For those of us who’ve never lived in a farm, it’s and new and rather heart-warming experience to watch a mother hen teaching her chicks to feed themselves. She’s constantly vocalizing, and we can’t help thinking those sounds are the chicken equivalent of speech. She even takes some of the grain out of the dish so the chicks can reach it more easily.
As Rev. D. James Kennedy used to say, “Ain’t chance grand!”
Introducing Chapter CDVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular writes, “Nothing happened in the preceding three chapters, so I have left them out. If you want them, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope and a check for $340.99.”
And so, in Chapter CDVIII, with Lady Margo Cargo still under the impression that the plate of ancient runes she found with her metal detector is a prehistoric recipe for Store Brand Corn Flakes, and trying to make them in her lavishly-appointed kitchen, we have an entirely different translation by Johnno the Merry Minstrel–one which reveals that a terrible curse will fall on all of Scurveyshire if anyone digs up the plate and removes it from the ground.
The very day that Lady Margo brought the plate home, a man named Scupper twisted his ankle trying to roller-skate down the sloping roof of his cottage.
“It begins!” says Johnno.
Meanwhile the corn flakes are not going at all well, which is only to be expected, given that Lady Margo’s translation is 100 percent wrong.
“Some of these ingredients seem altogether ridiculous,” she complains to her crusty old butler, Crusty. “Earth from the grave of of a shogun, for instance–they don’t have it in the store! I don’t think we’ve ever had a shogun in Scurveyshire.”
“When I was a boy,” says Crusty, “we had a neighbor who said he was a shogun. He could never find a job.”
Johnno warns Lord Jeremy Coldsore that everyone in Scurveyshire is now at risk. Lord Jeremy feels somewhat put-upon. “What am I supposed to do about it?” he cries. Johnno’s eloquent shrug is worth a thousand words (“None of them printable!” Violet adds).
Here we break the chapter because of exciting news.
“Roller derby is coming to Scurveyshire!” Ms Crepuscular exults. What with television not having been invented yet, it’s truly a red-letter day.
Requested by Phoebe–and there are several versions available. I chose this one because it’s the one my 7th-grade class sang in our Easter concert. Can you imagine that? ACLU lawyers would have conniptions…
So here it is, O Sacred Head Now Wounded: melody by Bach, sung by the Altar of Praise Chorale.
The king of Tyre thought he was hot stuff. When Judah smashed by the Babylonians, the way was clear for Tyre to grow even more reach and powerful than it was already. But hear what God said to him, through the prophet Ezekiel:
Will thou yet say before him that slayeth thee, I am God? but thou shalt be a man, and no God, in the hand of him that slayeth thee. –Ezekiel 28:9
In every age there’s a fool, or a nation of fools, or a whole international fraternity of fools aspiring to rule the world. True to God’s word, the Babylonians came and conquered Tyre, and killed the king. By and by, Alexander the Great totally destroyed it. (The Tyre on the map today is not on the site of the original. It is Tyre 2.0.)
Today we don’t have to get by with one measly king of Tyre. We’ve got politicians, political parties, Big Tech oligarchs, brain-deprived celebrities, academics and other “educational” parasites… all in bed together, all determined to control our lives–for our own good, of course!–and to see just how rich and fat they can get before they explode.
What will these say to the man who comes along and cuts them down? What will they say to the God that judges them?
Listen to their speeches; read their stupid manifestos. They are every bit as self-deluded as the king of Tyre. “Using technology wisely–” as if they knew how to do anything wisely!–“we can direct the course of human evolution,” blah-blah-blah. Ain’t no god, they say, but you’ve got as good as–us! We can be your gods!
I’m pretty sure this is how you get erased from history.
(The girl who looks just like Ellayne!)
Still plenty of snow on the ground, expensive car repairs looming, no one here is in the best of health, our country is being murdered by inches, right before our eyes–but I know that spring’s around the corner.
And Bell Mountain No. 15, whatever it winds up being called, is waiting for me to climb into the ring and wrestle with it. I hope I can get myself up for the match. It’s like Gorilla Monsoon is in there waiting for me.
When No. 12, His Mercy Endureth Forever, came out, there was some talk that Bell Mountain had gone on long enough, time to put the series to bed, sayonara, nice knowin’ ya, etc. I don’t know. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote a couple dozen Tarzan books. I haven’t counted the number of books in Walter R. Brooks’ Freddy the Pig series. Or Hal Goodwin’s Rick Brant. To say nothing of Hercule Poirot, Inspector Ghote, or Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series, with its 54 books. If I thought my Bell Mountain books were no longer worth reading, I wouldn’t write any more of them. But I don’t think that
Writing is hard! Unless you’re one of the chosen few allowed to stand on the tip of the pyramid and get your grocery list published, you just never know if your work has any merit.
But spring is in the air, Gorilla Monsoon is waiting, and it’ll soon be time to rassle…
Nothing left but ruins
Lest we forget…
Once upon a time, long ago, a great civilization throve along the banks of the Indus River.
It has been so thoroughly erased from history, it might as well not have existed at all.
This civilization existed contemporaneously with those of Mesopotamia, Egypt, and China. We know they traded by land and sea. But we don’t know their language, we can’t read their writing, and we don’t know the name of a single person among the millions who must have lived there. We don’t even have a legend or a folk-tale.
Will the same thing be said, someday, of our globalist fat-headed humanist civilization?
Some hymn requests have piled up, and I’m going to post them one by one–starting with this request from Erlene, He Still Has the Scars, by Carroll Roberson.
We are in the Lent season now. Among the hardest duties of a Christian is to contemplate the crucifixion of our Savior
That was for our sakes.
You won’t believe some of these gravity-defying leaps by assorted animals. We regret to say no turtles were involved. But dogs, goats, and even cows–up, up, and away!
I’m afraid I’ve already blown it by posting the latest Demo-babble–but I’m not going to post any more nooze till Monday, if I can possibly get away with it.
It’s a very, very grey and dreary day out here, but spring is coming, honest–and here’s a picture of a tiger swallowtail butterfly to get you in the mood. And tomorrow we’ll have Chapter Idunno of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.
I do wish I knew some Simple Trick to get my viewership numbers back up to where they were before Jan. 17. But I don’t know that trick. *Sigh* I can only do the best I can.
Here we have our own esteemed colleagues, Joshua and Jeremy, with an instrumental rendition of the classic hymn, Have You Been to Jesus? We also know it as Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?