Scene: Abdul & the Lost Boys - A madrassa somewhere in the Afghani desert

ENTER: Abdul
(Abdul's Soliloquy "To Be or Not To Be a Martyr")

ENTER: The Lost Boys

ABDUL:
Are you ready for today's lesson?

LOST BOYS:
Yes, Abdul!

Song to be sung to the tune of "I Won't Grow Up"

ABDUL:
Listen to your teacher. Repeat after me:
I won't blow up,
(I won't blow up)
I don't want to go to school.
(I don't want to go to school)
Just to learn to be a bomber,
(Just to learn to be a bomber)
Suiciding silly fool.
(Suiciding silly fool)
If blowing up means
It would be impossible to have a family,
I'll never blow up, never blow up, never blow up
Not me!
Not I,
Not me!
Not me!
I won't blow up,
(I won't blow up)
I don't want to wear a bomb.
(I don't want to wear a bomb)
And a serious expression
(And a serious expression)
As I murder someone's Mom.
(As I murder someone's Mom)
And if it means I must prepare
Some dynamite inside my underwear,

I'll never blow up, never blow up, never blow up
Not me,
Not I,
Not me!
So there!

Never be a girlie-man,
I won't!
Like to see somebody try
And make me.
Anyone who wants to try
And turn me to a girlie-man,
Catch me if you can.
I won't grow up.
Not a penny will I pinch.
I will never grow a mustache,
Or a fraction of an inch.
'Cause if it made me so PC
I couldn't urinate behind a tree.
I'll never blow up, never blow up, never blow up,
No sir,
Not I,
Not me,
So there!

Honor and its apparent demise.

Posit this sad and frightful reality. Imagine that the current organization of human society allows for specialized elites and their sycophants to broadcast through the managed media the most outrageous lies and insults against entire demographics who do not employ similar methods in their own defense. In this case, it is beneath the honor of those who are wronged to reply within the same context. These same amoral manipulators can only achieve mass demoralization by actively slighting the simple human dignity of those who will be the offended. It will be easier to stomach literal foreclosing, bankrupting, and finally "starving them out" after they have been made the butt of pejorative 'inside' jokes.

Make no mistake. Just because there is no currently politically correct procedure for discharging insults to one's honor (duelling, fisticuffs, or any other kind of honest dispute) does not follow that the insult has been absorbed or that there is no need for it to be so discharged. The insult remains, and like an atmospheric charge on a cold winter's day, it waits for the opportune moment to jump across a short space to its oppositely charged pole. A static electronic charge will build like anger until the lightning strikes. Revolution is coming, and the thieving elites of every specialized industry (political, financial, legal, medical, manufacturing, scientific, journalistic, advertising, entertainment, etc.) will be killed by the thousands. Others of their kind will consider it a great fortune just to escape with their lives, though their very families are sacrificed. Many will be eaten for food. Offenses to human honor can only be discharged through honest dispute or through sincere apologies.

"The Phoenix", a modern parody of "The Raven"

A Blow against the System

Indeed, they are the symbol and the scourge of
modern American life; the stuff of a profligate
and consumerist philosopy; the toxic and
ubiquitous mass of landfill waste. WalMart bags have
become an everpresent reminder of the peril under
which our civilization labors. Born of the
alchemical marriage of petro-derivative science and
globalist greed, the BAG represents the Fall of the
Empire and the End of the Age.

Parody The Phoenix © 2007
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I shopped so weak and weary,
For many a necessity, or so I thought throughout the store,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a flapping,
As of some one quickly wrapping, wrapping up my purchased cure.
`'Tis some associate,' I muttered, ` flapping piehole at her chore -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember popping folded grocer's paper,
In my days at Sav-A-Center when I learned to bag before.
Yesterday was so much better; - I'll be no brainwashed forgetter
Of the wealth we sent to China - China seems to own the store! -
For the dream of lost America - lost when China stocked the store -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the ripping sound reminder of each plastic bagging binder
Killed me - filled me with the sense of something sucking up my country's poor.
So that now, to stop the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
'Tis some CSR entreating me to leave the store,
Some CCTV monitor drone entreating for the CSR
Or RFID tag malfunction, nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and your incoherent flapping,
And my VISA card was swiping, swiping its magnetic core,
That I scarce forgot to sign it - on the touch screen tablature; -
I forgot, and nothing more.'

Back unto my truck returning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a flapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely something flieth by my pickup's window;
Let me see then, if its nothing, ere I pass my house's door -
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; -
'Tis a bag and nothing more!'

Open then I flung the portal, unannounced to God or mortal,
In there flew with flapping chortle a bag of that aforesaid store.
Not the least utility had he, not a minute good or bad he,
But, intent to drive me mad, he rested on my kitchen floor -
Rested on the cans of tuna, down upon the kitchen floor -
Rested, flat, and nothing more.

Then this ivory bird defiling all the floor's ceramic tiling
By the useless waste of labor's skills and petrochemic lore,
'Though thy skin be torn and crinkled, thou,' I said, 'art sure the wrinkled
Visage of the Beast who rises from his own decayed Manure -
Tell me what import you carry by the 'Always' nom de guerre!
'Always' equals 'Evermore'.'

Much I marvelled this foul smelling Phoenix bird of History's telling
As it rises from the swelling ashes of the Earth's own ore.
For we cannot help agreeing now that every human being
Ever yet is cursed with seeing phoenix bird on kitchen floor -
Bird with mein of 'Always' printed on its face, upon the floor,
Named by AlMart 'Evermore.'

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from the bladder's censer
Swung by Satan's spawn whose scents were meant to fill the sewer.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy god hath lent thee - by the AlMart store has sent thee
Requite - requite and repent thee far away and off my floor!
Quaff, oh quaff this stale urine, the stench is getting on my floor,
Phoenix scriven', `Evermore.'

`Profit!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heav'n that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with madness laden if, within the distant landfill,
Ye can rest beneath the burden of an eon's worth of gore? -
Tell the years until ye perish; Vanish ye from ocean's shore?'
Quoth the phoenix, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the furnace and the Night's Plutonian Store!
Leave no stench or filth of token of that lie thy name hath spoken!
'Always', leave my peace unbroken! - quit from off my kitchen floor!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my floor!
Bird with scriven, `Evermore.'

And the baggie, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the dusty cans of tuna just beyond my kitchen door;
And his wrinkles have the seeming of a demon's visage scheming,
And the light above him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul upon that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Stays forever - Evermore!

"Help Madonna" to be sung to the tune of "Help Me, Rhonda"

Well, She was gonna sing and I was gonna be Her fan
Till I saw her do a thing with a bottle and a buttered hand.
Oh, Madonna you look so fine, with a bottle stuck in your behind,
I gotta help Madonna get a bottle outta her butt!

Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna get a bottle outta her butt!

Oh, my baby bottle baby better getta bigga butt.
She ca puttit inna heinie, butta couldn't gettit out.
And Madonna made her momma mad, cause a bottle inna baby, baddd!!!
I gotta help Madonna get a bottle outta her butt!

Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna, Help, Help Madonna
Help Madonna get a bottle outta her butt!

Moloch's Aria (excerpt) from Handel opera "Jeremiah"

Go, Son of Adam; Kill and eat!
Gorge thyself on heinie meat.
Strew the bones around my feet.
Sacrifice unto me!

Introduction to Blogging

I cannot tell just what's in store, having never blogged before.
Hopefully, I won't become for you just another anonymous bore.