I need a smile and there’s no sweeter smile than Convos with My Two-Year-Old.
Eagle-eyed reader Marcelle Bartolo-Abela sent me the information that the satan-on-the-Oklahoma-capitol grounds story has made it all the way to Pravda.
Okies in Pravda? Makes my head spin.
For those who want more information about satan’s doings, descriptions of his handiwork in human affairs can be found on any news program, any day of the week.
I are not too swift, as we say in the Oklahoma hills where I was born. (Hat tip to Woody Guthrie.)
I had never heard of Baphomet. But my colleague Max Lindenman (who is not afflicted with dumb Okie-ism) immediately noticed that the proposed statue of satan which a group of satanists want to place on the grounds of the Oklahoma State Capitol looks a lot more like Baphomet than the angel of darkness.
Me, I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and trying to digest the fact that satanists really want to put a statue of satan at the Oklahoma capitol. Their reason? According to an Associated Press story that reader Marcelle Bartolo-Abella sent me, they feel it belongs next to the plaque with the Ten Commandments on it.
I actually know the reporter, Sean Murphy, who wrote the AP story, and since we’re an insular lot down Okie way, that makes me think the story is not just a reprint from The Onion. It’s amazing how often these stories about atheists/satanists and their bizarre behavior come across as a comedy routine at first.
According to Mr Murphy’s story, we’ve also got a sign out there somewhere on the prairie telling unbelievers that they are “not alone.”
I place this satan-statue-on-the-Oklahoma-capitol-grounds idea in the same intellectual box where I keep my momentos from the Freedom from Religion crowd’s Keep Saturn in Saturnalia Christmas sign (which, according to some reports was “almost” burned down, an almost crime that led to the usual denunciations of “Christian bigots” in atheist circles.) It’s just great adolescent fun to go in your face with Christians, especially when you can do it in a way that demonstrates how you are guided by “rational thought” and such.
Despite it’s onion-esq quality, I wouldn’t be surprised if the statue question ends up in court.
I have already had quite a few suggestions concerning what to do about this statue, should it be erected on the capitol grounds. My favorite comes from a Catholic Patheosi colleague and involves me, the Rosary and outraged satanists.
I keep thinking about what my constituents would do. They don’t suffer fools, my constituents. A few years ago, pro abortion people tried to get a hate-on going against me by distributing scurrilous fliers to the good people of District 89, accusing me of various things. The pro abortion people never admitted this, but I know for a fact that they got jumped out pretty good. They were accosted and called names. One lady followed them down the street, yelling at them to get out of there and go back where they came from. (And she’s pro choice!)
Okies don’t like being meddled with. It’s not so much a matter of philosophy, as it is that we think we’re capable of making up our own minds without a bunch of outsiders coming in and trying to do it for us.
I’m not so sure that a statue of satan on the capitol grounds would have a long life, even if it went up. I don’t think the legislature would let it stand. I also think the public outrage would be protracted and heartfelt. Okies are peaceable people who don’t mind you believing whatever you want. That’s your business. But getting in people’s faces in the Oklahoma hills where I was born is a high insult. It’s not too swift.
Whaddaya think? Is it Satan …
… or Baphomet?
Long before New Mexico was a playground for the rich and famous, it was a playground for my family.
My Daddy’s family hailed from there, going back to before statehood, when it was a dangerous and unsettled wilderness. Edward Arlington Robinson’s line “We count our past backwards by the gravestones and the apple trees” fits my feelings about New Mexico perfectly. All I have to do is change “apple trees” to cacti.
My Daddy’s family liked to go camping, again long before camping was an in thing to do. It was a time when the mountain roads were not paved and the winter air was so pure and cold you could see all the way to tomorrow.
The whole bunch of us — grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins — went on one of these camping trips when I was a toddler. I have no memory of this event, but I’ve been told they cooked breakfast. I have experienced a lot of these campfire breakfasts, eating scrambled eggs, hash browns and bacon, all cooked over a propane stove. The taste of food like that, when you’re shaking with the bone-numbing morning cold and your family is all about you, surpasses any other gastronomic delight I have ever experienced.
Even though I have no memory of what happened that day, I’ve heard about it often enough to feel as if I remember it. Right in the middle of the cooking and laughing and sleepy-morning good times, I picked up a handful of gravel and tossed it onto the cooking eggs.
Fortunately for me, my family wasn’t prone to spank children. The adult consensus was that I had gotten tired of not being the center of attention and made a move to focus attention on myself. So, they picked me up and laughed about it, tossed the eggs and had a breakfast of hash browns and bacon, instead.
That was also the camping trip in which my cousin, who was six months older than me, fell into the ice-encrusted mountain stream and had to be rescued and cuddled for warmth. There was evidently a lot of baby cuddling and laughter on that trip and it was the beginning of glorious memories of the mountains before they were trendy for both my cousin and I.
I’m telling you this story, not to confirm your suspicions that I was an indulged and adored child (I was) but to point out that two-year-olds behave a certain way, and when they behave that way, it’s ok … for two-year-olds. Anyone with half a brain knows that baby people act out the primitive cravings for attention that never leave any of us in primitive, baby people, ways.
Anyone with half a brain also knows that certain maladjusted people, who maybe didn’t get their fair share of cuddling and adoration when they were babies, don’t grow out of this. Back before the internet, these jerks (there is no better word) visited their boorish behavior on those long suffering souls who had to work with them or have them over for Thanksgiving dinner. In short, the same families who’d messed them up in the first place had to pay the price of putting up with them for life.
But family fracturing and social isolation has deprived these folks of their traditional outlet. At the same time, the internet has given them another one. Far from being isolated on line, they’ve formed themselves into virtual clubs for the socially inept. They hang self-congratulatory monikers on themselves and spend a lot of time telling each other how special they are and how totally second-rate the rest of the world is.
But this constant verbal back-slapping and repetitive proclaiming of their own superiority to one another doesn’t give them enough attention from the larger world. Staying in their own little clubhouse and high-fiving one another until their palms bleed doesn’t — nothing can — satisfy their hunger for attention. They need more.
They sally forth from their little enclaves to toss verbal sand into everyone else’s eggs. Then they go hopping home to brag about their exploits.
One of their members recently wrote an accidental confession of sorts, based on his astounding discovery that you can’t get people to dine with you if you throw sand in their eggs. What worked for me when I was two, just doesn’t get the same loving tolerance from people who aren’t your adoring family and who are operating under the (evidently inaccurate) assumption that you are an adult.
This little essay, titled “Why I’m quitting the online atheism community,” is one atheist’s discussion about how he has learned that he can’t “convert” those “morons” who believe in God to his way of thinking by dashing onto our blogs and inserting himself into our conversations and calling us, well, morons.
I don’t know exactly what led this young man to this flash of astounding social enlightenment, but, to be honest, I am more than a little amused by his belief that he’s had some sort of interpersonal epiphany. I keep wanting to ask: Who raised you fella?
This atheist’s essay interested me for a couple of reasons, other than the fact that it’s accidentally funny.
First, it is a frank admission of what I think most of us already know. These clumsy trolls are trying to convert us to their way of thinking.
Second, these clumsy trolls actually think that their insults and tiresome verbal wanderings are some sort of discussion rather than an affliction and an intrusion.
I imagine that the idiotic billboards they hang up at Christmas fall into the same kind of activity. They think billboards with insults on them are saying something to people of faith. For our part, all we see are a bunch of adult two-year-olds, running around, pulling their pants down and tossing sand in our eggs.
When they cross the line from insults and adolescent grandiosity into coercion and discrimination, the laugh track dies. But that is a discussion for another post. Right now, I’ll confine myself to the question of questionable behavior by those who are so lacking in social grace that they think yelling insults and annoying people will appeal to and “convert” them.
The moral of this story is that if you want to convert people, don’t throw dirt, including verbal dirt, in their eggs. It applies to rude Christians as well as atheist trolls.
If you didn’t get your loving as a child and feel an aching need for it that won’t fill, turn to Jesus. His love is the love you were made for. Everything else is a faint copy.
It’s time for a break. Nothing amuses me more than my favorite YouTube videos, Convos with My Two-Year-Old.
Watch for Dad’s reaction at the end. It’s priceless.
The Cheyennes and other plains tribes had a practice called counting coup.
Counting coup, Cheyenne style, meant taking a life-threatening risk to dash up to a bear or a rival tribe member and touch them, then dash back to your fellows to get well-earned kudos for your bravery. The essential component to counting coup, Cheyenne style, was that it took actual guts to do it.
I never understood this before I began blogging, but evidently counting coup has moved forward into the tribal rites of various on-line social clubs. At least on this blog, atheist trolls are the ones who seem to practice it.
For reasons I don’t fully get, the atheist bloggers on Patheos have zeroed Public Catholic in general and little ole me in particular, for their disdain. According to them, we’re all crazy over here on the Catholic portal and need a good dressing down from time to time.
I come in for more than my share of this rhubarb. It’s the usual stuff about how I’m a politician who’s writing all this religious stuff for political gain and I’m a religious fanatic with an IQ about three points above asphalt. That sort of thing.
What interests me are the coup-counters. They come dashing in here and drop off a random insult in what is usually a totally non sequitur fashion and then dash back to the Spanky and Our Gang Christian-Haters Clubhouse to tell the tale of their courage.
The Cheyennes risked their lives when they counted coup. It took both intelligence and actual courage for them to do it. Since almost all these insult-dropping dive-bombers from the atheist zone arrive under cover of pseudonym, they aren’t even risking their reputations. It also doesn’t take a whole boatload of intelligence to type some version of “sez you, you piece of dirt” and then go running off.
It’s kind of fun to watch this spectacle. And when its not kind of fun, I just delete.
It is interesting though, how people who say they don’t believe in God also can’t say it enough times to feel good about themselves. They really do protest too much. When tasked on this point, they usually come up with an explanation about how they aren’t obsessed with God. It’s just us Christians who force them to behave as if they were obsessed with God because they can’t, well, live in a world where people believe things that they don’t believe.
I pray for them. And I want them to know that God loves them as much as He loves any of His children. Anytime they decide to stop running around waving their arms and pulling their pants down, they are always welcome at His table. They are my lost and somewhat ditzy brothers.
In the meantime, I get a kind of there-they-go-again amusement from their coup-counting. As for the insults, I’m still waiting for them to come up with one I haven’t already heard a few thousand times before.
So I was steam-cleaning the shower; giving the house it’s Thanksgiving go-over.
I have an industrial-strength steamer that, when it’s fully rigged up, looks a lot like one of the bugs in Starship Troopers. It produces hot, hot steam in violent jets that dissolve dirt and slay bacteria with a single hiss.
I was running it with the squeegee attachment, going up and down the shower walls, steam coming out in an angry zzzzzzzz, my laboriously straightened hair collapsing into tight little curls, when my youngest son popped his head around the bathroom door.
“Whachadoin’?” he asked.
“Cleaning the shower.”
“I want you to come do that to my shower,” meaning, the shower in the house he shares with his brother, a shower so dirty that there’s no way to be sure what color the enamel might be; a shower so dirty that self-respecting bacteria moved out months ago; a shower so dirty that I wouldn’t use it to bathe a dog.
“Nope. But you can borrow the steamer.”
“But I want you to come do it.”
“All right then,” he said, wandering off.
I guess I’m responsible. After all, I raised him.
When he marries, I plan to begin my relationship with my new daughter-in-law by apologizing.