Humor?

It’s all Darrin’s fault. Having no consideration for weaker brothers, he put a stumbling block in my path. I didn’t mean to do it, honest. I was just looking. It doesn’t hurt to look, does it? Anyway, here is what he did: he posted—callously, I might add—this excerpt from J. H. Merle D’Aubigne’s The History of the Reformation. So I went shopping—just looking, mind you!—and I found it, used. Now, Darrin had stated (the previous link is my witness) that it has rarely been out of print, so I emailed him to enquire if he knew where it could be found new.

This is where it gets ugly. No, it could not be found new; but there were many options, from merely used to antquarian. He sent me links. One of them had over 300 listings. I tried to resist, really, I did. I tried to click back, but the page loaded too fast. I had no choice. I scrolled down. Then I scrolled down some more. Like Jonah, I went down, down, down, until I had gone too far to turn back.

Then I saw it: a promising specimen. I clicked the link. It was a nice set, and reasonably priced. I bookmarked it, virtually guaranteeing my demise. Still, I told myself I was just looking. Certainly, if my wife had walked in and caught me, that would have been my defense: “Just looking, Dear! (nervous laughter here) Really! (more nervous laughter, beginning to perspire) Oh, nothing, heh, heh, just some old (mumbling now, hoping she doesn’t catch the damning word) books.” That’s when I will get THE LOOK.

You see, we’ve been down this road before. My fellow book addicts will understand. Money magically disappears from your pockets when you walk past a bookstore. You wake up clutching a strange hardcover, with no memory of acquiring it. You have books on your shelves that you had to have but haven’t yet read. Challies reviews a book, and you click the Amazon link every time. Of course you don’t buy every one, but you add them to your wishlist until it is bloated beyond any useful limits. Your wife begins to squirrel money away in Switzerland, out of your reach. No, she’s not leaving you—she’s just hiding the grocery money.

I kept scrolling and clicking “next page.” I bookmarked two more pages before I stopped. I now had three serious temptations before me. I clicked back and forth between them feverishly. The one that called my name the loudest was a beautiful 1843 edition in quarter-leather binding. I’ve purchased used books many times before, but I’m no expert on antiquarian books; so I emailed Darrin once more. He gave me his opinions, which were pretty much what I had hoped for. I was gazing hungrily at the screen, mesmerized by antique leather, when my wife walked in, jarring me from my trance. From this point on, my memory is hazy. This is how I remember it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I decided to play it straight—as straight as I could, anyway. “I, ah, I’m looking at some books.” Her eyes narrowed. It was THE LOOK. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. THE LOOK is only worth a few, but they are unambiguous. Whatever you are doing when you get THE LOOK, you know exactly what it means, and it is never encouraging.

“What kind of books?” she said, her voice low, eyes narrowed, brows arched. It was THE LOOK, deluxe edition.

“Antique Reformation history books.”

“And how much are they?” It was an accusation, not a question. I gave a number. “Hmmm…,” she said, voice very low. THE LOOK intensified. “I have to do laundry.” She stalked ominously from the room.

I looked at the screen. My cursor was situated directly over the “add to cart” button. My heart began pounding. My ears were ringing. My vision became cloudy. A voice in my head whispered, “It’s now or never!” I heard a click, and another. Then, before my eyes, a form was being filled out. A name—my name! An address—my address! Numbers, dates, click, click! The room was spinning! What is that black bird above my monitor? What does he mean, “Nevermore”? Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells! Click, click!

I awoke with a start. No! I thought. It was a dream. It had to have been a dream. Then I saw it: the little envelope icon on my taskbar. You’ve got mail. I clicked Outlook Express. There is 1 unread Mail message in your Inbox. Hands trembling, I clicked my inbox. Thanks for your recent order! This is confirmation that your order has been received . . . My heart sank. Then, slowly, the cloud lifted. 1843; leather; History of the Reformation. I couldn’t help it. A warm sensation engulfed my body, and the corners of my mouth began to creep apart until a broad smile stretched across my face.

My wife walked in. “Oh, no,” she said, “you’ve done it, haven’t you?”

I just smiled.

The kids watched 101 Dalmatians last night. I didn’t watch, but I was in the next room listening, and I’ve seen it a few times before. This is not the 1961 animated one Hundred and One Dalmatians, but the 1996 live-action remake with Glenn Close as Cruella De Vil. I don’t usually care much for remakes, but this one is good. Glenn Close is a hilariously evil Cruella De Vil, and Jeff Daniels and Joely Richardson are perfectly charming as Roger and Anita. Pongo and Perdita are played by dogs, who carry off their parts quite convincingly.

It is unfortunate that the scriptwriters chose to transform Roger, originally a song writer, into a video game designer, but it did create some very funny dialogue. For example:

Cruella: And what is it that you do that allows you to support Anita in such . . . splendor?
Roger: I design video games.
Cruella, to Anita: Video games? Is he having me on?
Anita: O no, he’s very good at it. And it’s a growing business.
Cruella: Those horrible noisy things that children play on their televisions? Someone actually designs those? What a senseless thing to do with your life!

Well, this is turning into a mini movie review, which is not what I intended and is rather lame since the movie is now eleven years old. All I really wanted to do is repeat for your edification what I think is one of the funniest bits of movie dialogue I’ve ever heard.

The setting is fashion designer Cruella De Vil’s office. Present is Frederick, who appears to be an upper-management type. He, like all of Cruella’s employees, is horribly intimidated by her. Cruella is looking over some of Anita’s designs, which have spots.

Cruella: Do you like spots, Frederick?
Frederick: O, I don’t believe so, Madame. I thought we liked stripes this year.
Cruella: What kind of sycophant are you?
Frederick: What kind of sycophant would you like me to be?

Yes, I know it’s Friday. If the title bugs you, click away and come back tomorrow.

I don’t remember when I first discovered despair.com, but I immediately fell in love with it. For better or worse, the creators of Demotivators® and I think alike; so it was no surprise at all when I received The Pessimist’s Mug one year for Father’s Day. It was a bitter irony when it was dropped on the kitchen floor and broken. I now have this coffee cup sitting on my desk. A recent post at Between Two Worlds reminded me of these and inspired me to pull out and fix up a few knock-offs that I had made some time ago, before I had a blog to post them on. Call them the product of idle hands and a twisted sense of humor.

Well, it's Friday afternoon, and I haven't posted anything since Sunday. I really don't have anything of substance today, either, but came across a video that reminded me of this satirical piece I posted a while back. In case you didn't get this picture and caption (don't worry about it--I'm used to it), this video might clear it up a little. Anyway, I thought it was funny.

If you weren't a Newhart fan, you won't get this. It won't be even slightly humorous. Kind of like a lot of my jokes.

The Last Newhart

. . . the armless man attacked her brother.

"They got into a big confrontation, a verbal confrontation and a fist fight . . .

I know it's not really a funny story, but an "armless man" in a "fistfight" just cracks me up.

So Al Gore wins a Nobel prize for "raising awareness about global warming."

I've spread countless loads of manure—beef, dairy, swine—on fields from Wisconsin to North Dakota. What do I get? A big, fat nothing.

Is that fair?

If there is any doubt left that I am a nerd, this post should take care of it. I like math. It’s not that I’m especially good at it, I just like it. I like the absoluteness of it. 2 + 2 = 4, √25 = 5, the area of a circle is πr2, and there is nothing the postmoderns can do about it. I also like limericks. In fact, I love limericks. So this post displays all kinds of nerdy goodness about me. These are a few math limericks I’ve collected.

An algebra teacher named Drew
Tried to find the √2.
He found it between
¼ and 14,
But couldn't get closer. Can you?

There was an old man who said, “Do
Tell me how I should add two and two.
I think more and more
That it makes about four—
But I fear that is almost too few.”

A mathematician confided
That a Moebius band is one-sided.
And you'll get quite a laugh
If you cut one in half,
For it stays in one piece when divided.

There was a young student from Rye,
Who worked out the value of π.
“It happens,” said he,
“That it's just over 3,
Though I'd rather you don't ask me why.”

If inside of a circle a line
Hits the center and goes spine to spine
And the line’s length is “d”,
The circumference will be
d times 3.14159.

There was a young lady named Bright
whose speed was much greater than light.
So she set out one day,
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.

The Professor said, “Now I'll tell you
A fact known to only a few
Men and women alive.
Two plus two equals five!
(For large enough values of two.)”

This is my favorite, credited to John Saxon, the author of our math textbooks:

A Dozen, a Gross, and a Score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
equals nine squared and not a bit more.

Here’s one for you to solve:

There once was a woman from Dundee,
Whose age had the last digit three.
If her whole age reversed
Is the square of the first,
Then what must the woman’s age be?

It seems that no matter how hard we try to be frugal, we always end up spending too much at Christmas time. Then we wrap up all that money and lay it on the floor under a tree, where anyone could walk in and carry it off. This has been a worry of mine for years, but no more. Son #3 has assembled a razor-sharp squad of mercenaries to provide security this Christmas season. They have been instructed to be on the look-out for fat guys in red suits who have been known to take credit for the hard work of parents around the globe. Intruders will be shot on sight. No prisoners will be taken.

We did our best to guard the goods this year, but we briefly lost the high ground to a post-Christmas enemy surge.

After a tense stand-off, our forces were able to flank the enemy drive her back.

Happy New Year!

I would make a horrible attorney. I hate to argue. Obviously then, apologetics is not my bag. I like to state my case once, and leave it at that. If you don’t agree, fine. Just stop arguing about it.

I’m a presuppositionalist. In fact, you could call me a hyper-presuppositionalist — more roto-tillian than Van Tillian. What is, is, and it’s obvious. All truth is based on a few self-evident facts that are as plain as the nose on your face, and if you can’t see that, I probably can’t help you.

I’ll give you a couple of examples of how my arguments go. Let’s pretend I am a college professor . . .

There once was a scholar from Esser
Whose knowledge grew lesser and lesser
It at once grew so small
He knew nothing a all
And now he’s a college professor

. . . One morning, as students are filing into the classroom, I am regaling some of my more manly students with riveting tales of my hunting adventures around the globe, when in walks Ms. Teensy Eyequeue, who has just come from professor Hillary Steinem’s Obnoxious Liberalism 101 class.

Teensy: “I think killing all those beautiful animals is horrible.”

Me: “If you don’t kill them, they won’t lie still on the grill.”

Teensy: “I’m a vegetarian.”

Me: “If God didn’t want us to eat animals, why are they made out of meat?”

It’s as simple as that.

And then there are those who think there has to be a winner of every argument.

Me: “As I was saying . . . non curat de minimus lex . . . and, as Socrates said, . . . and so, . . . hypotenuse . . . cogito ergo sum.”

Argumentative person: “Dude, . . . blah blah blah blah . . . yer just, like, totally bogus.”

Me: “Adversus solem ne loquitor.”*

AP: “No way. Blah blah blah blah . . . blah blah blah blah . . .

Me: “          ”

Because I have gone silent, AP now believes he has won the argument. Later, observing that I am continuing as before, unchanged in spite of his stunning rhetorical victory, he resumes the attack.

AP: “So, you’re still going to do that even though you know I’m right?”

Me: “I never said I agreed. I just stopped arguing.”

AP: “Dude, yer like so passive-aggressive.”

Me: “Call it what you want, Dr. Freud. One of us knows when to shut up and stop arguing, and the other is a moron. Which one do you think you are?”

AP: “That’s not very nice.”

Me: “Age. Fac ut gaudeam.”†

There you have it. Apologetics for curmudgeons. It won’t make you any friends, but it will save you a lot of time.

Together for the Gospel 2008 was a great experience, one of the highlights of, oh, the last several years. But, as most of us know, high points are often followed by depressing lows. Such has been the case with me.

Arriving home after a grueling but exhilarating week of fellowship and fun, giddy with excitement and fairly bursting with experiences to share with my dear readers, I began posting. I posted pictures. Then the comments came rolling in. Several readers who had been at the conference wrote in praise of my wife, who was surely deserving, but were rather less complimentary of yours truly. (One fine fellow said I looked like an Oxford professor, which I think was a compliment, but then I’ve never seen an Oxford professor, so I don’t know.) While she was described with such adjectives as “terrific,” “wonderful,” and “lovely,” I was pretty much ignored — at least until one character who shall remain nameless called me “weirdo,” and his progenitor, who shall remain hairless, besmerched my necktie. I wonder: does he even know how to tie a tie? I’ll bet he wears clip-ons. Sorry, I’m wandering.

Anyway, you can probably understand, then, why my self-esteem might have been trampled on . . . that is, might on have been trampled . . . or something like that. (On top of it all, I’m still struggling with prepositions.)

Then, finally, one kind lady — with impeccable taste — said I was a “sharp dressed handsome fellow.” I perked up. My wife said she was “just being polite,” but I know better. Yes I do. I do so! I read it again: sharp dressed handsome fellow. And again: sharp dressed handsome fellow sharp dressed handsome fellow sharp dressed handsome fellow. ZZ Top began playing in my head. Da-dum da-daah, da-da-dum-daah, da-da-dum . . . Yeah, that’s it, you know what I mean . . . They come runnin’ just as fast as they can . . . What? Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming again.

Well, that was only the beginning. While it’s nice to be admired superficially, we all want recognition that is more than skin deep. We want to be recognized for our character and intellect, don’t we? Mine was coming. My blue funk was finally and completely dispelled when, on his very own blog, no less a scholar than Dr. Michael A. G. Haykin, a man with two — two! — middle initials, called me “brilliant.” Brilliant brilliant brilliant . . . So there. I guess my terrific, wonderful, lovely wife is lucky to have me.

Pray for Jonathan Moorhead as he teaches a seminar on Jonathan Edwards at Word of Grace Bible Church in Battle Ground WA today.

This is a Russian-speaking congregation, so he will be working with an interpreter. Pray also that he doesn‘t do this — or maybe that he does. A guy‘s got to have some fun, after all.

Economist and syndicated columnist Thomas Sowell occasionally titles his column Random Thoughts. If you’ve read those columns, please lower your expectations several degrees before continuing.

These are just a few things that have crossed my mind in the past week or so. Some are thoughts inspired by conversations, others are just the fruit of a wandering mind.

On singing:
   Yukon Rebecca shared a nice hymn on Sunday, complete with a performance of said hymn by Fernando Ortega. She commented that it was “one of the few versions I could find that was not sung in a breathy female voice.” She almost set me off on my own list of irritations with popular singers, but I saved it for you.
   Rebecca already mentioned breathy (kiss me, baby!) singing. I’ll add: growling, whining, moaning, groaning, panting, yelling, screaming, and any other vocal affectation. Please — sing with the voice God gave you. It might not be a great one, but trust me, it’s better than the one you’re faking.
   My most hated musical crime is poor enunciation. I’m not referring to the careless kind, although that’s bad enough. I mean the intentional kind, in which the singer pronounces words in ways he never would if he was speaking, because it’s cool. Come on, people. Get Hooked on Phonics.
   A serious offender on both counts (this is one of those “wandering mind” segments) is Bob Dylan. Some say he can’t sing, but we’ll never know; we’ve never heard him try. I’d call what he does a combination of whining and moaning. And he obviously has no respect for phonics. His fans, if any are reading this, are thinking, “Yeah, but man, can he write. He’s a brilliant lyricist.” Yeah, whatever; I’ve got some poems I wrote when I was in 7th grade and in “love” with a gorgeous 8th grade blonde that might impress you, too. I was in Montana, and she was in Bismarck, North Dakota. It was never to be . . . Sorry, I wandered a little too far, there. Sigh.

There is no male gender, nor female. Male and female are not genders; they are sexes. Gender is described as masculine or feminine.

Does my wife read every word I post? I’ll know soon. OK, Honey, if you’re reading this, when I say, “Dylan,” you say, “stinks.”

How do you pronounce evangelical? Most say “ēvangelical”; some say “ĕvangelical.” As I’ve observe who says what, I think I’ve figured it out. It’s those uppity guys with “Dr.” in front of their names who use the latter pronunciation. The rest of us are right, but will never be published.

Every time I go out, I see people, including adults, wearing sweats — in public. What is wrong with these people? It really is a sign of societal decay when people are more concerned with being comfortable than presentable. For my part, if I meet you in a public place (not a gym or a jogging path), and you are wearing sweats, I’ll assume you can’t be trusted with serious responsibility. After all, you didn’t even manage to get dressed before leaving the house. No wonder your kid can’t wear his cap straight or pull up his pants.

Sometimes I don’t understand my wife. The other day, she told me a story that was supposed to be funny, about a Norwegian who, overcome with emotion, confided in a friend: “I love my wife so much, I almost told her.” What’s funny about that? I thought it was touching.

Just sign here . . . (video links open in popup windows)

End women‘s suffrage! (HT: Lawn Gospel)

Ban dihydrogen monoxide! (warning for the faint-hearted: some bad words used)

Would you believe . . .

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

If you only knew.

Well, after taking that quiz, I took this one:

Well, of course. This is one of the few things I‘ve worked hard to achieve. It‘s just part of being an obsessive pain in the

This has to be the best scam I’ve seen in a long time.* (HT: The Riddleblog)

The home page of youvebeenleftbehind.com explains the purpose of this “ministry.”

You've Been Left Behind gives you one last opportunity to reach your lost family and friends For Christ. Imagine being in the presence of the Lord and hearing all of heaven rejoice over the salvation of your loved ones. It is our prayer that this site makes it happen.

You’ve Been Left Behind will send your email message to up to sixty-two of your loved ones who didn’t make the rapture.

Imagine how taken back they will be by the millions of missing Christians and devastation at the rapture. They will know it was true and that they have blown it. There will be a small window of time where they might be reached for the Kingdom of God. We have made it possible for you to send them a letter of love and a plea to receive Christ one last time.

“But wait,” you say, “who will send the emails?” Good question. I wondered, too. Maybe they have a few volunteers on staff who have intentionally, sacrificially put off “making a decision for Christ” until after the rapture. A risky move, for sure, but what an expression of evangelistic zeal and love that would be! But no, they’ve got it figured out:

We have set up a system to send documents by the email, to the addresses you provide, 6 days after the "Rapture" of the Church. This occurs when 3 of our 5 team members scattered around the U.S fail to log in over a 3 day period. Another 3 days are given to fail safe any false triggering of the system.

Okay, now that you’re hooked, what will this cost you?

The cost is $40 for the first year. Re-subscription will be reduced as the number of subscribers increases. Tell your friends about You've Been left behind.

Alright, what are you waiting for? Subscribe now! Get my re-subscription rate down!

. . . so maybe I’m not nice.

Sorry, this is the best I can do today.

What was the name of the horse in Jingle Bells?
Bob*.

This joke is funniest if you can imagine it being told by a small child — which is how I heard it.

Louisville, Kentucky; April, 2008. Albert Mohler has just concluded his lecture at the 2008 Together for the Gospel Conference. I make my way to the front of the auditorium, clutching my copy of Dr. Mohler’s new book, Culture Shift, hoping to get it signed by the man himself. If successful, this will be the second signature I have acquired, the first being that of John MacArthur on the new 25th anniversary edition of The Gospel According to Jesus. I feel confident — not in my chances of getting the coveted signature, but of something far more important: not saying something stupid in the few seconds I will have in his presence. I managed to maintain my dignity with my Favorite Living Theologian, Dr. MacArthur, even making a couple of intelligent comments; surely I can manage it with Mohler, as well.

I wait behind the ropey-thing that separates the celebrities from the groupies while Dr. Mohler converses with a young seminary student (I know he is a seminarian because he has that broke-but-trying-very-hard-to-look-scholarly appearance). He approaches, pausing momentarily to jot a note on a scrap of paper and hand it to one of his minions. Suddenly, it strikes me: he has more brains in that fancy fountain pen than I have in my whole body. Like a child ducking behind his mother’s skirt, my brain sneaks away. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I silently hold out my book, only vaguely aware of how stupidly mute I am. Dr. Mohler looks at me expectantly; I say nothing. He takes the book, signs it and hands it back. Finally, my tongue breaks loose.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, and moves on.

Back at my seat, I open the book. It is signed, “To David.” I spend the remainder of the day, name tag hanging around my neck, wondering how he knew my name.

This could be me.

I have no statistics to prove it, but I’m willing to bet that Calvinism is the fastest growing theology today. Calvinism is spreading like an epidemic. Calvinistic churches are popping up everywhere. Calvinists are writing best-selling books and building mega-churches. People who wouldn’t normally attend church at all are flocking to Calvinist churches.

It’s no wonder, really. Who doesn’t love Calvin?

And now, for something completely different . . .

Not hip with the postmodern scene (i.e., don‘t get it)? Click here, here, and here. Click here to view image full-size.

I‘ve done this before — been suckered into giving a free plug to despair.com, that is. Here‘s another demotivator relevant to our context.

Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.

Are you one of those ultra-idealists who vote purely on principle, with no thought as to whether your candidate has the slightest chance to win? Well, then, have I got the candidate for you:

Me!     (HT)

Disclaimer: When I created this ad, I was not thinking of the fact that their actually is a Constitutionalist party. I just love the Constitution.

You Might Be a Redneck . . .
I think this looks like fun. Does that make me a redneck?

Funniest thing I‘ve read all week:
“Student volunteers from colleges around New York State braved freezing cold temperatures on their bikes Wednesday to send a message to state and federal political candidates: pay attention to climate change.” (HT)

Saturdays on the blog are normally reserved for things ranging from trivial to frivolous to foolish. Today, due to the out-dated nature of my offering, we can add irrelevant. As promised, I have refrained from political outbursts for the last week. Well, almost, anyway. Technically, I should wait ’til tomorrow; but tomorrow is the Lord’s Day, and as this post is both frivolous and political, I’d best get it out of my system today. It’s not much—pretty lame, actually—but I reckon it’s worth the price of admission.

The Presidential election was too close to call.  Neither McCain nor Obama had enough votes to win.

There was much talk about ballot recounting, court challenges, etc., but a week-long ice fishing competition seemed the sportsmanlike way to settle things. The candidate that caught the most fish at the end of the week would win the election. After much discussion, it was decided that the contest take place on a remote lake in northern Minnesota.

There were to be no observers present, and both men were to be sent out separately to return at 5 P.M. with their catch for counting and verification by a team of neutral parties.

At the end of the first day, McCain returned with ten fish.  Soon, Obama returned with no fish.  Well, everyone assumed he was just having an unlucky day or something, and hopefully, he would catch up the next day.

At the end of the 2nd day McCain came in with twenty fish and Obama came in again with none.

That evening, Harry Reid got together secretly with Obama and said, “I think John McCain is cheating.  I want you to go out tomorrow and don’t even bother with fishing.  Just spy on him and see how he’s cheating.” The following night, Reid asked Obama, “Well, tell me, how is McCain cheating?”

Obama replied, “Harry, you're not going to believe this, but he's cutting holes in the ice!”

Experience matters.

See you in church tomorrow.

For your information:

Viz. is an abbreviation of a Middle English word, namely, videlicet, which is a contraction of two Latin words, to wit, videre licet. There are several abbreviations of this sort commonly used in English writing: e.g., for example, abbreviates exempli gratia. Another is i.e., that is, id est.

I hope this is helpful.

Uffdah! Another lame April Fool’s Day gag!

RSS readers won’t get it. Click here to see what you missed.

Wrapping up rerun week . . .

We used to be funny here on Saturday. Okay, scratch that. We used to tell jokes here on Saturday, about various things, including

• a duck
• some Indians
• and a frog.

We recently watched Cast Away starring Tom Hanks. It’s not a great movie, but a pretty good one. I like the ending. To be true to the spirit of Hollywood, and to the prevailing moral climate in general, it should have ended with an adulterous tryst, but it didn’t. My compliments to the screenwriter.

Still, as much as I liked the ending, it would have been even better had it ended like this.

These are just a couple of loose thoughts rattling around in my head this morning.1

• Item One:

  This was brought to my attention twice in one day (Thursday, to be precise). I take that to be a sign from God that I must comment on it. First, I heard it on the radio. As I seldom listen to the radio, that must be significant. Then, I was reminded in print2. Since “in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established,”3 I take this as an “anointing of the spirit”4 to share a “word of knowledge”4. And, today being Saturday, this is as good a time as any to share my wisdom. Prepare for the profundity.

  Anyone who can sing “Easy like a Sunday Morning”5 has obviously never gotten eight (or even one or two) children ready for church on Sunday.6

  If that requires any explanation, you should perhaps consider a life of celibacy.

• Item Two:

  This year marks the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing, or perhaps I should say, alleged moon landing. No, I’m kidding; but God, in his loving providence, has given us some entertaining folks who are not. More proof of his providence is that this was captured on video. I’m not saying what Aldrin did was right; I am saying that viewing it provided me with a moment of schadenfreude7 for which I have yet to feel convicted.

• Item Three:

  I like lists and footnotes.8

1 Yes, you may say it: along with a couple of loose screws.

2 You won’t see it in this link, but the text that came through my Google reader was “Easy like a Sunday Morning.”

3 Matthew 18:16. Yes, I know I am ripping it violently out of context. Believe it or not, I’m only following a precedent I’ve encountered in using this verse.

4 You may insert one of those rolling-eyes emoticons here, if your religion allows.

5 A truly horrible song, second in horribleness only to We’ll Sing in the Sunshine.

6 No, ladies, I don’t have to be a mom to know that.

7 A word that makes me look scholarly.

8 Footnotes add to the illusion of scholarshipliness. Lists give the appearance of orderly, structured thinking.*

* Footnoting a footnote is taking it a bit too far.

More love from the religion of peace.

“Famous musicians shouldn’t grow old.” I’m not sure the younger (1974) is so much better than the older (2008). Stephen King once wrote of a character singing “with a voice that could melt screws.” I think we’ve found him, if you can call that “singing.” On the other hand, here’s a famous musician who got old: hear him in 1957, 1969, about (I’m guessing) 1985–90, and in 2009 — at 100 years old. I guess it all depends on what you call music.

Oh, Benny. This is so ironic you wouldn’t want to leave it out in the rain . . . you know, because it would rust.

Conclusive proof we elected the wrong man: our President drinks light beer.

And finally, possibly the worst joke I will ever tell. This is no exaggeration. It is utterly horrible, but it’s also so much my style that I can’t resist. The worst part is that it’s original; it just popped into my head the other day. It’s really only funny in the perverse way of bad puns and the twisted minds that love them. So you have my sincere apologies in advance. Prepare the tomatoes.

David, son of Jesse, King of Israel, walks into a bar . . .

Yep, clichéd lead-in and all. Sorry.

. . . has drink, shares casual banter with the bartender, etc., and leaves. Spends the afternoon writing several Psalms, plays Harp Hero with one of the boys. Wanders back to the bar later that evening.

The bartender says to himself, “Wow, man. Dave à Jew.”

. . . this will never be me:

(see previous post)

I grew up with a medium-sized list of things Christians shouldn’t do. Don’t get me wrong, there are many things Christians shouldn’t do, but this list was not exactly the Decalogue. On this list, probably somewhere in the middle below drinking alcohol and above playing cards, was going to the movie theatre. It wasn’t considered a sin per se, but it was definitely a sign of worldliness. I’ve never been able to negotiate the difference between sinful and merely worldly, but trust me, it exists. They said so, or at least, implied so.

So it was through a bit of serendipity that I first stepped into a theatre at ten years of age. Some cousins from Big City, Minnesota came to visit during the summer of 1975. They were liberals (no kidding, they really were) who had no scruples about the theatre; so, stuck in Small Town, South Dakota (population 650, give or take) and bored to death, they were going to the show that weekend, whatever it was. As luck would have it, it was The Apple Dumpling Gang (still one of my favorites). It was rated G, and I think my parents weren’t quite sour enough to frown and tut-tut at the cousins. Consequently, they were in a bind when, in front of aunt, uncle, and cousins, my siblings and I declared that, yes, that would be fun! Long story short, we went; which, I believe, broke down the barrier between yours truly and an event that would have a dramatic effect on my wee little psyche in the summers to come.

What, The Apple Dumpling Gang messed me up? No, this story is not about cute orphans and bumbling “desperados.” It’s about [cue ominous music] sharks. You see, 1975 was also the year Jaws was released. I’ve told this story many times, and every time I’ve said I was twelve years old. Who lets their twelve-year-old see a movie with graphic people-eating? But my fact-checking revealed the shocking fact that I was actually only ten. How I managed to finagle Jaws from my theatres-are-evil parents is still a mystery. Anyway, in those days and in that town, no ten-year-old was getting into a PG movie unaccompanied, so it fell to my sister, then seventeen, to take me. She was a better date than you might expect, jumping and gasping in all the right places, giving me mucho teasing ammo for days, if not weeks and months, to come. Her gasps grew to shrieks in my gleeful accounts of the evening. But I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.

It was either that same summer or one of the following two that our family met some other cousins, these from Even Smaller Town, South Dakota, at the Oahe Reservoir near Pierre, the state capital, where we camped, swam, and fished for a week. On at least one of those days, the wind blew something fierce, as it is wont to do in the plains states. Oahe is a big lake, so a big wind produces big waves — too big for fishing, skiing, or any small boating activity. But we were there to have fun, so rather than sit around outside our tents watching our potato chips and paper plates blow away, we did the only thing we could do. We went swimming. Well, not swimming, exactly. My uncle, father, cousin, and I put on life jackets and swam out from shore as far as we could. Then we just laid in the water and let the waves take us in. Up and down we rode for hours, on waves six to eight feet high, reaching the shore and swimming back out again.

There I was, laying on my back in the water, watching the waves tower over me, then riding to the top and surveying the lake around me and the approaching beach ahead. I could have just laid back and fallen asleep, it was so relaxing. Relaxing . . . relaxing . . . when suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the image of a huge shark thrust itself upon me. I nearly shot out of the water and hydroplaned to shore. Slowly, I got a grip on myself. “It’s a lake. There are no sharks. It’s a lake . . . it’s a lake . . . it’s just a lake.” My heart-rate slowed, my breathing steadied, and I was mostly alright. I laid back, shaken, nervous, and wishing for the shore, but pretty sure I wouldn’t be eaten that day.

Now, you need to know that Jaws had awakened an interest in me. From the day I saw that movie, I was hooked on sharks. I read everything I could find on them. I even got the novel and read it (and was disappointed with the discrepancies between book and movie). I knew that sharks have a cartilaginous skeleton, that they have to swim constantly to avoid drowning, have multiple rows of teeth that rotate forward to replace lost teeth, and that, rather than scales, they have a network of dermal denticles that sheath their bodies in a virtual external skeleton. Shark skin has the texture of sandpaper, and has in fact been used as such. Mark that fact, Dear Reader.

But I was not thinking of those things on that warm, windy day as I rode the waves to shore. I was trying to put all things fishy out of my mind, and had mostly succeeded. Riding to the top of a wave, I was relieved to see the beach within yards. Sinking to the bottom of the swell, laying face down now with my feet trailing behind, the top of my foot brushed the sandy bottom. I’ve never been a good swimmer, but I’m sure I broke somebody’s record that day. Spitz and Phelps had nothing on me. I hit the shore running, and collapsed just a few yards onto the beach.

That was the end of my “swimming” for the day.

My interest in sharks waned as years passed, but still, whenever I see something like this I think, “cool.” I didn’t enter the theatre again until 1979, for Hal Lindsey’s church-approved The Late Great Planet Earth. I don’t remember a thing about that one.

I gave my daughter Voddie Baucham’s book What He Must Be if he wants to marry my daughter. I asked her the other day how it was and what she was learning. If you don’t know who Voddie Baucham is, I need to tell you, for the purposes of this story, that he is black. You also need to know that I and my family are as white as Scandinavian-Americans with roots in Minnesota and Wisconsin should be; that is, very white.

One section of Baucham’s book deals with inter-“racial” marriage. His view is that it is both wrong and foolish to narrow your matrimonial options based on ethnicity (I concur). As he discussed this issue, he personalized it in the context of his own pigmentally advantaged family. If a godly young man of differing shade wanted to court his daughter, and she was amenable, that would be fine with him.

So, when I asked my daughter what she was learning, she replied,

“I’ve learned that I don’t have to marry a black guy.”

Congratulations, Mr. President.

I am not a sports fan. There are certain sports that I enjoy occasionally, but when it comes right down to it, I couldn’t care less. That doesn’t mean I can’t muster a strong opinion on particular games or teams. Those opinions are usually manifested in dislike for teams who play the games about which I couldn’t care less. No, it isn’t actually the teams I dislike; it’s the cities, states, or other entities they represent, and what they represent, that I dislike. In short, it’s usually something political.

For example, I could never be a Redskins fan, even though the political incorrectness of their name is attractive. What the Washington machine has been doing to my beloved Constitution since long before Il Duce took power requires me to oppose all things DC. I can’t tell you why I oppose the 49ers; this is a family blog, and besides, I might get being charged with a hate crime. Closer to home, the Vikings have my indirect disdain. Al Franken is why. Well, not Al Franken per se, but the road they have long been traveling that has led to Al Franken.

Being married to a native cheesehead, Minnesota-hate has been quite convenient — until Brett Favre went to the Vikings, that is. My wife has been in quite a dither over the whole situation. Favre was the hero of Green Bay for so long that it has been difficult to separate Packer-fanhood from Favre-fanhood. She has even been heard to suggest, with the agony of a woman in labor, that she might have to root for the Vikings if they make the Superbowl. I, supportive husband that I am, have suggested what a beautiful irony it would be if the Viking’s first Superbowl win was led by Favre, in his first year as a Viking, after defeating Green Bay in the playoffs.

Not everyone, it might interest you to know, appreciates irony.

So there we were, yesterday afternoon, in front of the tube waiting for the Packer-Viking tip-off, or first pitch, or whatever it is they do on a football court. Well, one of us was waiting. I was daydreaming about something profound (I’m sure, though I don’t remember) when I was rudely yanked from my reverie by a sound reminiscent of my only professional hockey match (at the beginning of the first inning, the North Stars fan behind me was instructing his young son in court-side etiquette as the Detroit Redwings took the field). The Packer fans were booing Brett Favre! Now some of this post might be taken frivolously, but please take me very seriously when I say I was disgusted. Such shameful behavior! Disgraceful!

Anyway, there was only one thing I could do: I launched into a rant against unsportsmanlike behavior, in which I repeated the adjectives above repeatedly (incessantly, some might say, but she’s exaggerating) and decreed that the support of the entire household was to be thrown solidly behind Favre and the Vikings. Shocking, I know, but such was the heat of my fury. So there I was, all afternoon, cheering loudly for a bunch of guys in purple from the Al Franken state performing some of the most meaningless (or is that least meaningful?) antics imaginable. Alas, how low I had descended!

Not really. I went back to my profound ponderings without another thought. I needed a nap.

How about some plain old frivolity on a Saturday? Alright, then; here you go:

One sure warning that you are about to hear a really bad song is when the singer announces, “This is a song the Lord gave me.” At that point, you should plug your ears, and probably hold your nose, as well.

A couple weeks ago, Calvin’s comments on John 2:4 provoked a discussion in which I learned something I hadn’t known about Roman Catholic Mariology: apparently, Mary is the “New Eve.” Of course we know that Christ is the “last Adam” (1 Corinthians 15:45), but I had never heard any mention of another Eve. Turns out it’s because there isn’t any. What should have immediately occurred to me, but didn’t, is that there couldn’t be a second Eve because Christ already has a bride (Ephesians 5:22–27), chosen before the foundation of the world (Ephesians 1:4).

Well, the gentleman who was schooling me on this mysteriously dropped out of the conversation, so I never really got a satisfactory explanation. While I was waiting to see if he would return, my mind began wandering through the maze of papist Mariology, and I began to wax poetic. Those who remember my previous poetic works, including a contribution to contemporary worship music and a collection of cheese couplets, may want to go elsewhere at this point. Anyway, considering all that the Bible says about Mary, and adding to that all that Rome has said . . .

“This is a song the Lord gave me.”

Not Quite the Magnificat . . . (tune and inspiration)

A couple thousand years ago, I was a Jewish lass
A strange thing happened to me (pardon me if this sounds crass)
I was impregnated by the Spirit of the Lord
And had a holy baby who was very much adored

This baby was the son of God and made me very proud
He was so good that some folks claim he never cried out loud
And then some guys in funny hats invented theories odd
Among them being that I am the very mother of God

So now I am God’s mother and the mother of his son
But I’ll reveal a stranger fact before my song is done
My baby was the second Adam, I, the second Eve
Which made me my son’s wife, a thing I hardly can believe

Now if I am God’s mother, Jesus then is my grandson
I know that is a weird thought, but it’s not the weirdest one
I’ve come to a conclusion that is sticking in my craw
If I am Jesus’ wife, then I’m my granddaughter-in-law

So . . .

I’m my own grandma, I’m my own grandma
It sounds funny, I know, but Rome says it is so
Oh, I’m my own grandma

Considering the seriousness of yesterday’s post, I suppose it’s a poor reflection on my maturity that it left me thinking of this.

Our Fridays are dedicated to the promotion of liberty.

It has been a sad week in American politics. Liberty has taken a beating unlike any I’ve seen in my lifetime. The Constitution has been wadded up and tossed in the trash, and it remains to be seen if it can be salvaged. It’s almost enough to make me lose my sense of humor. Almost, but not quite . . .

Zombies

. . . and I win the prize for Most Deceptive Title on a Blog Post.

Have you ever wondered, Dear Readers, “Where does this guy come up with some his weird ideas?” Well, here’s your answer: a brain that runs open-source software and short-circuits every now and then. Here’s a small window into the mind that is mine.

When this article came through my RSS reader, the headline read More women earning more than hubby. Scanning quickly as usual, I read Women earning more than one hubby. I thought, earning? Like, say, earning a trip to the woodshed? Naturally, I was then reminded of the Addams Family episode in which Morticia (one of the hottest babes ever to grace the small screen, if you ask me) asks, “Gomez, do you know what the penalty is for bigamy?” to which Gomez replies, “Of course — two wives.”

Speaking of two wives (not really, but I have to segue somehow), it is time for another The Holiness of God giveaway. The rules remain the same. To win a copy of The Holiness of God by R. C. Sproul, just send me an email that includes

Free RC!

• Your name
• How you follow this blog, i.e. RSS, Twitter, Facebook, Kindle, link from your blog, bookmark, etc.
• “The Holiness of God Giveaway 9” in the subject line

Entries will be accepted through next Friday (May 28), and the winner will be notified by email. Another giveaway will be announced next Saturday. There are still a few copies remaining, so if you haven’t won, keep trying.

Originally posted April 4, 2006.

As previously announced, I’m amputating the earliest half-or-so of the blog and republishing any part of it that seems worth saving. I doubt if this post actually qualifies as “worth saving,” but you know how poets are — imposing all manner of atrocious verse on whomever will listen.

This isn’t actually the first song I’ve written, or even the first of this kind. It’s just the first I’ve inflicted on the public. It doesn’t have a title. I’m sure you can think of something to call it.

Sing to the tune of Hooked on a Feeling. Pretend you’re David Hasselhoff.

Words that are so simple
Don’t require no thought
Stir up my emotions
With pathos fraught

      Yeah, I sing them
      Over many times
      All I ask is
      That the verses rhyme

   I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m high on believing
   That this is worshipping

The second verse is kind of
Like the other one
Mindless repetition
Can be pretty fun

I just love this feeling
Flooding over me
Yeah, it’s warm and fuzzy
It’s kind of dreamy

      When I stand here
      Hands up in the air
      With my eyes closed
      I ain’t got a care

   I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m high on believing
   That this is worshipping

      When I stand here
      Hands up in the air
      With my eyes closed
      I ain’t got a care

   I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m high on believing
   That this is worshipping

   I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m high on believing
   That this is worshipping

   I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m hooked on a feeling
   I’m hooked on a feeling*

* Repeat until you just can’t stand it anymore.

Consider this a day off from your arduous studies at the Thirsty Theologian.

Overheard:

Third Son: My password is “poop.”

Third Daughter: You’re an idiot.

TS: Well, who’s going to think of “poop”?

TD: I would, if I was thinking of you.

TS: Yeah, well, you’re my sister.

Another repost; this time, it’s just because I’m lazy.

Things I’ve Learned after It Was Too Late

• Never touch a sensitive part of your body when you’ve been cutting jalapeños.
• Don’t smoke a pipe under a ceiling fan. The fire will get hot enough to roast marshmallows. The marshmallows will taste bad. OK, I never did that. The marshmallow part, I mean.
• Don’t forget to put a sling on your rifle and then shoot a deer half a mile from your pickup when there is no way to drive in. Carrying a rifle in one hand and dragging a deer with the other is a lot of work.
• Be careful what you say in front of your children.
• Swallowing a live grasshopper is stupid, even if your friends offer you two dollars to do it.
• If you’re given a month to do an assignment, and you think you can wait until the last week to do it, the assignment will take at least two weeks.
• If your wife asks you if you liked the new recipe, the answer is “Yes.”
• When you go camping, don’t let your five-year-old son drink all the pop he wants all day long, and then tuck him into his sleeping bag without first visiting the bathroom.
• Simply naming a tobacco “Presbyterian Mix” does not make it doctrinally sound.
• Men and women are more different then they appear.
• God may not help everyone who helps themselves, but if you don’t help yourself, your kids will eat all the cookies before you get any.
• That cake your wife baked that you snitched a piece from? That was for church.
• Your sins really will find you out.
• Shipping from Australia is really expensive.
• All the really good old books are owned by an antiquarian bookseller in Australia.
• When your wife is nine months pregnant, don’t suggest naming the child Jonah.*
• I’m not as funny as I think I am. See above.

* Just between you and me, that one still cracks me up.

As a follow-up to my sports post earlier this week, here are some favorite scenes from my favorite sports movie.

Update: So this guy can post the entire movie (don’t read the comments), but I try to post three short clips and they’re censored. Well, sorry about that.

Yes, I know the site is still hiccupping. I’m pursuing one possible solution while avoiding another. In the mean time, those of you who have not subscribed to the RSS feed through a reader such as Google Reader might want to consider doing so. You’ll have no trouble there.

So you survived Thanksgiving. Me too. We cut back to only five kinds of pie this year, which may explain why I'm feeling so chipper (only napped for about two hours) and looking so svelte. But we're not out of the woods yet, as the following sonnet by an anonymous bard will illustrate.

When I was a young turkey, just new to the coop,
My big brother Mike took me out on the stoop.
Then he sat me down, and he spoke really slow*,
And said there was something I needed to know;

His look and his tone I will always remember,
When he told of the horrors of Black November.
“Come about August, now listen to me,
Each day you’ll get six meals instead of just three.

“And soon you’ll be thick, where once you were thin,
and you’ll grow a big rubbery thing under your chin.
“And then one morning, when you’re warm in your bed,
The farmer’s wife will burst in and hack off your head.

“Then she’ll pluck out your feathers so you’re all bald and pink,
And scoop out all your insides, leave you lying in the sink;
“And then comes the worst part,” he said, not bluffing,
“She’ll spread your cheeks and pack your backside with stuffing.”

Well, the rest of his words were too grim to repeat,
I sat on the stoop like a winged piece of meat,
And decided on the spot that to avoid being cooked,
I’d have to lay low and remain overlooked.

I began a new diet of nuts and granola,
High-roughage salads, juice, and diet cola;
And as they ate pastries, chocolates, and crepes,
I stayed in my room doing Jane Fonda tapes.
I maintained my weight of two pounds and a half,
And tried not to notice when the bigger birds laughed.

But ’twas I who was laughing, deep under my breath,
As they chomped and they chewed, ever closer to death;
And sure enough, when Black November rolled around,
I was the last turkey left in the entire compound.

So now I’m a pet in the farmer’s wife’s lap.
I haven’t a worry, so I eat and I nap.
She held me today, while sewing and humming,
And smiled at me and said, “Now, Christmas is coming . . .”

* My apologies for the misplaced adjective (or truncated adverb, if you prefer). “Slowly” does not rhyme with “know.”

In a melancholy mood today, I am. In an attempt to lighten the load, brighten the day, and so on and so forth, I’ve written a light-hearted poem. I hope it cheers you as it did me.

Trudging Inexorably toward Death
(in postmodern metre)

The year is passing
Many things still left undone
Like the year before

January came yesterday
Now it is December
Where the in between-time went
No one can remember

Twenty-ten
Is gone, my frien’

December was cold and got colder
The snow just got bolder and bolder
Day after day
It fell just to say
“I’m not so much fun, now you’re older”

Time
passes like
seconds and minutes
and hours and days
and weeks and months and
years

Are we there yet?
No. go back to sleep.

You’d think one of them would have seen it.

In honor of St. Patrick:

What’s Irish and comes out in the spring?

Patio furniture.

I have had some dead-end jobs, but none like this:

Then, after that, I spent a couple of months as Princess Anne’s assistant. Um . . . well, I chucked that in because, you know, it was perfectly obvious they were never going to make me Princess Anne no matter how well I did the job, and it was a question of . . . of who you were, rather than how well you did the job, and I hate that; I just can’t bear it . . .

—Hugh Laurie, A Bit of Fry & Laurie, Season 3, Episode 2

This post is totally frivolous. The hyper-spiritual (<scowl> “That’s not edifying!”) might want to click away.

Well, you did it again. You bought your dad some lame gift that he’ll never use, but won’t be able to throw away because it came from you, his precious, clueless child. Way to go. But there’s always next year, and to help you redeem yourself, I’ve found the perfect Father’s Day gift. With a full year’s notice, you’ll have no excuse.

One of the advantages of homeschooling is the ability to answer our children’s questions correctly. Just this morning, my son asked why cereal killers are so called. I was glad to be able to provide him with an accurate answer. I shudder to think of the misinformation he might have received from the public school.

Is it too early to start playing Christmas music? I played a little yesterday.

I just wanted to be the first to post that this year.

If you’ve looked for an original Looney Tunes animation of this song — and who hasn’t? — you know it can’t be found. That’s because it was never a Looney tunes bit. That’s right, it’s a fraud. According to one source, it was “recorded by North Carolina disc jockey Denny Brownlee. When he was threatened by Warner Brothers with a lawsuit, the song was re-released and attributed to ‘Seymour Swine and the Squealers.’”

I figured as much. Everyone knows that stutterers don’t stutter when they sing.

Get yours here.

Today I finally learned what the Twelve Days of Christmas are. In case you care, they begin with Christmas Day, and end with Epiphany on January 5th. And, as you know, they have their own song.

Overheard:

Granddaughter (age 3): Do you have any chocolate?

Daughter (overzealous German student): Do you know how to say “chocolate” in German?

G: Yes.

D: How do you say “chocolate” in German?

G: “Chocolate in German.”

D: No! How do you say “chocolate,” in German?

G: “Chocolate in German.”

D: No! Not “chocolate in German,” just “chocolate,” . . . . . . in German! Can you say that?

G: “Chocolate in German.”

D: No, no no. It’s “Schokolade.”

G: Oh.

D: Now you say it.

G: “Schokolade in German.”

. . . . . .