Abandon arrogance, immorality. Love one another.
Anglican Funk
Usually if you asked me whether I was a thinker or a do-er, I would say, “I’m a thinker”. But not today. Today I’m on a quest, and I want you to help me.
Way back when, I noticed a grave injustice, and I want to put things right.
I want to lead the way. I want to be a beacon of light and hope for all those lonely internet souls.
I want to be the #1 hit on Google for “Anglican Funk”.
Please, link to this page. Tell your friends. You can help me make a difference in the world.
Together we can achive this (my) dream of (internet) glory.
Will you join me?
Please…. just hold me…
I like to play a little game on the internet. Ok, I like to play all sorts of little games on the internet. But this one is a lot of fun. You probably play it too.
This little game is the one where you type random interesting stuff into your web-browser and see what comes up.
Sometimes it’s just disappointing.
Sometimes, however, you get www.olong.com and you wish you had some means of keeping the bad men away.
Please, make it stop. It’s got a Phd in horribleness and not in the good way.
Boo-Yah!
Validation cometh, and that right quickly!
Welcome to the silly season
“See, then, that the thing does not kill thee at last. It is Death!
Remember, it is Death! There is enough in that thing to kill the men of
all my city. Not long wilt thou hold it, Jungle Man, nor he who takes it
from thee. They will kill, and kill, and kill for its sake! My strength
is dried up, but the ankus will do my work. It is Death! It is Death! It
is Death!” — The Jungle Book
When Mowgli takes the gem-encrusted ankus from the Treasure vault, he pays no heed to the warning of the old white guardian cobra. He throws it away in the jungle and, when returning to find it, discovers that a man has taken it.
He tracks the ankus by a spoor of murder and betrayal, following a trail of bodies until he comes upon it. Six men have been murdered in a fight over the jewels adorning it.
…”Also we must bury HIM, lest he run away and kill another six.
Dig me a hole under that tree.”
“But, Little Brother,” said Bagheera, moving off to the spot, “I tell
thee it is no fault of the blood-drinker. The trouble is with the men.”
“All one,” said Mowgli. “Dig the hole deep. When we wake I will take him
up and carry him back.”
Welcome to the silly season. It is the time when something more powerful than lesser constraints appears, and men go mad. The appearance of righteousness – courtesy, manners, tradition – is stripped away in the face of a greater desire, a greater need, a greater pain.
It follows a certain unwavering, torturous logic – the lesser must always yield to the greater… and yet to the one outside, it defies reason, defies sanity.
Some things seem tainted; nothing good ever comes of them. Winning the lottery destroys lives. The famous become estranged, neurotic and lonely, worshiped from afar.
The taint of the silly season spreads. Not even those on its periphery are safe. Something comes along and all the people involved, previously respectable and reasonable, go crazy.
It’s frightening, because the victims of the silly season are just like me.
Is there someone inside me who is greater, strong enough to resist the silly season, or am I too doomed to madness should it come knocking?