Introducing Chapter CCCLXXX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular candidly confides in her readers, “Dear Reader, I would not wish you to form the impression that life in Scurveyshire is one of unremitting stress. Normal things happen, too.” She has apparently forgotten the two Scotland Yard detectives who are trying to frame each other for the theft of a locomotive.
One of these soothingly normal things that are happening is, as the chapter’s title might suggest (although you can never be entirely sure about what Ms. Crepuscular’s titles really indicate)–ta-dah! Constable Chumley is writing his memoirs.
Having forgotten how to read and write, he is actually dictating them to the Wise Woman of the Woods, who is now the Wise Woman of Scurveyshire Gaol: she likes it there and refuses to return to the forest.
“Willaday yaither mon greezen hoy, dray boddy, ma’ doon,” he begins. After an hour of listening to this–the Wise Woman peppers the constable with questions about spelling and grammar, which he is not equipped to answer–the prisoner in the adjacent cell goes totally mad and has to be moved to the pet shop. There he encounters Lady Margo Cargo’s crusty old butler, Crusty, who has been sent to buy crayfish food for his mistress’ pet crayfish, Oswin.
“Can’t anyone stop that man from raving?” he inquires testily: for the prisoner is still quite beside himself. The shop owner only shrugs. “It seems Constable Chumley’s discourse is too much for this poor chap,” he says. “Do you want regular Crayfish Chow, or menthol?”
“Menthol,” grumbles Crusty.
“King-size or Economy-size?” This goes on for longer than the chapter lasts.
Summer has just ended (*sigh*). Something about the quality of the sunshine on this beautiful September Sunday brought me back to playing in the sandbox. We lived next door to the playground, and it was a big sandbox.
Sure, I played in the sandbox when I was a toddler, but I really got into it when I was older. If the sand was a little bit wet from recent rain, you could really go to town with it. Bring along a bag of toy animals, dinosaurs, cowboys, cavemen, army men (of course!), and build the terrain of their adventures. Forts that had to be taken. Pits to be avoided. Mazes that had to be escaped before the Tyrannosaurus ate you. King Arthur’s castle.
Wow, that was fun! So what if we weren’t toddlers anymore? My friends and I had endless fun, putting our soldiers and knights and horses and elephants through one tight spot after another. True, this kind of play required an imagination; but we all had one, back then. Probably because we weren’t constantly spoon-fed “entertainment” that misguided adults thought we should have.
Occasionally we would lose a caveman in the sandbox. Maybe he got lost in a labyrinthine cavern that we never knew was there. I wonder how those lost cavemen made out…
In 1993, when Otto Scott wrote this article for Chalcedon, liberals were still looking for “scientific” reasons to brand as a Nazi anyone who disagreed with them. And “Science” was only too willing to provide them.
“The Adorno Scale,” invented in the early 1950s, was supposed to be a “scientific” means of measuring just how far gone in fascism are whatever people you don’t like. Nowadays, of course, they don’t bother: “Systemic Racism,” “White Privilege” and all that simply state you’re automatically guilty if you’re white. They don’t need any “science” to condemn you. Even leftism has been dumbed down.
Dr. Adorno toyed with the idea of including “hostility to modern art” among his list of “fascist” traits, but dropped it when he convinced himself that the typical American slob had never seen any modern art. You don’t dig Jackson Pollock? Heil, Hitler!
Twenty-seven years later, “Settled Science” is still making mischief, still trying to rule the world, still trying to turn ordinary people into livestock. We don’t hear much of the Adorno Scale anymore, but you can be sure its legacy lives on at every looniversity in the Western world.
Ha, ha, ha. It makes for such funny video, when the goofy cat gets her head stuck in a bag.
But it’s not so funny when it happens in four in the morning.
I was awakened in the dark by a sound of frantic rattling. Believe it or not, I knew instantly what it was: one of our cats had gotten her head stuck in the handles of a shopping bag and was running all over the bedroom in a panic. Shamble out of bed, turn lights on so you can extricate the cat. Only now she’s gone. Lights out, try to go back to sleep because I’m desperately tired. But the cat had only paused to draw her breath. Now she’s running all around the room again. Lights on. Stumble. Ah! Got her. C’mon, let Daddy help… and I got the bag off and am free to continue my hopeless pursuit of a decent night’s sleep.
Oh. And she managed to break a plate, too. Ha, ha, ha.
We have more communications devices and less communication than ever before in human history. Have you tried to talk to anyone who’s always up to his eyebrows in text messages? “Use the non-minified dev environment…” Gee, thanks for that advice!
What is our civilization’s chief problem? No, it’s not “systemic racism”!
It’s systemic idiocy–and good luck trying to solve it!
This hymn always stirs my soul, and we have to thank Joshua for requesting it–Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, sung here by Daniel Craig.
Gee, I’m starting to feel like a Christian disc jockey. But hymns are ammunition that the Lord has given us, to sling at the devil–and He has made sure that we’ll never run out of it. So keep on slinging!
I have to welcome a new reader, Swee Eng, with an apology–sorry, but I can’t find the hymn you requested, although my wife and I looked all over Youtube for it. It’s very hard to find a hymn when we’re not given the title. Usually the first line will do the trick, but not this time. If you can give us the title, we’ll try again.
Meanwhile, here’s one it turned out not to be–We Rest on Thee, sung by the Mennonite Hour Singers with beautiful background sets by God the Maker of Heaven and Earth.
I just noticed that we’re now 50 items down the list of Your Favorite Hymns–which I think means it’s time to load up the wagon again. They’re not stopping us from posting hymns yet, and that’s how I like to start each blogging day.
The idea is to post hymns that readers want to hear. This is open to everyone here, even if you’re just a casual passer-by–and you can name as many hymns as you please (because nobody has just one favorite hymn!), and I’ll put them all on the list. And I’ll use ’em all, too.
One of the things we ought to do, as Christians living in an evil and distressing age, is sing louder! It really bugs the living daylights out of the devil, and it’s a good thing for us all to hear.
We’re getting censored here and censored there–but this shop is still open, the bad guys must’ve overlooked it. Walk right in and request a hymn! Or five hymns, if you want. Especially if you haven’t done it before. Yo, everybody, we’re making a statement here! Join the happy throng! Okay, okay, it’s a few thousand bodies short of being an official throng, but we’re working on it.