Happy Anniversary, You Pile O' Crap!

Today, August 20th, 2015, is the twelfth blogiversary of World O' Crap, with all the infamy that implies. Readers who've boned up on their Emily Post know that silk and linen are the traditional gifts for a year twelve anniversary, but don't just go to Mood and then heave a bolt of fabric at us -- that doesn't make it seem special! -- add some closures and notions; jute-covered buttons, say, or a Knit Picker. But since none of us here sew (well, s.z. might, but I doubt she has time; with all the animals she's constantly rescuing and nursing and fostering, every day of her life is like Noah's worst day on the Ark), allow me to pass on some ideas for making these materials useful to the modern consumer.

Happy-Anniversary.com lists not only the Traditional Gifts (silk, linen), but the Alternate Traditional (pearl) and the Alternate Jewelry Materials (opal, jade). More important, it provides helpful, expert-endorsed suggestions and sources for putting a contemporary twist on these ancient consolation prizes, and I've compiled our favorites into the Official World O' Crap Twelfth Anniversary Wish List:

Silk Gifts:

High quality realistic silk flower arrangements:  This actually seems like something more appropriate for a 60th anniversary, along with "adult diapers" and "one hard candy wrapped in a Kleenex and forgotten at the bottom of Grandma's purse," but as blogs go, we're gettin' up there, so why not?

Teddy bear holding a silk flower:  Again, this seems more like something you'd give to a terminally-ill child, since it doesn't seem to say "Happy Anniversary!" so much as "No, I can't hit a home run for you, please stop asking."

Silky Lingerie:

Heh, heh! Now we're talking...!

Spicy silky lingerie:  Huh. Well...okay, although that sounds less like erotic undergarments and more like an entree at a Chinese restaurant.

Plus-size lingerie recommended by Oprah:  All I need to do is shimmy into my cotton-poly blend boxer briefs with the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and it's gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight!

Linen Gifts:

Pillows and throws in international designs: Nothing says "It's been twelve wonderful years" quite like a cushion in the distinctive shape of Moldova.

You know, I didn't see "corn silk" anywhere on that list, and that struck me as an obvious oversight. Admittedly, I didn't know exactly what "corn silk" was, and heydave wasn't around to ask, but I looked it up and apparently it's "[T]he styles and stigmas that appear as a silky tuft or tassel at the tip of an ear of corn." Well that certainly sounds sexy, what with the tassels and the tips and all, and goodness knows we could use a little more style around here. Plus, I long ago learned to live with the stigma. And best of all? It's "used as a diuretic in herbal medicine."

I think we've found our winner! (Especially since I also looked up "corn smut" and that wasn't at all what I thought it was going to be.)

So on behalf of s.z. and Mary, thanks for all your hilarious and thoughtful comments over the years, and for making World O' Crap one of your choices for blogs with the word "crap" in the url.  Happy anniversary to us, one and all!

Happy 20th Anniversary Waterworld! Now Die! Die! Die! Die! DIE!

A couple quick bits o' news...

1. The sequel to Better Living Through Bad Movies is shambling along, and we expect to announce a release date shortly.
2. We're doing an audio book version of BLTBM! This is also shambling along, but at a slightly faster pace (I would say that -- on the downgrades at least -- it is even getting up to speeds that approach lumbering), and based on what I've heard so far, it's going to be pretty funny.
3. It's the 20th anniversary (china and platinum) of Waterworld, according to a lot of news stories that popped up in my Facebook feed, because FB seems to think this is exactly the sort of thing about which I would deeply and sincerely give a crap.  But before you run out and grab that 20th Anniversary Blu-ray edition, we thought we'd remind you of all the things the damp cast and the cashiered director would rather you'd forget.  So here's our review, from the chapter entitled It's the End of the World as We Know It, And I Feel Fine But You're All Dead.

Waterworld (1995)
Directed by Kevin Reynolds and Kevin Costner (uncredited)
Written by Peter Rader and David Twohy

In its day, Waterworld was the most expensive movie ever made, reportedly costing almost $200 million. While it’s nice to know that they cared enough to spend the very most, you have to wonder if nearly a quarter-billion dollars is a reasonable sum to pay for a routine action yarn about an irritable post-apocalyp- tic yachtsman who drinks his own pee. But that’s all you know, since you’re not a moviemaker! But then, neither are we. However, we do have a copy of The Making of Waterworld we got at the thrift store, and as we proceed with our summary, we’ll point out how each dollar is being spent.

Our movie begins with the Universal logo melting ($100,000). Then God ($150) announces that it’s the future and the Earth is covered with water. And then we catch our first glimpse of our hero, Kevin Costner ($25 million), as he pees into a cup. Despite what you might imagine, this isn’t a studio-ordered urinalysis to make sure their money didn’t go for drugs, as Kevin runs the pee through a primitive cappuccino machine and drinks it. And to show that his effluent has an especially piquant bouquet, he swirls it around his mouth, gargles it, and then spits a few drops onto a papier-mâché lime tree ($2), so it can also taste his goodness.

Kevin is a noble but crabby loner, much like Rambo or the Unabomber, and like them he also goes by only one name: Mariner. (I don’t dispute the hero’s right to assume the name of a major league ball club, although personally I would have picked one with a better bullpen.) Kevin lives aboard his boat made from scavenged eggbeaters, ice cube trays, and other crap, and ingeniously kept afloat by a large, inflated ego. He ekes out a living from the harsh and unforgiving sea, diving into its inky depths, where no ordinary man dare go, to recover leather mugs from the Renaissance Faire.

But before he has the chance to bring up a soggy pair of pantaloons, who should appear but evil incarnate: the Smokers! Yes, in the future, really strict clean-air legislation has divided the world into two groups: the Smokers and the Non-smokers. The Smokers are a gang of Jet Ski-riding Hell’s Angels who kill, rape, plunder, burn fossil fuels, and eat Spam. They are led by a gratuitously villainous Dennis Hopper, who was apparently asked to reprise his performance from Speed, but make it a little less restrained.

In contrast to the depraved Smokers, the noble Non-smokers inhabit a man-made atoll composed entirely of recyclables ($50 million); they eat only free-range fish, drink only Evian distilled-urine, and only watch PBS. But one thing both groups share is a fondness for leather clothing, an odd choice for Post-Apocalyptic beachwear because it is hot and becomes really smelly, which you’d think would be a disadvantage in a society lacking Arid Extra Dry. And hey, since there are no animals in this world, one is forced to conclude that Soylent Garments are made from people!

Anyway, before the Smokers can give him emphysema, Kevin heads over to the Non-Smoking section, but they won’t let him in until he displays what’s in the leather mug: dirt! He takes it to the assay office, where the county agent tastes it and pronounces it pure. It seems that in the future a 5-pound bag of peat moss makes you Donald Trump. This could also explain why the people of this particular future are so dirty—they wear their alluvium as a status symbol, with only the really wealthy being able to afford not to bathe.

Kevin takes his dirt money and buys a tomato plant from Jeanne Tripplehorn, who is apparently the poorest person in town, judging by her cleanliness. As Kevin leaves with his tomato, the Non-Smokers accost him, and attempt to shake him down for his man-seed, just like in The Postman. The reoccurrence of this motif suggests that Kevin is a thoughtful futurist with a brave vision of things to come: specifically, a time in which the current model of transnational capitalism has evolved into an entirely jism-based economy.

However, Kevin is apparently a skinflint (or in this case, a skinfluteflint) and denies them his essence. The Non-Smoking leader promptly accuses Kevin of hiding something. Oddly enough, it’s not his sexual orientation that he’s hiding, but gills and webbed toes! Kevin is arrested for being a mutant, and sentenced to languish in a dangling cage as a warning to Dan Ackroyd.

Meanwhile, let’s check in on little Ebola, a girl with a strange tattoo on her back, which is rumored to be a map to Dry World (where the Wet Head is Dead). She is busy doodling cave drawings of horses, trees, and soap, things no one in this society have ever seen. Her foster-mother Jeanne, and foster-uncle Coot (an amalgamation of Leon Russell and the Wizard of Oz), want to escape to the legendary Dryland, but they can’t figure out what the tattoo means (Mr. Roark often had the same problem).

Suddenly, the atoll is attacked by the Smokers, who are seeking the fabled Girl With a Map To Dryland Tattooed On Her Back. (Apparently the demise of the Automobile Club has left a real cartographic void.)

Coot’s balloon ($2 million) is inadvertently launched, and he has to leave Jeanne and Ebola behind; he can’t come back, he doesn’t know how it works! So, Jeanne releases Kevin from his birdcage on the condition he takes her and Ebola with him on his boat. But as soon as they are at sea, Kevin threatens to dump his passengers because there’s not enough urine for three. Jeanne disrobes and offers to have sex with Kevin if he’ll spare them. He stares at her naked form for some time, waiting for her to lay her eggs so he can fertilize them; when she doesn’t follow through with her part of the bargain, he clubs her on the head. Kevin hates a tease.

The fish, woman, and child begin to bond during their time at sea. Ebola uses Kevin’s crayons without asking, so he throws her overboard. Jeanne breaks a mast fighting off Smokers, so Kevin chops off her hair. In exchange for an old National Geographic, Kevin pimps Jeanne to a crazy Irish Robin Williams-impersonator. So, they are becoming a family.

But this idyllic life comes to an end when the Smokers find them again and grab Ebola. Kevin and Jeanne jump overboard to escape death from secondhand smoke. When Jeanne complains that she can’t breathe underwater, Kevin says he’ll breathe for both of them; he proceeds to blow carbon dioxide into her mouth while sneakily frenching her. When they surface, Kevin’s boat has been burned and the Smokers are nowhere in sight. So, there’s nothing they can do but have sex ($3.2 million), as Jeanne learns the origins of the term “cold fish.”

Kevin is saved from cuddling by the reappearance of Coot and his balloon. Coot indicates that the survivors of the Non-Smoking Section have started a new atoll made from old egg cartons and beer cans, and invites Jeanne and Kevin to join them. But Kevin declares that he must rescue Ebola, even if it means certain death. Not because he’s after her map, but because she’s his friend, and because she still has one of his crayons.

Over in Smoking Section Headquarters, the ancient oil tanker Exxon Valdez ($70 million for rental, plus a $5 million surcharge for Irony), Dennis Hopper tries to get Ebola to tell him what her map means. She doesn’t know, since she can’t see her own back, but she does know that her Westley...er, Mariner will come for her. And then they’ll be sorry—because he’ll make them watch Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.

Just then, a lone, dark figure walks across the deck. Yes, it’s Mad Mackerel, the Roe Warrior! He’s a post-apocalyptic laconic hero who’s come to eat fish flakes and kick butt, and he’s all out of fish flakes! Dennis best sums up the situation: “He’s like a turd that won’t flush.” And since this was before The Postman, Message in a Bottle, 3000 Miles to Graceland, and Many More, Dennis is starting to look like Miss Cleo.

Kevin throws a torch into the tanker’s fuel hold and rescues Ebola. Uncle Coot arrives in the balloon, saving Kevin’s butt yet again (and if you want to see that butt, check out For Love of the Game, on DVD!)

Coot looks carefully at Ebola’s tattoo and suddenly realizes how to read the map (although he still has trouble refolding it). Armed with this convenient plot twist, he leads the other survivors to a lush, verdant land with pure, clean water—but alas, still no soap. The group spots a grass hut ($3 million), and inside, two skeletons lying next to tattoo needles and a copy of the graphic on Ebola’s back. And now it all makes sense! Ebola is actually the child of Gilligan and Mary Ann, the last of the castaways. They sent her to the mainland for help, but the stupid kid spent all her time coloring and forgot to tell the authorities about her parents, leaving them to die of coconut cream pie poisoning.

But everyone is so thrilled to have enough dirt to live like kings that there are no recriminations. However, the gilled-and-webbed Kevin isn’t at home on the land, and he must tell the tearful Ebola that she’s a fine girl, and what a good wife she would be, but his life, his love, and his lady is the sea. Kevin and Jeanne exchange half-hearted good-byes, then he steals director Kevin Reynolds' boat and sails off, taking the remaining $100 million of the studio’s money with him. Because even a mutant can see that his back-end participation points are going to be worthless. The End.

Of all the films reviewed for this book, Waterworld presents by far the darkest vision of the future: a time in which Man’s natural habitat has vanished, leaving him crammed onto rusty, floating hulks, where he is preyed upon by violent locals, forced to inhale noxious fumes, and reduced to eating Spam washed down with pee. In other words, it’s a Carnival Cruise, so the people best equipped to survive this harsh new environment are probably elderly Jewish women from Coral Gables.

But how can we use the wisdom imparted by this film to better prepare ourselves for the apocalypse? Well, to begin with, if you finally do get that tattoo you’ve been thinking about (oh, don’t deny it) you should forget the rose on your breast, the butterfly on your ankle, or the ying-yang symbol on your ass, and instead have Buzz at Inka-Dinka-Doo on Hollywood Boulevard inscribe the entire Rand McNally World Atlas on your back. (Oh sure, it’ll hurt, but at least when the apocalypse comes you’ll get to have middle-aged potheads and faded matinee idols listlessly tussle over you.) Other than that, there’s lots of little things you can do to prepare for the Deluge: load up on leather pants and Sea ’n Ski, Dramamine, Underwood Deviled Ham, and sphagnum moss. Take swimming lessons at the Y. Get your semen appraised. Cancel the newspaper. Oh, and you’ll want to start mutating. But don’t go crazy with it, or you could wind up like John Travolta in Battlefield Earth, whose bizarre alien digestive tract required him to continually chew, swallow, and regurgitate scenery like cud.

Happy Crapiversary!

Eleven years ago today, Sheri Zollinger founded World O' Crap. Why? Because we like you!  Then she let me play in the sandbox (which might argue against that whole "we like you" thing, but whatevs), and mock was made of Family Circus, and Meghan Cox Gurdon, and Dr. Professor Mike Adams, and then we wrote a book about bad movies, and now here we are: celebrating an odd-number anniversary for which the traditional gift is steel. (I presume they don't mean the alloy, since I've never heard Emily Post telling husbands to "give your wife a girder," except in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, or certain Rust Belt towns in Ohio, where it's considered polite. Probably they mean Danielle Steel, and while I'm not trying to cadge a present here, I wouldn't say no to a nice trade paperback of Season of Passion, or Passion's Promise, or particularly Thurston House, which I assume is a prequel recounting the Howell's marriage before they were swept away in a tempest that mirrored their stormy passions.)

Today also marks another historic event, one as difficult, in it's own way, as stretching out this blogging thing for more than a decade. I'll let the pages of Riley's own journal, stained by the elements and brittle with age, tell the story:

DAY FIVE: Though our provisions and our numbers are both diminished, our spirits remain undaunted, for today we reached the summit of Mount Laundryhamper. Our ascent, though successful, has not been easy: Jennings lost two toes to frostbite, and Fraiser's bag of apples broke open, leading him -- despite our remonstrations -- to chase the tumbling fruit down the sheer and icy north face of the peak, where he fell face first into a crevasse.  We can't quite make out what he's screaming, as his head is wedged tight and all that remains visible are his desperately flailing feet, but no doubt he feels abashed.

Jennings, should I mention the part where we ate the sherpas?...Oh stop whining, man! It's only two toes, and you were a polydactyl to begin with!

Thanks for sticking with us all these years.

Wouldn't It Be Ironic If This Was My Last Post?

As we all know, there have been some major changes in the blogosphere recently, none of them good, and it's put me in a reflective mood.  Not highly reflective, like a mirror or a Mylar balloon, but thanks to an oily T-zone I definitely have a bit of a shine going, enough that you could probably use my face as a makeshift heliograph if you had to.

But mainly what's got me looking back, besides the recent passing of Doghouse Riley and the retirement of TBogg, is my realization that s.z. launched World O' Crap ten years ago today.  How or why we've kept this thing has going for a decade I cannot say, under advice of counsel, other than confiding that our success owes something to the elaborate subterfuge practiced by the two bumbling Yuppies in Weekend at Bernie's.

Speaking of Doghouse, in 2011 he wrote, on the occasion of our 8th anniversary:

Sorry I'm late, but I didn't know this old thing was still around.  

Mary, Scott, field reporter Bill S., and the inimitable sz, unrequited love of my life, except for that weekend in Chicago, thanks for all the laughs, especially the ones when I didn't feel like laughin'. And for drawin' such a great lineup of commenters.

...and as usual, put his finger on the cardinal point.  This place is still around because you guys are; otherwise it would mostly just be me jabbering away to myself about various mythical creatures, and there's plenty of that in Hollywood as it is.   So whether you discovered Wo'C at the old Salon Blogs, back when the url was a weird, anonymous string of numbers that not even Sheri nor I ever bothered to memorize, or at our own, ill-fated domain, or here on Blogspot, the Velveeta of Blogging Platforms™, I'd just like to say "thank you" for your touching, if baffling, belief that this place is worth a click.  Frankly, I don't see it, but you're all pretty smart people so I won't question your judgment, mostly because I've gotten really lazy after ten years spent arguing with idiots.

Happy Anniversary! A Dialogue

SCOTT:  Today is our seventh wedding anniversary.  Mary and I have been together much longer than that, of course, and while I'd rather not specify just how long it's been, I will say that when we met, people were still passionately debating the Joel versus Mike Question in the Fans of Mystery Science Theater 3000 folder on AOL.  Anyway, since the blog is almost ten years old, a lot of you guys knew us when we were living in sin.  So when you speak about this to the Opposition Research team of my political enemies -- and you will -- be kind.

Since Mary is home sick today, we thought a fun way to celebrate that didn't involve stirring from our respective computer desks might be to look up all the traditional gifts we'd be entitled to if I'd only paid her dad the full bride price (as is typical of me, I failed to plan ahead and save up enough livestock for the wedding, so I had to go on a payment plan -- one ewe a year -- but 2012 was particularly tough for us financially, and I was only able to pay him in sheepskin carseat covers -- and I'm pretty sure those were synthetic -- which barely covered the vig).  But she sent me this list of traditional anniversary gifts, so at least we can open the link and, like the Sears Wish Book, sit and dream...

7th Anniversary Traditional Gift:
Copper or Wool. Copper has long had a traditional meaning of prosperity, good luck, and good fortune.

And saucepans.

Couples who celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary can indeed celebrate their good fortune in finding one another.

If we're traditional enough to celebrate in this traditional manner, then clearly our marriage is defined by traditional sex roles.  So get your ass in the kitchen and make me a sauce, woman!

The gift of wool represents the comfort, durability, security, and warmth that couples married this long give one another.

And since by this point neither one of you even bothers to shave anymore, wool also represents the degree of scratchiness you've achieved as a couple.

 Roman brides touched their the threshold of their new home with wool.

Mostly to mop up the blood stains left when the slaves dragged out the previous wife's body.  I've read I, Claudius.

The Old Testament has a passage (Proverbs 31) describing wives of noble character as women who select wool and spin yarns with eager hands.

So stop looking for love on eHarmony, and start hanging around the Yarn Barn.

MARY: Good Gravy! Has it been seven years since we both risked heatstroke and walked down the aisle of that shady wedding chapel in Vegas that had it's marrying privileges revoked? It's been, well not a whirlwind since 2006, but it certainly has been windy.

What's this?  There are modern gifts for the 7th anniversary?! Thank goodness! Maybe THIS year I can get that giant metal chicken I've dreamed about...

Desk Sets.

DAMMIT.

 The modern gift of a desk set is a practical gift that can be combined with one of your spouse's interests such as golf or collecting. 

Or perhaps their interests might run to actually collecting golf players. Or collecting golfing collectors.  Either way, make sure you've got the right desk set and have helpfully hidden it away in the hole in your basement where your golf players and/or golfing collectors are trapped. And also, that they regularly puts the lotion on its skins.

7th Anniversary Color:
Yellow or off white.  

Nice! Goes with the latest color of our hair and teeth!

7th Anniversary Flower:
Jack-in-the-pulpit, a common wild flower that blooms in spring in moist wooded areas.

I think they mean "man in the boat", and that pretty much blooms all the time in moist hooded areas.

Ways to Celebrate Your 7th Anniversary:

• Toast one another with hope that your love continues to provide comfort, prosperity, and security like the traditional gifts of wool and copper.
• Purchase tickets to a show, movie, sports event, concert, theatre, etc. to attend together.

Better yet, pop some popcorn in a copper kettle, settle down under a scratchy blanket, and watch COPPER on BBC America!

Happy Anniversary, Mother Fucker!

Blogiversary! Or: 9 Years of Using Stupid Neologisms

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Post-Friday Beast Blogging: The Happy Anniversary Edition

Today's our anniversary, and since things are tough enough around here at the moment anyway, I'm going to pretend that trade unions still exist, and go on a one-day strike against wingnuts.  So instead of slogging through Townhall, or RenewAmerica, I thought I'd use this occasion as an excuse to reprise one of my favorite photos of Riley and Moondoggie, which I like to call either "A Union of Souls" or "Simon Says, 'Hold Your Paws Like This!'"

Happy anniversary also to D.Sidhe and her partner.  Oh, and happy Canada Day (sorry about all the right wing refugees that are currently streaming north across the border).

World O' Crap...This is YOUR LIFE!

[Programming Note:  The New Black Panther Party would like to remind you that voting is still open in the 2011 Miss Wingnut Pageant -- click here to cast your ballot.  The Winner and Runners-Up will be announced Monday.]   We now join our blog, already in progress...

Yes, it's World O' Crap's 8th Blogiversary today, and what better time for a cheap clip show walk down Memory Lane, to savor those halcyon days.  Say Reader, do you remember this voice...?

Why You Should Read My Blog: It Will Serve You Coffee

There are millions of other blogs out there, clamoring for your attention.  Why read mine? Here's why: because my blog is going to be about things we can all relate to.  You know, cheesy movies, annoying politicians, weird advertising, Ann Coulter.  And MORE!.  Yes, all the mediocre, uninspired, muddle-headed, and just plain wrong stuff from this millennium and the previous one will be our playing field. 

Why yes, it's our own beloved s.z., writing her first post on the old Salon blog, way back in 2003.   And as any Crapper knows, she was as good as her word, for WO'C has indeed brought more mediocre, muddle-headed, and just plain wrong people to your attention in a mere eight years than you could otherwise hope to avoid in a lifetime.

Just two days after the publication of her founding manifesto, s.z. took on the Judge Roy Moore-Big Rock Candy Commandments Controversy, which was just then coming to a head.  For those who may not recall the details, Moore was the newly elected Chief Justice of the Alabama Supreme Court, who felt the wooden Ten Commandments plaque that hung in the Courthouse wasn't ostentatious enough.  So he commissioned a 2½-ton granite monument carved with a graven image of the Decalogue, and had it delivered to the Rotunda after business hours.  Chief Justice Moore seems to have anticipated that his actions might be regarded as irregular, if not downright illegal by the Federal judiciary, since, according to Wikipedia:

The installation was filmed, and videotapes of the event were sold by Coral Ridge Ministries, an evangelical media outlet in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which later used proceeds from the film's sales to pay Moore's ensuing legal expenses. Coral Ridge was the operation of the late Reverend D. James Kennedy, a staunch Moore supporter.

Moore also had a Copyright notice chiseled into the monument, presumably so he could help fund his extra-Constitutional activities by selling paperweight reproductions in the Supreme Court Gift Shop.

The next morning, Moore held a press conference in the central rotunda to officially unveil the monument [and] declared, "Today a cry has gone out across our land for the acknowledgment of that God upon whom this nation and our laws were founded....May this day mark the restoration of the moral foundation of law to our people and the return to the knowledge of God in our land."

 While most bloggers discussed the First Amendment implications of Moore's actions, s.z. decided to go directly to the top:

God Comments On Alabama Ten Commandments Rock

It seems that this guy Rob Moore is just not going to get his rock out of the rotunda -- at least, not until the media stops covering this story.

And while there have been a lot of people interviewed about the situation (Rob, his supporters, the Alabama State Attorney General, the ACLU, Jerry Falwell, etc.), it seems that nobody has talked to perhaps the key player in all of this: God.

So, I got in touch with God's press secretary and managed to set up a short lunch meeting. Here's a transcript of our conversation:

========================

Me: Thanks for agreeing to talk with me.

God: No problem. I meet so few reporters these days that I felt it was my duty.

Me: Hey, was that a slam?!? But let's move on. As you know . . .

God: Yes. I'm omniscient.

Me: . . .Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore has said "he would be guilty of treason" if he didn't fight to keep a monument of the Ten Commandments in the rotunda of the state judicial building. Do you agree?

God: Yes. But since Ann Coulter branded everybody she doesn't like (Democrats, liberals, women, airport baggage screeners, all the kids who made fun of her girlish crush on Joe McCarthy, etc.) as traitors, treason is now cool and hip.

Me: Moore has also said that he needs to keep the monument in the rotunda "to fulfill the campaign promise that he made to the citizens of Alabama to restore the moral foundation of law." What do you think he means by this?

God: That he wants to do Law & Order, Old Testement-style. You know, stoning homosexuals. Stoning adulteresses. Stoning kids who sass their parents. Stuff like that.

Me: And do you agree with him on this?

God: Hell, no! I sent you people my son and licensed representative to give you Commandments Version 2.0, which has a root code of "Love thy neighbor as thyself." I don't see anybody putting a two-ton granite block of THAT in any state buildings!

Me: So, what do you think of Reverend Falwell's comparison of Moore "with slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., who defied segregation laws in the white-dominated U.S. South in the 1950s and 1960s"?

God: Well, I hardly need Moore or Falwell to fight for MY desegregation. I AM omnipresent, you know.

Me: I think Falwell meant that it's okay to break "man's law when needed to preserve God's law."

God: I knew that. (Might I remind you of that omniscience thing?) I just thought it was a stupid analogy. And by the way, my law was never "Put a big granite monument of the Ten Commandments in a public place." My law was "Obey the damn commandments, and even more than that, love your enemies. Oh, and don't make a public spectacle of yourself by trumpeting your good deeds in the street or praying to be seen of men. And no worshipping of graven images!" But I guess it's my fault that I didn't package this stuff as "The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Commandments."

Me: And what do you think of Alan Keyes urging of Moore's supporters to "take back America from the unruly courts"?

God: I think that Keyes and Moore should first work on taking back daytime television from those unruly court TV shows! They are annoying, irresponsible, and demeaning to all involved. Plus, they take up valuable air time that could be used for reruns of "Highway to Heaven" and "Touched by an Angel." And "Perry Mason"--I've always liked that one. Oh, and speaking of sedition, don't you think that what Keyes is advocating comes close?

Me: Um, I really couldn't comment--except that if being a traitor is now cool, I don't think Keyes is one. One last question: what do you think of Moore's vow to file a formal appeal with the high court “to defend our constitutional right to acknowledge God"?

God: Being omniscient and all, I'm pretty sure that the constitution doesn't say that one has the right to acknowledge ANYTHING by sneaking 5,300-pound slabs of granite into public buildings in the dead of night. Unless perhaps Moore is speaking of the "Pranksters, Hazers, and Practical Jokesters Constitution."

As for acknowledging ME, I would prefer it if people would, you know, visit the fatherless and the widows in their affliction, and keep themselves unspotted from the world. Sure, it's easier to lug around big rocks, but it's not really the way I want to be worshipped. The big chunk o' granite thing just makes me look stupid in front of my friends.

Me: I'll pass that along. Well, thanks for your time. And best of luck to you in your future endeavors.

God. Same to you. See you at the second coming. Um, wear something nonflammable!

=================
There you have it. I hope this ends this little contretemps, and we don't have to read anymore about it ever again. Because it only encourages Moore and rewards him for acting out, and we don't want that. Or the next time he's up for reelection he'll lug the Dome of the Rock into the court house parking lot and refuse to move it, even though it's in a handicapped space, as a way of showing his constituents that he's a moron.

And then a week or so later, s.z. very kindly tossed me the keys and let me take her blog for a spin:

DON’T KNOCK THE ROCK! 

Roy Moore Draws Support of Rock-Worshipping Cults

By World O'Crap Special Correspondent Scott C.

The recent debate over Alabama Supreme Court Chief Justice Roy Moore’s monument to the Ten Commandments has exposed and to some degree exacerbated the tensions that exist between mainstream and fundamentalist Christianity. At the same time, however, the 5,300 pound cause celebre has also served to unite several previously hostile religious movements.

"Initially, church elders declined to take a position on this controversy," said Ronald Zietlow, Chief Mameluke of the Igneous Brotherhood. "We mistakenly believed that Chief Justice Moore and his followers worshipped an omniscient, omnipresent, but non-corporeal diety, and that the granite monument was merely symbolic.

"Naturally, that sort of abstract cosmotheism doesn’t interest us, since we worship the sturdy and tangible Three Stones of Fintoozler. But once we heard the protesters screaming, 'Get your hands off our god, god-haters!' (Protesters React Angrily to Monument Removal ) we realized that the granite carving was in fact their diety. Naturally, we felt obliged to offer our support in the spirit of stone-worshipping ecumenism. Plus, we admired their forethought in placing a copyright notice on their god. Many’s the time I wish that the High Prophet had taken a moment to visit the Trademark Office, since we’re losing quite a bit of potential merchandising revenue at the Three Stones. Particularly sales of T-shirts and those foam drink sleeves."

This sentiment was echoed by Timothy DeLongpre, a deacon at Our Lady of Feldspar in Sterling, Virginia. "As a minority faith which reveres consecrated sandstone, we are firm believers in defending the right to practice one’s religion, free of interference by Federal bureaucrats. We are also staunch supporters of anything which strengthens the ecumenical bonds of friendship and respect among the world’s leading rock-worshipping cults, because, frankly, some of them practice human sacrifice and they scare the crap out of me." DeLongpre added that many in his congregation have admired the way Chief Justice Moore championed his faith by hiring workmen to sneak his god onto public property in the middle of the night, and the way he boldly secured a copyright on his own Maker. "In our own parish, the poor often go hungry because our product line has been diluted by the unlicensed theme mugs of third party heretics."

Father Rodolfo, pastor of the First Church of Mexican Wrestlers Who Worship Rock Men From the Moon has closely followed the contretemps in Alabama, and believes that whether Moore’s effort succeeds or fails, he will long be honored as a peacemaker.

"Ours is a very inclusive church," said the priest as he took a break from calling Bingo on a recent Wednesday night. "And we are saddened by all this factionalism: Shale versus gypsum, sedimentary versus metamorphic. These doctrinal squabbles threaten to overwhelm our faith and blind us to the one thing we should never loose sight of: that despite our different beliefs and customs, we are all children of a big rock."

Rawiri Gaia, priestess of Rapa Nui agrees. "I believe that Moore’s crusade can already be counted a success, for it has helped to heal the theological divisions within my own faith." She gestured eloquently toward a towering head carved from the native rock.

"For countless generations we have venerated these enormous graven images of Richard Kiel. Or possibly Ted Cassidy. That’s another doctrinal sore point. But the fact is, in recent years we’ve seen a graying of our congregations. We needed to modernize our services, do something to appeal to the younger set, so we began outfitting our monoliths with gigantic Devo hats from the ‘Whip It!’ video.

"Some of our more traditional members threatened a schism, but fortunately Judge Moore’s timely stand on behalf of boulder fetishists everywhere reminded us that when it comes to eternal salvation, it doesn’t really matter what accessories your god is wearing. Only that he was carved with loving care, and legally trademarked."

Not all devotees of stone deities welcome the attention brought by the Ten Commandments imbroglio. Dave Bradley of Appleton, Wisconsin, who worships marble ("I like a smooth god," he says) claims that all the publicity has brought "kooks and whackos" flooding to his faith.

 "None Dare Call It Necrophilia"

Still, whether Moore’s Take Your God to Work Day program is successful may prove less important in the end than the comfort and inspiration it has provided to hundreds of pagan Alabamians. "It’s like the Stonewall Riot," said protester Cyrus Fletcher of Mobile. "Except with a big rock. And fewer drag queens."

So there you have it.  On November 13, 2003, less than three months after World O' Crap published a series of whimsical japes on the Ten Commandments Controversy, the Alabama Court of the Judiciary voted unanimously to defrock Chief Justice Moore.  The connection is inescapable.

Anyway, thanks for sticking with us all these years, and for making World O' Crap your first choice for blogs with the word Crap in their name.  We love you guys.

A Day of Love and Crust

Happy anniversary to D.Sidhe and her partner!  And to the lovely maryc, who's been putting up with me on a daily basis for a good half decade.  (Frankly, what with all the gay marriage going on lately, I thought that by now our bonds of matrimony would have just sort of dissolved, like stitches, but Mary insists that no, we're still married, and yes, Maggie Gallagher is a stupid bitch.)

I consulted Emilypost.com for traditional gift ideas, and learned that five years is your pizza anniversary (or it is now that Emily is dead, and her starched rules of etiquette can be impulsively revised just like Wikipedia).   Actually, five years is "wood" or "wood object," which sounds just as cheap, but much less useful than pizza.  Plus, I haven't forgotten what happened to Edward Woodward when his wife got him a Wicker Man for their fifth.

And for those who may have missed it, here's a heartwarming tale of one man who got more than he ever dreamed or wanted for his 15th anniversary, courtesy of the sublime Bloggess:  And that's why you should learn to pick your battles.

Now if you'll excuse me, I hear Cupid knocking at my door, with a quiverful of passion-tipped arrows, and a large sausage and pepperoni, extra cheese.