little regard you have for how it might affect people to see an effigy of a black man swinging from a tree in Tennessee?
I don’t get it.
Why would you want to feel okay about doing this?
That thing you feel–that tells you that it is not safe, that it would not be okay for you to do this? That is your conscience. It is trying to prevent you from doing something that is not good. To get all Disney on you, Rob, please, let your conscience be your guide.
That guy in California, who thinks it’s funny to hang an effigy of a woman from the front of his house? He’s a sick fuck. Most folks on our side of the aisle are not cheering and laughing it up at the sight of Palin hanging from a noose. In fact, I think most of us are grossed out.
Why? Because decent people don’t look at something like that and think “Oh, god, I’m so outraged that I couldn’t do that,” they think “Oh, god, what sick fucks.”
Be decent, Huddleston.