The big table

In his book "God's Politics: Why the Right is Wrong and the Left Doesn't Get it", Jim Wallis writes that the Religous leaders of the right "...jostle for the best positions and places at the events where the powerful gather."

Today, I received an e-mail with the above image with the caption "Sen. Barack Obama and Rev. Jim Wallis have places at the table - will you join them? Register now!..."

If you cut every mention of the word hypocrisy from the Bible, it would be a holey book, indeed.

It's hard...

I've had a problem lately. It's just that everyone has this hard core image of me. I mean, I'm pretty hard core, but, it's like, sometimes I don't want to be.

Everybody thinks I'm all hard core, so it's like I've gotta project this hard core image, and be all bad and stuff. It's hard.

Sometimes I wanna just like go to a movie, and everyone's like, "man, why you watchin'a movie? I thought you were hard core." And I'm like "yeah, I'm hard core, I just want to get my 'Wedding Crashers' on... man"

But inside, i feel like I'm a poet waiting in some, like, cage. Like, yesterday I wrote this.


I'm like a poet in a cage
Like a rat, full of rage
People think that I'm hard core
But deep inside, I'm so much more
I like to think and love
But also I killed my neighbor's puppy
with a beer bottle
because he couldn't see
my true heart

Man, I don't want to do the things I do man. Like when Pickle and G-Slam went out to break mailboxes, I was like "Hey, can't we just pound some beers and help an orphanage or some shit?"

Or like, when Sarah wanted to go to the prom. I totally wanted to go with her, but then Domo and Fat-cheese wanted to go put rabbits in plastic bags and drown 'em, and I feel like I have to cause I'm so hard core.

I will kill you in your sleep with your own dental-floss....

Sorry man, didn't mean that. That's the hard core in me.

I'm trying to change, though man. I'm going to St. Cloud State next year. i think I'm gonna major in like music, or something. I've been learning guitar, and I have a hat with a guitar on it.

Troy-Mack said thay my hat wasn't hard core, and started questioning my hard coreness. That's my I hit him with a tire iron. Nobody calls me not hard core. He knew he had it comin'. Little 8th grade punk.

But things are looking up for me now. I quit my job at Subway, cause I was tired of customers telling me what to do. That wasn't good for my self-esteem. Plus, may parents bought me a BMW as a graduation gift, so I just sold that and got a 1992 Chevy pickup.

But deep inside, I yearn for more.

Crossing The Threshold

So I went to the kitchen at my work to microwave some popcorn for myself. No big whoop, you know. I throw a little tabasco and celery salt in, to liven things up, taste-wise.

Anywho, I get back to my desk, and start munching. I realize that I'm getting side-of-bag type waxy stuff on my fingers. I need a solution. Usually, I just grab a plate from the breakroom, but I was too lazy to get back up, so I improvised. I grabbed plate from my garbage that I had used for my lunch. and emptied my popcorn onto it.

Now, it occurs to me that I have committed a social trespass of blogworthy proportions. I have no qualms with eating out of the garbage, particularly if the food is held in some container, or was thrown away by accident. Food, however, is, in certain respects, in irreplacable commodity. Plates, on the other hand, are about 30 feet away. Further, the plate itself is not remotely clean. It is stained with BBQ sauce, asparagus, and even a few droplets of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi.

To make matters worse, my popcorn consumption has generated within me no small level of thirst. As soda is located within near proximity to the aforementioned plates, my predicament is extant. As we speak, I am contriving to start a small electrical fire, in hopes of melting my plastic keyboard into a drinkable form. This is proving difficult to achieve without drawing some measure of incredulity from my co-workers

Someone wanna get me a Sprite?

A Disturbing Roommate Conversation

Leroy: Hey, you want some peanuts.
Kevin: Umm... Yeah, why not? Some damn peanuts. Yes, I'll have some.
Leroy: (Holding out a can, snickering) It's not peanuts.
Kevin: Really? That's misleading.
(opens can)
Kevin: Oh, they're snakes. Yes, I guess I should have seen that coming.
Leroy: You think they're peanuts, but they are snakes, it turns out.
Kevin: Yes, I see. Comedic, then, I suppose, the snakes, in lieu of peanuts.
Leroy: Do you want some cashews?
Kevin: Is it really cashews, or just more snakes?
Leroy: Ummm... Pretty much snakes.
Kevin: I think I'll decline.
Leroy: I mean... Nope, they're cashews.
Kevin: You take me for a fool.
Leroy: No, look... MMMMMM... Good cashews. Delicious.
Kevin: Ideally, that statement should be accompanied by some sort of hand-to-mouth motion, simulating eating.
Leroy: (Begins to cry)
Kevin: You're crying a lot, lately.
Leroy: I'm crying because I lost my toys.
Kevin: You didn't lose them, I took them away from you on your 27th birthday.
Leroy: I hate you.
Kevin: It was time. I stand by my choice.
Leroy: ...
Kevin: ...
Leroy: (cries)
Kevin: Oh, hey, yeah, I'll have some cashews. Turns out I'm in the mood for some.
Leroy: Oooh, oooh, here you go.
Kevin: Well, I can't wait for the savory taste of.... Wow, unbelievable, it's snakes as opposed to cashews. Holy balls.
Leroy: You were totally surprised
Kevin: I sure was... I sure was...
Leroy: ...
Kevin: ...
Leroy: ...
Kevin: Actually, I think these are dragons, not snakes.

Garvey Fraud

Richard Garvey, owner of Tri-Minnesota Mortgage has, in a signed statement, admitted to mortgage fraud. As a penalty, he is facing a $20,000 fine, and is not allowed to practice in the state of Minnesota. Among other things, he admitted to providing false documentation and deceiving both lenders and homebuyers.

46 Duke Lacrosse Players Charged With Being White

DURHAM, NC. In a surprise move, Durham County grand Jury has charged 46 members of the Duke lacrosse team with being white, a charge that carries a maximum penalty of 15 years in prison. The members are also charge with misdemeanor counts of being male, affluent, and involved with sports.

"There is simply no excuse for the existence of these students," said District Attorney Mike Nifong. "We want to send a message to citizens of North Carolina that Caucasians are not acceptable."

Family members expressed anger and confusion at the indictments.

"I know there was the flap about that stripper. When it turned out she was lying, we thought we were in the clear." said Tom Reynolds, father of Sophomore John Reynolds, an all-conference wing from Portland, Maine. "He turned down Stanford for this?"

Originally, prosecutors had sought the arrests of all 47 members of the Duke team. However, it was revealed that one of the team's members, Devon Sherwood, was actually black.

"We apologize to Mr. Sherwood and his family for any inconvenience," said Nifong. "We didn't know black people played Lacrosse."

Duke University Athletics Director Joe Alleva expressed concern for the young men, but is pleased that the incident is raising the profile of college lacrosse. "People are waking up to the fact that Lacrosse is a major sport at the Division I level," said Alleva. "It's not just a club sport any more."

The arrests have stoked tensions amongst Durham's racially mixed citizenry.

"I had no idea you could be arrested just for being white," Said Phil Larson, a electrician in nearby Raleigh. "Come to think of it. I'm white, too. See, this is why people vote Republican."

Since the arrests, an attitude of apprehension has permeated the campus landscape at Duke, whose student body is predominantly white. "It's weird man. People don't know what to do." Said Junior Class President Emery Bailer, who is a white male. "Everyone just sort of lets the blacks and the Asians to the front of the line in the dining halls." Bailer is transferring to Vanderbilt University in Tennessee next fall.

"I have video evidence that I didn't touch you," added Bailer, cryptically, before darting behind a tree.

Some random thoughts

I was reading an archived article from Sojourners (I know, why do I do this to myself?) in which they recommend that Christians fast during Ramadan out of respect to Islamic culture.

Then, I read about the "bad childhood" defense foisted upon Zacarias Moussaoui (I say foisted upon because it's clear he would just as soon die for Allah, and it's clear Americans are more than happy to give him his wish), and I thought, you know, is there a direct correlation between the consonant/vowel ratio in a person's name, and the extent to which I respect that person? Of course, I am biased since I am marrying one Khris Eisenbeisz (60% consonants). My brother is Andy Gray (75% consonants). My own name is Kevin Sawyer (64%).

Counterexample: R.T. Rybak (86%)

Then, I read about how Pakistan is seeking the death penalty for reproducing the Mohammed cartoons. I thought, gee there's a narcissistic part of me that hopes this blows up into a big story. Being the target of crazy Muslim death squads would be outstanding blog fodder.

Then, the disturbed male in me begins fantasizing about the death squads coming to my door, and how I'd shoot em in the head with a pork-laden bullet, just to send a message to rest of their disturbed ilk. But that's just the disturbed male in me.

Then, I read about the Hamas-endorsed suicide-bombings in Israel. I thought maybe that disturbed male inside me isn't so disturbed after all.

But yeah, Ramadan... Anyone wanna join me in a fast? Didn't think so... In fact, I think I'll go out of my why to do something brutally intolerant on September 24th, and blog about it. If our government is smart, they'll fry Moussauoi on that day, declare war on Iran, and drop a nuke on Palestine. Sigh, one can only wish.

I am gonna WASTE you at Centipede

You did not anticipate this! But you will be destroyed nonetheless!

I am going to waste you at Centipede...

My mastery of the roller-trackball system of protagonist-guidance, combined with my button-pressing, weapon-releasing fury will best your high score on order of magnitude.

What? You are adept at killin the spider? Bah, you fiend! I have equated the polyrhythmic up and down dance utilizing high-level game theory that you could not even begin to understand. I am able to achieve proximal distance, and maximal points!

My opening game will leave you breathless as I effortlessly craft tunnels at the sides of the playing field, luring the Centipede into my fiery trap, and allowing me to reach levels with such colors as you have only seen in your wet dreams!!!!!!!

What? You simply dodge the little gopher-thing that descends from the top of the screen? FOOL! When you shoot him, another comes cascading down. His destruction escalates your point total exponentially. Only a moron would pass up that opportunity.

Your meager 33,400 points are indicative of your noviceness! You don't deserve quarters. Give them to me! I will instruct you in the art of quickly ceasing the horizontal flow of the slug. Don't look away! This is critical! The slug will create superfluous toadstools, interrupting Centipede flow!

Remember how frustrated you were when the Centipede reached bottom? How impotent you felt as he recruited his segmented pals, overwhelming you like a subversive political movement of fast-moving miniature Centipedes?

I have no such problems! I am proficient in Centipede destruction!

NYARRRRRRRRGHHH!

I will also shortly be owning your ass at Galaga, Dig Dug, and Mappy... I will crush your soul through vintage video games!

The Secret Message of Jesus

So, I picked up Brian McLaren's new book, The Secret Message of Jesus: Uncovering the Truth that Could Change everything, some what apprehensively. I enjoyed McLaren's "A New Kind of Christian", and have kept his books on evangelism on loan to friends who have questions about my faith.

Lately, however, McLaren has made some powerful overtures into the political arena, and has been obliquely (though manifestly) critical of the Bush administration. He has allied himself fairly strongly with folks such as Jim Wallis, who contends that Bush is the Anti-Christ. Of course, McLaren has been a liberal for quite some time (though he, absurdly, claims not to be) and that fact has not been unknown to me. So I held out hope for this work.

He starts with his usual spiel. He was very educated, he became a reverend, he asked the wrong questions etc... Usually, this is the launching pad for an interesting and thought provoking (if maddeningly inconclusive) discussion of the proper view of Christ. But now, it seems that McLaren believes he has found the answers. He has discovered the little secret messages of Jesus. They are not secret in the conventional sense. Rather, Christ's message has been co-opted, or ignored entirely.

We're okay so far. God looks at the inward, not the outward. All fine and good. The prophets existed to reveal the true hearts of those who pretended to follow God. Yeah, that's fine. He also crafts an interesting analysis of the dominant religious groups of Christ's time (Herodians, Sadducees et al...) and makes the point that Christ ignored their political intentions to get to present the heart of God's message.

That introduction would seem to imply a call to ignore politics. But then we get to the heart of the Secret messages, the first of which is Jesus' political message. This is where I start to get seasick. McLaren postulates that if we understood Christ's real message, which is that we must end war and help the poor.

McLaren claims (correctly, in my view) that the God's kingdom is here on earth, and that we are living it now. In the kingdom we are living now, CEOs should be writing checks to their poorer employees. What happens if they write too many checks, and their company goes under? McLaren doesn't say...

He claims that Jesus was a pacifist, because when his speeches were interrupted, he would simply move on and speak somewhere else (as opposed to killing those who interrupted). Again, this sounds apolitical to me, but...

Then, we get to the real problem with this chapter. McLaren shoehorns a message about "social justice" and helping the poor. When the scriptures refer to the lion and the lamb lying side by side, he argues, they are talking about the rich giving to the poor. Christ turned over tables in the temple to make a statement about wealth, as opposed to one about respecting God's church. Christ accused the Pharicees of looking good on the outside, while refusing to embrace social justice by helping the poor.

And so on... One need look no further than McLaren's out-of-context "least of these" (the lone scriptural reference on the page) blurb to know that the "social justice" movement is informing his theology. A professor once reminded me that, when the only tool you have his a hammer, everything looks like a nail. When the pursuit of Christ is solely about world peace and helping the poor, we misinterpret his mission, and even trivialize it.

If Jesus was focused on the inner heart, why would he be so concerned about who gives what to whom? These are only valid outward expressions of an inner life. They are means to an end, to be sure, but not sufficient in and of themselves.

Three chapters in, it appears as though Brian McLaren, for all of his considerable intelligence, has found simple answers to complicated questions. Given his influence in the Christian world, that is a shame. His movement has been co-opted by those who want a more political Jesus. Robertsonfalwelldobson (as he has come to be known by the Christian left) has been accused of this as well, though at least his ministry, beyond the headlines, consists of substantially more than political influence.

To be fair, McLaren does begin with a discussion of Christ's politics, and the book covers more territory. I will read on, in hopes that he can right the ship, present a more complete view of Christ's mission, and recover the thoughtful pursuit of the truth that has marked his earlier works.

Moussaoui

So, Mr. Moussaoui decided to mock a member of our armed forces for crying at the loss of two of her subordinates. He described her behavior as disgusting.

The nice thing about being a knuckle-dragging troglodyte is that I can be kinda happy when this dude gets the juice (or the rope, or the needle, or why not all three? Sort of an ultra-macabre triathalon). If I were a liberal, I'd have to hold some kind of damn vigil.

So... Yeah, anybody want to join me for some culturally-insensitive drinks when we fry this pig?

Life in Williston

So here I am in Williston, North Dakota, when I get a knock on my hotel-room door. Sure enough, it's some damn penguin who wants his money.

I tell you, it's enough to make you wonder.

Wanting Politicians to Die

Now, it's no secret to anyone who reads Dailykos, Sojo, Democratic Underground, or any of the other liberal nutjob websites that there is a certain contingent of American society that wouldn't mind at all if certain Republicans (particularly those who are currently President) died.

It's also no secret that a substantial portion of the population met the death of Paul Wellstone with what could generously be described as a shrug. And, yes, some were glad he died (I was in the shrug category).

And, I have to admit, I read Justice Ginsburg's statement that she looks at Justice Stevens (who is 86) and thinks she can make it, and thought "gee, I certainly hope not."

See, I'm a conservative, and Justice Ginsburg is, what, some sort of deformed meerkat? I mean, she looks like a lesbian zombie. It's as though there's an inverse-beauty pageant in some parallel universe. Winner gets to practice law for the ACLU. Did she earn her law degree at a Star Trek convention?

Sorry, tangent... But I am not mature enough to post that picture without making a comment. You thought it, too.

Anyway, I've been thinking about this issue ever since one of my (trust-fund baby) colelge friends brought up the idea of assasinating President Bush. One of my other (more political) friends mentioned that this was not the ideal approach (insert comment about Sherlock, and the inherent absence of feces therein).

See, I don't generally think it's good for politicians to die in office, regardless of their party. It creates instability, for the reason that an elected official cannot serve his elected term. This has never been good for other countries, and has generated some meandering, mediocre presidencies.

Plus, it's just plain wrong to wish death on people.

So don't do it, whether you post on democraticsociopath.com or not. I won't subscribe to your damn newsletter.

However, purely from an aesthetic, Queer Eye For The Supreme Court perspective, Ginsburg's gotta go. She is the dark brown la-z-boy with dog-piss stains to Michael Luttig's art deco lounger.

I'm sorry, I'm being shallow... She's also a terrible judge and a horrific human being.

Gospel of Cindy Discovered

In a discovery that may reshape the way Christians view their savior, scientists have located a months-old text in the bottom of youth group member Cindy Johnson's backpack. The text apparently chronicles Cindy's very personal relationship with Jesus, as well as her confidence in the attractiveness of someone named Doug.

Among the more startling revelations were Cindy's deep questions about issues such as pre-marital sex, alcohol, and whether Doug thought she was cute, and whether she should pray about marrying him even though she was only 16 at the time of her writing. Below is a sample.

"God, it's so hard. It's like, I know me and Doug are meant to be together. He always prays out loud in Youthfunk, and wants to play in a Christian band someday. But my parents say I should wait. He's so cute."

Youthfunk is believed to be a reference to Haverbrook Church's youth-oriented midweek service, which has since been renamed to "Christslam." Doug, is believed to be Doug Wilkinson, the groups college-age youth group leader.

The text, much of which is written in purple and light-green ink, also references some doubt as to the transformative power of Christ, especially in times of turmoil.

"Oh my God. So Doug texts me and says I need to call him so we can chat. I'm like... Finally! Praise Jesus! So, I call him and he tells me that some have observed that I might have a romantic interest in him. He tells me that he's flattered, but that I'm too young, and perhaps I should stop buying him Best Buy gift certificates. I like started crying, and he told me he thought Luke might be interested in me. Yeah, like I want to date a fatty. God, you suck."

The text, which had long ago been dismissed by archbishops as not worthy of inclusion in the new testament, has been embraced by Biblical scholars.

"When something like this comes along, I tend to accept it as an important part of the scriptures without questioning it," Said John Dominic Crossan, author of The Birth of Christianity . "To award prominence to the Gospel of Mark over the Gospel of Cindy is an arbitrary distinction that I cannot endorse."

While the life of Jesus may forever be a mystery, the works of Cindy have shed some light on the life of this amazing man.

An Interview with Tom DeLay

Every now and then, my blog gives me the opportunity to interviewer certain famous figures. Today, I am honored to interview Rep. Tom DeLay, who recently announced his resignation from the House of Representatives amidst scandals involving Jack Abramoff, with whom DeLay had close ties. Rep. DeLay, welcome to TPWK.

Rep. DeLay: How are things?

TPWJ: Good, and I'd ask the same of you, but I guess we probably already know, heh, heh?

DeLay: You know what I haven't played in awhile? Sorry!

TPWK: You're sorry? For what?

DeLay: No, I want to play Sorry! It's a game in which cards are drawn, and there are consequences, with respect to certain colored pawns.

TPWK: I am familiar...

DeLay: Certainly, there is an element of luck involved, but one would be incorrect to ignore the element of skill.

TPWK: Yes, incorrect...

DeLay: Of course, the cards vary in terms of the latitude granted to the individual player.

TPWK: You are speaking of the cards that carry the games namesake.

DeLay: Well, yes. Obviously those are the, how would you say, golden tickets of the game? But, now, if I remember correctly, you can split your move between any two pawns.

TPWK: You call them pawns. I had not heard them called pawns.

DeLay: That is how they are referenced in the instructions. Do you have a copy of the instructions on you?

TPWK: Ummmm... No...

DeLay: I try to keep a copy of the instructions on me, but with all the brouhaha, I'm afraid I've fallen out of that practice.

TPWK: Aren't they written on the box?

DeLay: They are elegant, in their simplicity, not unlike the works of Auden.

TPWK: You are referring now to the poet.

DeLay: Do you think I'm guilty?

TPWK: Excuse me?

DeLay: Of a crime. Am I a criminal?

TPWK: I really don't...

DeLay: This business of politics. It is like the game. Pawns, shuffling around a board. Blocking, dodging, the distribution of pieces.

TPWK: I'm not sure I buy the premise of this analogy.

DeLay: Politicians. Men among men. Or women. These days, women too. Puttering their way through white squares. Vulnerable to the whims of cards.

TPWK: Yeahhhhhh....

DeLay: Lose an election, go back three spaces. A superficial hunt for the confines of the safety zone. Seeking asylum in anticipation of the final prize.

TPWK: The final prize.

DeLay: An elusive mistress, this "home", as Parker Brothers calls it. The drawing of an exact card necessary to finish the game. All the work of displacing the other pawns hinging on the drawn card.

TPWK: You've really thought this through.

DeLay: Mr. Abramoff thought he was in the safety zone.

TPWK: So it would seem.

DeLay: Jack and I would stay up late, playing the Sorry! He had a gift. Almost preternatural... A gift for drawing precisely the right card to reach the home space.
He believed, actually believed that, by touching the cards, he could rearrange them, that the ink would literally shift from card to card, securing victory.

TPWK: His overconfidence, then, stemmed from playing Sorry!

DeLay: He would always choose the green pawns. He believed they had a certain sway over the cards. Once, for a joke, I grabbed the green pawns from him. He cut me with a broken whiskey bottle. This was not matter for joking, with Jack. He cut my face from my eye to my chin. We played three games after that. He won them all. I nearly died.

TPWK: You know, I'm realizing that I have a tough time steering the content of these interviews.

DeLay: And now.. Poof! Jack is gone. Back to start. Unable to draw the correct cards.

TPWK: Unable...

DeLay: Do you think they will rape him? In prison, I mean. Will he be raped?

TPWK: That's all of our time for today. I'd like to thank Rep. DeLay for stopping by.

Ted Kennedy - Children's Author

So, Ted Kennedy has a children's book out, My Senator and Me, a Dog's Eye View of Washington D.C.

The book is written from the point of view of his dog named Splash. Whether the name is a coy reference to whiskey or a drowning secretary is left to the reader (and Jay Leno) to ascertain.

In the book, Splash follows our hero (this is the only story that could possibly feature Ted Kennedy as a protagonist) around Washington as he touts some education bill. The bill will, as Splash puts it, "place a computer in every classroom."

Splash, of course, does not question the inherent value of having a solitary computer in every classroom, though I know a number of teachers who have put them to good use. He is simply happy that more money is being spent on something. This, children, is the key to getting re-elected in Massachussets.

Of course, the book is not without it's villains. A certain "grumpy" Senator complains that we can't afford the bill. He is obviously an idiot, and the dog barks at him for being so stupid. Yeah, Profiles in Courage it ain't.

In the end, the expensive education bill passes, and all of America's students can be within proximity of a shiny new computer. Of course, their math skills and literacy level are on par with that of the book's narrator.

So, who is buying this book? Is there some parallel universe where Ted Kennedy isn't regarded as creepy and depressing? Is there some niche, heretofore undiscovered by me, that is clamoring for the whimsical wisdom of an alcoholic murderer?

Oh, right...

The Best is Over

You see, I'm 27.

The shows of my youth are featured on Nickelodeon-related stations, I am embedded in a career, I am engaged, I own properties (plural). I have been a Republican for quite some time now.

It's over.

When I was a kid, I loved basketball. I was (and am) literally obsessed with the Detroit Pistons. We had season tickets.

I wanted to be a child rapper. I was into 2Pac in the "Brenda's Got a Baby" days. I watched "Yo! MTV Raps" with the fat Dr. Dre and Ed Lover. I wrote a rap called "2012" about how environmental damage would end the world.

Then, my dad went to prison, and I was hard core. I knew I could use my hardcoreness to do anything I wanted. Apparently my hardcoreness wanted me to attend a predominantly white liberal arts college with a division III basketball program.

I graduated and, five years later, it's over. See, you can't do anything once your 27. Well, not without making some selfish decisions. Sure, I could leave fiancee, job, church, et al... Behind and go to grad school on the public's dime to become a creative writer of minimal repute. I guess that would constitute living the dream.

Fortunately, with all the jaded realizations that your dreams ain't gonna become realities comes the jaded wisdom that your dreams would have made for some unspectacular realities anyway.

And besides, the Pistons still kick ass. I write every day (obviously). My fiancee is empirically attractive and can cook. My properties are still standing (albeit occasionally besieged by meth-whores.) Compromises are awesome!

And I'm old enough now to moan about how television isn't what it used to be. I mean would you ever hear this exchange on Everybody Loves Raymond?

"I don't get it, why did he give us a bean pie?"

"What am I, Freud? Just grab a fork."

Yeah, didn't think so... Name that sitcom.