Friday, December 23, 2005


This Christmas season, let's not lose sight of the real "reason for the season". I'm speaking, of course, of the celebration of the Winter Solstice by pagan Egyptians.

The first recorded Christmas on December 25th took place in the 4th century, a date coinciding with the birthdate of Mithras, the Persian sun god.

Let's, too, not forget the campaign waged by most Protestants, including the Puritans and Pilgrims, who thought celebrating Christmas was akin to devil worship.

An 1855 New York Times report on Christmas services in the city noted that Baptist and Methodist churches were closed because they "do not accept the day as a holy one."

All in all, I really like Jesus. I think he was a righteous dude. A swell fella. Why? Well, for one reason, He came to earth to die for my sins which, in my book, constitutes a pretty solid favor. Hard to repay that one, though. He also lived like a real gangsta: preaching and rhyming and hanging with ho's and giving mad shout-outs to His Big Poppa and rocking the gold and mirrh and all that bling. Say "Jesus" one time. Now all the people say stomp. GP are you with me?

I said: GP are you with me?

So, on this Christmas Eve eve, remember that Jesus was born, somewhere, at some time, probably in the summer (for all anyone can tell), probably not in December, and remember that when you complain about a War on Christmas you're a fool, and remember that when you correct someone who says "Merry Christmas" you're just a douche, and most of all, remember that we all die and no one really, actually, certifiably knows what happens at that point, so just enjoy yourselves and your family and don't forget that Saint Nicholas was actually saving Turkish girls from being sold into sexual slavery all those many years ago by heaving a bag of gold coins into their father's house, for whatever that's worth.

Which, really, is worth a lot more than your fancy Deisel jeans or your nifty little iPod Nano or whatever else you think is cool but really means absolute shit when you consider that little children are still getting raped by militias in the plains of Africa.

Happy Holidays!!

Thursday, December 22, 2005


What can I say? I don't think I've ever hated an athlete more than I hate Kobe Bryant.

It's not like I'm a man who hates very many athletes. Sure, there are the superstars on the rival team who seem to beat your team every year, like Tom Brady, but it's very hard to actually hate those athletes. In the case of Brady, I loathe him, yes, but I also respect him. If I were to see him at the mall, for instance, I'd be more inclined to point at him, wag my finger, grin, shake my head, and say, "You rascal, you. You rascal!"

In the case of Kobe Bryant, whom I hate, I'd be more likely to scream, "OMIGOD! Grab your wives! He'll rape them all, the man will RAPE ALL OF YOUR WOMEN!" while running away.

I don't really have one particular reason for why I hate Kobe. Here's an idea, though:

I love women. Not just "love em" love em, but really love them. They are all my Christian sisters. When a man rapes one of them, he has broken a bond with them, with God, and with me.

Here's another idea:

I hate his stupid face. Have you ever noticed that Kobe Bryant looks like Kobe Bryant? He's got a real Kobe Bryantish sort of face, which I just hate, because I hate Kobe Bryant. Sends shivers up my spine.

And finally, here's something particular I hate about Kobe Bryant that, I believe, neatly sums up what I hate Kobe Bryant in general:

Don't hit yourself in your chest with a fist. I swear to God. I will hunt you down and kill you.

You are not Jeffrey Wright in Shaft. Though, of course, I most certainly wish you were. That way, you would have had a knife in your hand and would be dead by now.

I hate you, Kobe Bryant. I hate your Kobe Bryant face. Stay away from my asshole, and from women that are not your wife. Don't hit yourself in the chest with your fist. This isn't 1999. You're not Michael Jordan. You're an asshead. You do not deserve anything you've ever acheived in life. You should shrivel and shrink like a toad and moan in misery the rest of your life.

And wipe that stupid-looking Kobe-look off your stupid Kobe-face.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005


This whole article is just, like, really painful deja vu. I'm so glad that sort of life is behind me.


Tuesday, December 20, 2005


Is not the same as not trying.

The Strolling Bones, pictured above, are now more relevant than the band they ape, The Rolling Stones.

Monday, December 19, 2005


The most shocking thing about this report is not that Iran's president has banned Western music, but that Iranian radio stations had been playing mostly George Michael, The Eagles, and Kenny G.

In a way, it's sort of a good move.

Thursday, December 15, 2005


Have any of you ever watched "The Craig Ferguson Show"?

Here's a related question:

Then who has?


Recently, Iran's president and powerless mouthpiece of drivel, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, spoke out against the great myth of the Holocaust. In his own words, and in front of thousands of people in the Iranian city of Zahedan, he said, They have invented a myth that Jews were massacred and place this above God, religions and the prophets.

Now, you go right on ahead and judge him. Do it. I know you want to. Judge him - condemn him. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to sit, and I'm going to think, and before I judge him, I'm going to listen to what he has to say. I'll save my verdict until I've read the entire speech, and I suggest you do the same; put those arrows back in your quiver and your broadsword back in its broadsword-holder, and just be quiet and listen to the rest of what the man had to say:


They have invented a myth that Jews were massacred and place this above God, religions and the prophets. They have even, in their sin and their abject spirit, placed this myth above unicorns. Unicorns which were bestowed upon us by the great Allah, praise be to He.

They say that if we do not believe the myth, we are bigots, we are full of hate. Do they not hate more, by refusing to believe in the beauty of the unicorn? The dragon? We have asked, "If it is true that you killed the ugly Jews like you said, why do you not find a home for them?" We have suggested Alaska, and outer space. This is what we say: we will trade you the vile Jews for beautiful unicorns. Unicorns and fairies in Palestine, the Jews in Greenland. This is fair.

The Western countries will have you believe that Amelia Earhart flew over the ocean and crash-landed in the middle of the deep blue sea. We know the truth, that she was a spy for the great Satan and was sent here to kill the last remaining unicorns of Iran. Now we have none left. The unicorns here are gone. Some say that there are still unicorns living in the mystical land of Blaine-Kory, north of Nairi-Rune. We will find them, and bring them to our great land, where they will forage again amongst rocks and sand.

You will have heard, my dear ones, that at one time our great country held hostage hundreds of innocent Americans. The great Satan is a tricky spirit, and has poisoned your memory. Do you not remember! Have your heads gone to rot! The great Satan sent his soldiers here to slay our last remaining dragon, a great creature, the wondrous Ryo-Stoorworm, who once protected the golden coins and sparkly jewels of our king's most precious chamber! We expelled the interlopers but not before they sent an iron arrow through Ryo's neck, which caused him great harm and, though his life was prolonged by our great country's most accomplished doctors and wizards, he fell ill with infection and not even the blood of palmnas, llewellyns, or griffins would cure him. He lives with us now only in spirit, praise be to Allah.

The right arm of the great Satan, President Little Bush of America, and the left arm of Satan, Minister Blair of Britain, claim that we are a dangerous nation. They say that we are in the process of creating nuclear weapons. When they ask us, "Why do you need nuclear power? You have vast reserves of oil," do you know what I say? I say, "We do not need nuclear power. We need the horn of one unicorn. With the ground powder of one unicorn, we will rule the world. We will heal the sick. We will feed the hungry. We will sprinkle it upon our arms and fly like phoenixes. We will fleck a speck - one speck is all that is needed - into your waters and we will cast a spell and the water will make your insides bleed and cause your bodies to fester and rot."

For it is written in the Quran that all power is held in the horn of a unicorn, if one be so lucky to find and slaughter just one beast, so it was proclaimed, so it must be, praise to be Allah.

I have but one final comment to make to the great Satan before I go, and that is this:

To the Goddess, I do pray: Grant me power, strength to flay. This one's curse with these words, I hold thee at bay. OUT! OUT! AVERT! AVERT! EVIL OUT IS -- ALHIZ! ALHIZ!


So you see, people. The man is clearly not as crazy as I'm sure you've taken him to be. Praise be to Allah.


Last night I moseyed on over to the American Cinematheque (that's really what's it called) to catch a rare screening of the second best film ever made, "Badlands". And who-doodley-do do you think was there in the audience? Mr. Terry "I'm a reclusive, plastic-surgery-obsessed" Malick! Unfortunately, he didn't offer himself up for a Q&A afterward, which is a shame, because I was wondering, and have been wondering for years:

What does the llama mean?

Terry! What the fuck does it mean! What is a llama doing in the forests of South Dakota! I know you went out of your way to get it; I've heard that it's a rare African breed or something. And don't give me this "life is strange" bullshit. Just tell me!

What does the llama mean!!

Wednesday, December 14, 2005


I don't really like his voice, actually, or his radio show. But the little essays he writes in Salon are the best thing on the entire internets.

Call me Hrothgar the Savage, but when I look at men's fashions in magazines, the models all sullen and sensitive and obviously spending much too much time on their hair, wearing sweaters made from Persian cat fur woven with feathers of snowy owls, yours for $1,495, I feel a strong urge to put on a parka and insulated pants and walk out onto a frozen lake and cut a hole in the ice and fish.

I felt the urge rather strongly the other morning as I drove along the Mississippi River in Minneapolis, which was frozen over, while listening to a man talk on the radio about a book he'd written in which he explored his feelings about his father, whom he'd never felt close to. I said to him, "Oh, get over it." The ice is a good place for a man to go rather than waste time writing books about not knowing your father.


Here's something I've never been: someone else.

Here's something I've never tried to be: someone else.

Be true to yourself, and your school. That's what I've always said. That's what I've always believed. It's also what I've always said. In addition to always believing. Just who I am, I guess.

Here's an example: I like Starbucks. Never had a reason not to like them. Now, I know that frequenting the place is not considered the most laudable or prideful way to purchase a cup of Joe for a young, socially conscious upstart like myself, but I don't define myself by your rules. I don't buy into the red-state, blue-state thing, I don't care what your daddy does, and I don't like the look on your face. Here's another thing I'm not: a liar. I just can't do it, can't lie; can't break the vow I once made to myself - always be true - and I can't be quiet any longer.

Starbucks is great. Here are some reasons why. Today I purchased a piping hot half-caff (to those in the know, that's a half-decaffienated regular coffee) and, in my effort to grab the cup, I knocked it over and spilled hot coffee all over the counter top and behind the register. I immediately yipped, "Shit!" and began apologizing profusely, but the cashier would hear nothing of it. "It's okay," she said. "Don't worry about it," she said. "It happens all the time, it's no big deal, we'll get you another hot cup right away."

Not only did they assuage my guilt, they conforted me like a lonely, scared child. They layed my head against the bosom of their corporate might and sang me a lullaby. Don't worry about it, sir! This happens all the time! You think you're not normal, just because you spilled a little coffee? Don't be ridiculous! That was the most graceful spilling-of-coffee I've ever seen! We sure do enjoy your crazy antics, sir! It keeps us on our feet; keeps us limber and lively! WE LOVE YOU, MR. CUSTOMER, BECAUSE YOU ARE AWESOME!

Here's another reason: they pay their employees well. Your megabusinesses like Wal-Mart and most fast-food joints will usually pay three or four cents over minimum wage for Regional Manager positions, but I've yet to hear of any illegal immigrants getting locked inside Starbuck stores over night for a good scrub-down. They give their employees great benefits and they pay them well.

Here's something else: all they do is fucking sell coffee. It's not like they're ruining our diet by serving food that is going to clog our arteries, it's not like they're ruining our economy and way of life by undermining our welfare and healthcare systems by underpaying workers, and it's not like they're using their huge profits to fund zapatistas in Cuba. Starbucks stores and their coffee are, by their nature, high-end affairs, because coffee is not a necessity - it's a nicety. Therefore, I don't feel bad if your grandma's coffee shop got driven out of town by a Starbucks because, and here's my point: what the hell is your grandma doing running a coffee shop? That's not a reputable way to make money! Get a job, old lady! I don't expect everybody who opens up a "Here are some crochets I've done for my grandkids, hope you want to buy them" store to flourish in our competitive economy, just like I don't expect some dumb coffee shop to stay in business just because no one else on the block has a can of Folgers in the house.


If there is a good old-fashioned coffee shop on your block, you think that it's going to go out of business because a Starbucks comes to town? You have two options: get better coffee or make your shop a more friendly and inviting place to visit. Because really, it's not like Starbucks is forcing some hard, indrustrious immigrants to really roll up their sleeves and work a little harder re-filling coffee mugs. Do you see what I'm saying? Starbucks filled a niche that was not occupied - super fast coffee that is good, with a smile and wink - and they filled it superbly.

I'm supposed to feel bad shopping there because? Because? Because....? Because I don't feel bad. And I'll tell you why. It's cause I'm my own man. An island. A rock.

And I like getting coffee from Starbucks. I like seeing the smiling faces of well-paid stoners and older folks. I like listening to the sounds of Elton John, Herbie Hancock, Beck, Joss Stone, and other smooth-around-the-edges popular artists while I wait in line. I like the gift card that I got at the company holiday party and the free coffees I'm purchasing with it. I like the hazelnut sticky-bun I bought this morning. I like that hot girl with the mustache that I usually see that I told you about a long time ago.

I like Starbucks. I'm glad it exists. Is that so wrong? Is that really such an egregious violation of your code of fucking honor that you have to crucify me? Have you all gone insane with your fucking protests and your fucking fake outrage and your damn social justice?

Half-caff to go, please, no room for cream, love ya lots, be back tomorrow.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005


Lately I've been thinking. And you know what that means. No mere drizzle here, folks. Full-on t-storm is what that means. Take a step back and let a brother rhapsodize.

First of all, I was thinking about how to improve our nation's prison system. I'll admit it's something I think of often. I've thought of it most recently, in fact, in response to the death of the left's most recent subject of poorly placed and misguided sympathy, Tookie Williams, who I'm pretty sure did kill those people, since other people saw him do it. Remember in Dead Man Walking when you were all like, "Maybe he didn't do it. Maybe he's an innocent man!" But then later in the film, right before he's executed, he admits to it, and then you're all like, "Well, maybe he never would have come to this resolution if it weren't for the eminence of his state-sanctioned death!" Which, when I think about it, probably isn't the point of the film. Needless to say, I'm not going to change anybody's minds about the death penalty and as far as I'm concerned it's the stupidest thing (economically, politically, and morally speaking) our government does. But to be honest, I don't have any ideas to solve the problem of capital punishment, save scrapping it for good. You know what I do have an idea for? Fucking revolutionizing the entire penal system, that's what.

Pardon me while I grab your ear.

What if...prisoners were allowed to not only have jobs, but they were able to apply for and take on increasingly more difficult jobs? What if there were a separate and non-transferable jail currency which prisoners could "spend" on better living accomodations, "purchasing" an education, better food, clothing, the works. In other words, the longer you work at your job, the more jail money (J-Money) you have. The more difficult your job is and the more people you are responsible for, the better your wage. Once you've saved up enough J-Money you can "rent" a better jail cell, with a more comfortable bed, more space, etc. If you choose not to work, you get a shit cell. You eat shit food. If you have J-Money, then you can purchase more food, food which is healthier and more fresh. And so on. The foreseeable problems are corruption and intimidation which would certainly occur at the onset of the J-Money Market Penal Economy. But given time, this system would not only reward those who worked the hardest, it would also give them the workplace and education skills needed to succeed in life outside of prison.

You think I'm finished? What are you, INSANE! I'm just getting started, you negroes, mulattos, mestizos, caucasios, pistachios, and Japanese.

Stand back while I light this fire.

What if...someone were to write a story reprising the great story of the Trojan War, set in contemporary times. And, uh, and the woman, instead of Helen, is, like, a celebrity, because we, like, worship celebrities now. And what if it were like, you know, Angelina Jolie, right, and she went to North Korea to help feed little starving concentration-camp Korean kids, and Kim Jong-il kidnaps her, because he's bat-shit nuts and he's waaaay into movies and he's already kidnapped famous people from South Korea, and so anyway he kidnaps her and keeps her in his palace and forces her to make a movie about how awesome North Korea is and the whole time he's, like, blackmailing the United States and he's like, "Give me 40 Billion Dollars or I'm going to kill her after I make this movie with her," and then there's this huge debate in the United States about what to do, because some people are like, "She's just a no-good do-gooder liberal pinko Hollywood actor, why do I care if she dies, she shouldn't have gone there in the first place," but then other people are like, "But she's a true humanitarian and she's helped so many unfortunate people and also she's fucking smoking hot," so it's like a blue-state, red-state thing, and eventually it just becomes the last straw for the President, who has been having problems with North Korea already, and we go to war with them and nuclear bombs are set off and it's the beginning of this huge, you know, thirty-year war, and if there are even history books and people alive after the whole ordeal, it'll go down as a war over a woman. A very beautiful, full-lipped, large-breasted, home-wrecking, sultry woman. Think about THAT, you fucking mestizos.

Oh, American Mastodon, how could you possibly have any more ideas! Those were amazing! No single human mind can come up with more brilliance than that!

Prepare for warp-speed-amazing. Rocket boosters...IGNITE!

What if...okay, so you know how they have rodeos and they're a really big deal, and they're even kind of fun to watch on ESPN2 late at night when you're sitting on the couch wondering what your life has become and if you'll ever be a success at anything? Well, have you ever thought to yourself, "This is sort of cruel and inhumane, because these poor horses aren't living free; they're just raised for this purpose and then put in a ring for our sport and lassoed and ridden around on and maybe if there were still mustangs in the wild, then they could film actual cowboys riding out into some remote area of Wyoming and rope some wild mustangs, and they make a competition out of THAT, sort of like in The Misfits, and then at the end they let the horses go like they do on the fishing shows, because it's about the SPORT of the thing and if you have a great reverence for the animals, then you are also a steward of the land and of the fragile ecosystem of our Western states."

Wellllll....they could totally do that! But it couldn't be horses. It'd have to be wild hogs. There are tons of wild hogs all over America and they're quite a nuisance, so nobody really minds if you kill them. Maybe a few pussies do, but most people don't. And the best way to kill them is to hunt them with dogs and the dogs corner them at the base of a tree or something and then the hunters bring up the rear and grab the back legs of the hogs and sort of wrestle to them ground, which would be AWESOME to watch on television. After the hogs are caught, they could either be killed (sort of the HBO version) or just roped and thrown in a cage in the back of a pickup truck (ABC Family version). And you get, like, ten of the best hog-hunting teams in the country and you gather them together in the Ozarks or something and film the contest like it's the most awesome reality show ever, which it would be. But I mean, fuck the stadium seating and the bright lights and the controlled atmosphere. I know what people want, and people want to see some back-country, swamp-foxy Confederate Army motherfuckers wrestling fucking feral hogs in a fucking swamp in Louisiana.

I mean, for seriously people, I usually don't give this shit out for free. Is it your lucky day or what?

Monday, December 12, 2005


It's that time of year where, if you're anal or watched too much Seinfeld or grew up in the nineties, you feel it is necessary to rank or merely arrange various experiences you've had into categorical lists, for the benefit of your own neurotic impulses!

So, without any ado, here is a list of things people didn't think that much about in 2005, but should have:

1.) Envy

This movie was really funny, but no one watched it. Therefore, very few people thought of or discussed it with friends and family.

2.) Natascha McElhone

She is so unbelievably gorgeous I can't stand it. But really, have you ever heard anybody talk about her?

3.) Aliens

Besides the exception of War of the Worlds and Scientologists, people have really just almost completely stopped talking about aliens.

4.) Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, John Henry, and Johnny Appleseed

No one really talks about American folk heroes anymore. Or it could be that I'm just not hanging around enough fourth graders.

5.) The guy I watched get shot and who presumably died yesterday in the Target parking lot

I've yet to find a single local news story covering this, even though a man was shot and killed in a very public place with lots of witnesses. I ask you, why aren't more people talking about this? As my brother suggested to me earlier today, it could be that I left before the MIB arrived and erased everyone's memories. In which case, I witnessed some sort of alien either killing or being killed. And that brings us back to the fact that more people should be talking about aliens, but aren't.

6.) Ska Music

Wait, sorry. Shouldn't be on the list. This is a topic that people both a) haven't been talking about and b) should not ever talk about.

7.) Who Wants to Be a Millionaire

I'm pretty sure this show is still airing new episodes, but when was the last time you heard somebody say, "Hey, did you see that guy win $250,000 yesterday on Millionaire?" I bet it's been awhile.

More will come later. Suggestions?

Thursday, December 08, 2005


The other day, a compadre and I were having a delightful discussion about what we, individually, could do to help cure cancer; comparing how many hours in a week we volunteer at children's hospitals; and which grandmother of ours is our favorite, when quite unexpectantly our topic of converstaion took a turn for the lively and we found ourselves debating the merits of pornography. Since he believes himself to be some sort of connoiseur of adult entertainment, he spent the better part of a half hour asking me questions, lecturing me, and in general providing the sort of advice an unemployed and felonious uncle might espouse to his fourteen-year old nephew. My own personal opinion of pornography is that it is there and I'm not oppossed to it, per se, but I don't have any particular urge to rush out and purchase my very own DVD of Cum-Wranglers of Wyoming Ride the Black Cowboys of the Congo or something. Now, at the other end of the spectrum, I am not like another friend of mine whose ego is too fragile to mention by name in this public forum but who, for various reasons best diagnosed by a professional and not myself, refuses to own any kind of pornography because he is afraid his mother may find it. The man, it should be mentioned, lives thousands of miles away from his mother and is 27 years old.

I fall somewhere in between these two; I wouldn't mind having some porno but I'm not going to go out and purchase some. Besides, that's what two minute clips on the internet is for. Why do I need a two-hour tape of the Amway lady shagging some greasy, bare-chested man in an apartment in Miami? Of course, it goes without saying that I'm a stallion and will do whatever it takes (and for however long) to please a lady when the occasion presents itself, but in the comfort of my own home and in the lonely hours where such self-love occurs, I prefer impersonating the hare over the turtle. Give me "Luna" from BTRA and a minute and a half, and bingo-bango, it's Bedtime for Bonzo.

As our conversation continued, Mr. Bender spoke, rather reverently, of the positive effect pornography has had on his life. He followed his rousing soliloquy with an offer to send me some of his out-dated and used pornography. Not that I'm one to decline kind offers and gifts, but second-hand pornography does seem a bit dirty to me. Does that make me overly prudish? I just can't help but imagine opening the case and trying to insert the tape with a pair of oven mitts and fresh wipes, and somehow that's just not "hot" to me. But if there's one thing I'm not, it's ungrateful, and I look forward to receiving the tapes soon.

Logic and reason would have left that conversation as a relic, but there is something in this crazy world called "serendipity" which every so often rears its head and lays in your lap an egg of coincidence. And that was an analogy that made no sense. What I mean to say is that later that evening while watching "The Situation with Tucker Carlson", as is my wont, I witnessed the interview of a woman named Heather Beach, a reformed porn actress who has opted to start spreading the Good Word instead of her legs. Her Christian ministry, called JC, Girls, Girls, Girls, (which, I imagine, would look good in neon), reaches out to women working in pornography and asks them to develop a relationship with God, the Father (which it must be re-iterated to them is not similar to developing a relationship with their own father, as most porn stars have no relationship with their biological fathers besides an occasional sexual molestation).

Now, some of you are aware that I am quite good friends with an old codger from a small, seedy little town in Indiana named Billy Sumday. He's getting up in years but still has a magic light to him and a fire for spreading the word of the Good Lord. I called him up the other night and asked him what he thought of all this. He told me he'd think about and get back to me, and boy has he. The below is reprinted with his permission and is a sermon that the good Reverend Sumday will be preaching to the devoted at The Third Baptist Church of Reformed Methodists of Packerton this coming Sunday.


"Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap."--Gal. 6:7.

I know of no more suitable text in all the Bible for the subject that I have in hand. And by the presence of such a vast audience and by the expectant look upon your upturned faces I am sure that you will not expect me to utter one word of defense on the proposition that amusement and titillation is good for your soul or any other bodily part.

If I'm confusing you, then just stick with me cause what I tend to do is muddy things up at first and then bring all of it around into the clear at the end like a giant Godly jigsaw puzzle.

Here is one of two alternatives to the problem of debauchery. He can consume his energy and time in talking about the minor usages of the possible limits one might go, or he can peel the bark away and show the thing full of wormholes and run the risk of losing his fair reputation. I want to say I have willfully and deliberately, and with malice afterthought, chosen the latter course. My words may be strong, and if they are you must remember they are blood-red with conviction. With the cry of lost souls ringing in my ears, I cannot remain still. I must cry out.

We always associate in our minds certain amusements--the theater, the cards, jeans-wearing, the dance, and hard-core pornography. While some will justify one, others will condemn it. Some who play cards will seek to justify that and condemn the theater; and those who go to the theater may condemn the hard-core pornography. In my opinion, jeans-wearing is of such doubtful character that it has been relegated to the same class of forbidden amusements as the theater.

Now it's been brought to my attention by a good friend that there are now churches in Los Angeles, California that cater to none but the sex-addicted and pleasure-craving empty souls of the pornography business. Have you ever heard such a contradictory thing? He might as well have told me that horses are best for burgers and cows for riding the range.

I want it distinctly understood that my scrap is not with the theater or jeans-wearing as an institution but rather the intention behind it. However, I do fight the hard-core pornography as an institution, and am against it with both hammer and tongs; I am against the rot and filth and rubbish and trash that are spewed out onto the stage and over the camera-lens.

I had a narrow escape once from going on the stage myself. Old Tom Keene, the great cocksmith, asked me once to go out on the road as his understudy. "You would make a hell of a crackerjack, Billy," he said to me. Tom was a good scout, but I am a preacher, not an actor nor a wielder of the fleshy sword.

An actress whose name I will not give said this: "After years on the stage I am convinced that the pornography business is the most corrupt in the world." Now, she was a dim bulb, there. But it is true that upon the charred souls of women most of the men who are a power in the pornography world have climbed to their height, and most of them wear jeans to boot.

You sow bridge whist and auction pitch and five hundred in the home and you reap a crop of gamblers. You sow the dance and the ballroom and you reap a crop of brothels. You sow saloons and you reap a harvest of drunkards.

You must want a lot of prostitutes or you wouldn't sow dances; you must want a lot of vomiting, puking drunkards or you wouldn't sow saloons, and you must want a bunch of gamblers or you wouldn't play cards in your homes.


If you have any cards in your home, you had better throw them in the furnace when you get back there or else throw your Bibles in the furnace. The two won't mix. Oh, you need not gasp! I am handing it to you straight! There is no use having Bibles around your house if you are going to make a joke of His Word by playing bridge.

And the same goes for making your own pornographic videos and handing them out to friends!

Somebody will say I'm sure: "What is the matter with that preacher? Doesn't he believe in amusements?"

There is not a man from Omaha to Topeka to Packerton who believes more in amusements than I do. But I believe that they should be recreative and harmless. Nobody believes more in amusements than I.

What games do I play? Well, I play baseball and lawn tennis, although I think that that is a girl's game and I don't like it- -and I play golf and checkers and chess. Somebody says: "What is the difference between a game of cards and a game of checkers?" Well, just as much difference as there is between Heaven and Hell. Did you ever think of that, you ignoramous! Ever since the day that cards were invented to satisfy the whims of an idiotic king they have been the tools of the gambler.

Now, I am not trying to cram anything down your throats. I am appealing to your sense of reason and decency, and if you are not man or woman enough to listen, I guess God Almighty doesn't need you. Somebody says to me: "Mr. Sumday, are you going to include the square dance?" They all look alike to me, even the Macarena. It does not take very long to cut the corners off. There was a time in America when the stately cotillion seemed to satisfy America, but it is too slow for the hot blood of the twenty-first century. They must have something that will chase hurdles through their veins.

If there were nothing but card players and dancers and pornographers and jeans-wearers in the church, it would stink and rot out. The lowest-down rascal in any community is a dancing Methodist. You say: "Mr. Sumday, the church is too strict with us." Who can charge the church with being too strict with its young people? The bars are so low now that any old hog can come and root and crawl in. Any old lobster with two or three suits of clothes and a bank account can break into most any church.

The dancing Christian never was a soul winner. The dance is simply a hugging match set to music. The dance is a sexual love feast. And that's a metaphor. Pornography, on the other hand, actually is a sexual love feast.

But the question, sinners, is where does the line stop for one and start for another? Hell if you know is the answer so keep your trouser-pants on and listen to a man who knows the heart of God.

I say that it is unspiritual. Many a pastor is heartbroken and is sighing for new fields because of the godless mob in the church. I had rather have twelve women filled with the Holy Ghost than a hundred theater-gadders, wine-guzzlers, jeans-wearers, frivolous dancers, and big-bootied sex slaves. What under God's Heaven do you amount to? The church is honeycombed with the rottenness of society.

Say, if God Almighty gives you a rap on the back of the head and shakes a shroud over your old carcass, and telephones for the undertaker to come and measure you for your coffin, you will begin to whine and sniffle and cry to God, like a sick cat.

Girls! Listen! It is immoral. Are you deaf in that head of yours or just a pack of imbeciles?

My wife and I have been at the bedside of a girl who was dying in a house of ill fame. She said the reason of her downfall had been the dance, which she began when fifteen years old. She used to attend Sunday School. When we asked her if she had any message for the girls, she cried, "Tell the girls and warn them to let the dance alone."

Do you know that three-fourths of all the girls who are ruined owe their downfall to that very thing. You let a young man whose character would make a black mark on a piece of tar paper, who goes down the line every other night, hug and dance with your daughter, and see what happens. They are dancing the tango, the rottenest, most putrid, stinkingest dance that ever wriggled out of the pot of perdition- -that's what the tango is. And then they go home and hump all night and video tape it on a camera-box.

You are too low-down for me.

When I danced on the puncheon floor in the log cabin on the frontier in Iowa, we used to be able to get a stick of wood between them, but now you can't get a piece of tissue paper between. We're going some nowadays. I can understand why some of the young people want to dance, but what some of you old fellows, who have to grease your joints before going on the floor, see in it, I don't know.

I have more respect for a saloon-keeper than for a dancing teacher. I don't believe the saloons will do as much to damn the morals of young people as the dancing school. That is my position. I don't care anything about yours. Professor Faulkner said that he knew of one private dancing school that sent six girls into houses of ill fame in about three months. He talked with 200 girls and found that 165 fell as the result of the dance, twenty by drink, ten by choice and five from poverty.

I want you to hear what I've got to say. They tried the municipal dance hall out in Cleveland and it was so rotten that the sheriff finally insisted that it be closed. Don't talk that municipal dance hall to me. There were more girls ruined around that lot and turned into public prostitutes than you can count.

And now they are coming running back to God. This is point I've been trying to make.

Do you see the pieces of the puzzle coming together? Because I sure as hell don't.

But you say: "Look here, Mr. Sumday, can't a man dance with his wife?"

"Dance with whom?"

"His wife?"

You old lobster! You don't want to dance with your wife! It is some other fellow's wife. You had just as soon go out and husk corn all night by moonlight as to dance with your own wife.

Wives are for locking up and keeping the covers over than parading around with in the street at night under the lamplights. Did you all lose your heads?

No wonder that the world is not being brought to Jesus Christ.

People say to me: "Well, didn't they dance in the Bible?" Yes, they danced in the Bible, and they committed adultery, too; and they got punished.

And so too will these pornographers who now seem fit to come running to God when it's convenient on their watch.

I just have one more thing to say and that is this: a man drinks without women, and you gamble without women, but you make men and women dance alone and you will kill the dance and you know it. Say, if you dance because you like to dance, you can dance with some old lobster just as well as with a woman. The German and other round dances are favorites, and the liberties taken would not be tolerated anywhere else in the world.

When you die you don't send for the dancing master to pray over you.

And that's just about all I have to say regarding that matter.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005


And I know that I'm depressed because I just cried while watching Dick Vitale talk about Jimmy Valvano's daughter having cancer during a basketball game on ESPN.