Boisterous Birds

Parrots are very, very intelligent and very sociable, too. But how do the birds in these videos know the cats won’t hurt them–even when they purposely try to tease the cats? And then there’s the cockatoo teaching himself to play the guitar. If this can ever be done without hands, a bird will do it.


By Request, ‘In the Garden’

Requested by Phoebe, In the Garden. I chose this soothing rendition of it by Alan Jackson: hope you like it.

Phoebe needs a little extra prayer support just now, everybody–so please, let’s provide it. Strengthen and protect your servant, Lord! In Jesus’ name, Amen.


NBC Nooze: Right Off the Deep End

I don’t know that I can translate this new NBC Nooze op-ed into plain English, but I’ll try. Let’s start with a quote.

“Trump voters motivated by racism may be violating the Constitution.” And voting for Trump may be “not just immoral, but illegal” (https://legalinsurrection.com/2020/01/too-stupid-for-words-nbc-news-op-ed-claims-voting-for-trump-not-only-racist-but-unconstitutional/).

First, how do they know a voter is “motivated by racism”? Does the voter say so? “My vote is motivated by racism!”

Second, in what way is voting for a candidate for the “wrong” reason “illegal”?

Because “racist appeals in union elections” have been ruled unconstitutional by the courts. What labor union is Donald Trump running for president of? “Shut up,” they explained.

Somehow I missed President Trump getting on the air and saying “Vote for me, and I’ll put [select a “race”] in their place.” Oh, wait a minute–he never said that, or anything even remotely resembling it. But never mind: NBC Nooze just knows he’s a racist. Mostly because everyone who’s not them is… a racist. Somehow.

So the noozies think they can, by some unspecified means, get inside the voters’ heads, and if they don’t like what they find there, those voters shouldn’t be allowed to vote.

Hot dog.

Again, how do we know the voter is motivated by racism? Guess we’ll just have to take NBC’s word for it. Or construct what is known in logic as a sillygism. “Donald Trump is a racist.” He isn’t, but they say he is, so he must be. “Therefor, everyone who votes for him is a racist, too.”

Liberty is not something that left-wing noozies and the Democrat Party intend for us to keep.

Don’t ever forget that.


Bonus Hymn, ‘He Leadeth Me’

This hymn has been calling to me all morning, and to my mind, that means I ought to post it. Consider it a sanity break–He Leadeth Me (1862), sung by the Mennonite Hour Men’s Quartet.


The Most PC Cop Show Ever

Image result for images of brokenwood

My wife was sick all day Sunday, so when she rallied enough to want to watch something, last night, I was happy to let her choose the show. She chose the new episode of The Brokenwood Mysteries, made in New Zealand. We’d watched several seasons’ worth, and liked it.

Now it has become a show in which characters actually babble about “diversity” and “inclusion” as real things that are important in their lives. The setting is a small town in which there are no intact families. Not even one. And you can always tell who’s going to turn out to be the murderer, or at least a victim who richly deserved it, because it’ll be a character–usually a “Christian,” whatever they think they mean by that–who stands out because he’s the only one not on full-throttle, cartwheel-turning support for everything sodomy. One individual–naturally, the wisest, wittiest, and most benign human being in Brokenwood–is billed as the town’s “first gay mayor.” As if he were to start a whole dynasty of homosexual mayors. Even the little old lady who takes walks is, like, totally woke.

It’s indescribably dreary. The episode ended with the police counseling the estranged lesbian pair to give it another go because “love wins” or something.

Can’t blame Hollywood for this travesty. This is a New Zealand caper, all the way.

But is this what screenwriters and “entertainment” honchos really, truly, think our lives should be? What could be more depressing than the flat, barren, dead sameness of “diversity”?

But if people really lived like that, it wouldn’t be long before there were no more people.

 


‘Piffle Alert! The “Lunar Temple”‘ (2017)

Sunlit lunar temple

The thought that such deluded individuals have the power to levy taxes on normal people, and make them pay, is enough to give you nightmares.

I wonder how far they’ve gotten with their “Lunar Temple” project, and how much money they’ve spent on it already.

https://leeduigon.com/2017/01/27/piffle-alert-the-lunar-temple/

Yessireebob, we’re gonna have a colony on the moon–why? because you saw it in a science fiction movie?–and there we’re gonna build a Temple only there ain’t gonna be no God in this Temple blah-blah-blah-blah!

The Europeans are such a reliable guide. Whatever they’re doing, turn around and do the opposite–and you’re bound to be right.


‘Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Us’

I couldn’t find Lyle with his guitar in this video, but there’s Nathan with the autoharp, plus family and friends, with Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Us–by Dorothy Thrupp, in 1836.


How Cats Can Terrify You into Babbling Idiocy

Y’know that classic ghost story by M.R. James–Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad? The one in which the sheets on the other bed in the room rise up and start to fold and wrinkle themselves into–well, never mind, I don’t want to spoil it for you. Point is, it’s almost certain that that story was inspired by a cat. And in this video, you’ll see how that was possible.

 


Oh, for Shame!

Prince Dadian

Nineteenth-century Russian princes could do things that only big-name Democrats and politically-approved scientists can do today. That is, cheat like mad and get away with it. Even in chess.

Enter Prince Dadian of Mingrelia, who published 38 games he played against some of the top players in the world, winning every single one of them. Modern chess historians smell a rat.

Dadian is believed to have composed chess games that were never actually played, or to have had them composed by others, and then published them as brilliant victories. Chess players in the 19th century, as a class, were usually short of money (“The fame I have. It’s money that I need!” said Wilhelm Steinitz). The prince helped them out, it is strongly suspected, by paying them to lose games to him–even going so far as to write their moves for them in advance. He would also pull strings–again, not proved, but very strongly suspected–to have uncooperative chess stars kicked out of resorts like Monte Carlo.

He would fit right in today. He’d probably be hawking Climate Change instead of chess; there’s more money in it. Or else he’d be president of a teachers’ union.

We didn’t invent cheating in our era. We just made it more lucrative.


The Elopement, at Last (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

At last! Lord Jeremy Coldsore has eloped to marry Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire.

Chapter CCCXLI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, opens with Lord Jeremy and the vicar waiting in the abandoned warehouse in Plaguesby, where the marriage is to be secretly performed. They have to be careful because there’s plague in Plaguesby. Also in attendance, as best man, is Jeremy’s bosom friend, the American adventurer, Willis Twombley. He has a burlap bag over his head. This provokes a fit of the giggles from the vicar.

“Why has he got a burlap bag over his head?” the vicar asks, giggling.

“Because Lady Margo thinks he and I are the same person, and it confuses her when she sees us both together,” Lord Jeremy explains. The vicar finds that richly humorous.

Midnight draws near, without a sign of Lady Margo. “What’s keeping her?” Jeremy grumbles.

“Alas, dear reader,” Ms. Crepuscular breaks into the narrative, “Lady Margo, escorted by her crusty old butler, Crusty, has misunderstood the plan and gone to an abandoned warehouse in the isolated nearby village of Plaguespot. The place has an unwholesome reputation! It is said that Black Rodney’s brother, Red Pokey, passed through Plaguespot in 1483 and, just for practice, put a terrible curse on it.”

As midnight draws near, Crusty grows impatient.

“I told you Coldsore was no good, you stupid old bat,” he confides in Lady Margo. “How can you trust a man with two left feet? Both of which seem to have gotten cold!”

“I can’t say I like this as a location for a wedding,” mutters Lady Margo. “All those sinister voices whispering I don’t know what, all around us in the dark! Are you sure this is where dear Jeremy said he’d meet us?”

Crusty is jealous: he has long desired Lady Margo for himself.

Just then, a long-drawn-out, hideous moaning erupts from the shadows–

We suspect it’s the reader.


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