You want a piece of a Scuttlebutt too?

My damn kid brother is such an attention whore!

Silicon Valley Mercury News

Police: Teen makes mistake of trying to rob former U.S. Marine

Bay City News Service

Article Launched: 03/27/2008 10:39:20 AM PDT

SANTA ROSA - A boy in his mid-teens learned Wednesday afternoon that it is not a good idea to try to rob a former U.S. Marine at knifepoint, even if the former Marine is 84 years old, police said today.

Santa Rosa police Sgt. Steve Bair said that's what happened around 2 p.m. in the 1600 block of Fourth Street. The elderly man was walking with a grocery bag in each arm when the boy approached him with a large knife, Bair said.

The boy said, "Old man, give me your wallet or I'll cut you," Bair said. The man told the boy he was a former Marine who fought in three wars and had been threatened with knives and bayonets, Bair said.

The man then put his bags on the ground and told the boy that if he stepped closer he would be sorry. When the boy stepped closer, the man kicked him in the groin, knocking him to the sidewalk, Bair said. The ex-Marine picked up his grocery bags and walked home, leaving the boy doubled over, Bair said.

The man reported the attempted robbery to police 45 minutes later.

Bair said the teen is described only as 15 or 16 years old. Anyone with information is asked to call the Police Department.

Dictator in a Box

The Ruskies didn't do a helluva lot right, but I like what they did with Lenin. The last thing that rotting hunk of "red meat" deserves is to rest in peace. Let him stay in a glass fridge for all the world to gawk at, moon, and give the finger to - at least until Russia runs out of electricity.

Given the similarities between the USSR and the LCMSSR, I propose we establish ornate glass tombs for our Great Dictators. I can't imagine anyone from the Purple Palace objecting. Hell, there's nothing Kieschnivik loves more than "face time." Why should John Lenin get all the glory?

This can be done in just a few simple steps:

Get a box.
Cut a hole in that box.
Put your dictator in the box.

But I can't claim the idea as my own (much like Al Clinton trying to take credit for the Intranets). In fact, one of my readers tells me there's a broad named Justine Timberlane who sings a song about the dictator in the box.

All the same, it sounds like a better use of synodical funds than what they got going now.

Translation...

There is another language spoken in St. Louis - more specifically spoken in a certain "Intergalactic Center" of a certain unnamed church body. Having spent decades in both military and church, yours truly has become fluent in Bureaucratese.

I'm so good at it, I can translate on the fly with a smoke in one hand, a shot glass in the other, and both knees on the wheel. "Hey, buddy, make Seven-Up yours!" Where do these idiots learn to drive, Seward, Nebraska?

Anyway, I wrote a personal letter to a certain president, er, I mean "President" (upper case first letters of titles is part and parcel of Bureaucratese grammar), and received the following reply.

My translation into English appears in red...


The President's Office is [the president's lackeys and hangers-on are] in receipt of your email message [being bothered by you]. Due to the high volume of correspondence received [Since it is of such a low priority], you may not receive an immediate answer [from a human being]. However, please be assured [like hell] that your message is important [utterly unimportant] to the President [pompous ass who struts around the office like Hitler with a Napoleon complex] and every [no] effort will be made to respond as quickly as possible.

May God's grace, mercy, and peace rest upon you. [Die in a fire, you troublemaker.]

President K_________k and
The Staff [overpaid hacks] of the President's Office [little man's cubicle]


Troops, if you write to a certain unnamed church president, don't expect anything other than an evasive automatic-reply form-letter.

That's how the language of the Bureaucrat works. Word on the street is that it will be replacing Greek at both seminaries before you can say "specific minister."

Bee Eye Enn Jee Oh

The Administration here at Blessed Reformer haven't met a papist idea they didn't like (except liturgy, bells, and incense), and they have decided yet again to copy the local Catholic church across the street, St. Hoosywhatsis of Prague. Now, don't get me wrong, I like a lot of things about St. Hoo's. The Indian pastor, Father "Chip" Khali Khachadh is a pretty good drinker, though I don't think he's a real Indian, as I was telling him about how we used to put all the Indians on reservations and he thought I meant motel reservations. He asked me if I needed a wake up call.

You'd think those people would know their own history, but I guess the Indian education system ain't quite cutting the curry.

Every Indian I run into these days either works at a motel or is a physicist and has no idea what tribe he is from (though a lot of them seem to cheer for the Cincinnati Bengalis). Although they have decided to cut their hair and quit wearing loin cloths. Actually, they may still be wearing loin cloths, but they at least wear pants over them for the most part these days.

Anyway, St. Hoo's is rolling in the dough thanks to bingo. Every Monday night, my parishioners roll, stumble, and hobble (a regular "Walker Brigade") over to the parish hall to smoke, curse, and drink - and then you should see the men!

The residents love bingo, and they will spend their last Social Security rations for a card, some plastic discs, and an ash tray.

So, Blessed Reformer decides to get into the act and started bingo here. I told them I'd okay it so long as they could make it churchly. I figured I had them by the cataracts, but can you just imagine, they found a way to do it! They decided to print up special cards and call it "LCMS Bingo." If you click on the card above, you can see it life size.

So, all these bronze agers and the first wave of hippy retirees compete to fill up their cards with the kind of crap that passes itself as Missouri Lutheranism these days. Not your grandfather's church, all right. At this point, I'm not so sure it's even my church. Then again, I'm the "grandfather" that Jerruh was denigrating when he plagiarized Oldsmobile.

Although I'm not a fan of bingo, even I have to admit this is a stoke of genius. Father "Chip" is even bitching that some of his old timers are beating the drums to have "Vatican II Bingo" at St. Hoo's. He didn't appreciate what I told him to use as a "free space" - though with all the scandals and what knot, I can see why. Oh well, a couple Kingfishers covers a multitude of sins. Who'd a thought it? Those Indians make a decent beer. I hope they appreciate the white man giving them Christianity and fire water - not to mention customer service jobs. I just don't understand why Indians don't talk like they did in the John Wayne movies.

Hey, I just got a bingo! Looks like the next round's on me, Cochese.

Back in the LCMSSR

The latest Ablazenik!(tm) poster, courtesy of the Central Committee

How do like this? First, they tell us after all these years that Gorbachev is a Christian, then we find out that the LCMS is a Commie dictatorship - the L.C.M.S.S.R. It looks like we've been fighting the wrong "Reds" since '45!

We've known for a long time that Vladimir Iliyich Kieschnick is a Stalin-wannabe, but now we're finding out just what a cut-throat Kremlin the Purple Palace really is under his Kommisarship. The LCMSSR has all the trappings of the USSR - a dictator, a politburo, a propaganda wing (that has taken over the radio-station Pravda-style), fearful bureaucrats that fall into line behind the "strongman," Party apparatchiks, "five year plans," alphabet soup agencies and bureaus, a subversive "youth movement," the illusion of a democratic process, "newspeak," and now we even have Christian martyrs and worldwide outrage being ignored by the Purple Kremlin at the Moscow on the Mississippi!

Check all those Ablaze!(tm) lapel pins. A hundred rubles says you'll find a hammer and sickle logo on there someplace. "Church workers of the world unite..."

We have a bloated bureaucracy that is not only broke financially, but also morally bankrupt. We have a cloak-and-dagger government shrouded in lies and secrecy. All that's missing is a concentration camp (and even then, has anyone checked the basement of the Concordia Historical Institute?).

Dissent is chased underground by Commie regulations, the gagging of free speech, and the prosecution of "thought crimes." And notice how many "bloggers" (especially seminarians) have suddenly been driven into dark anonymity.

And of course there are party hacks who are afraid to speak out, watching idly as fellow Christians are persecuted - maybe out of fear of themselves losing their synodical perks, status, and paycheck - if not being banished to Siberia.

We should have let Patton take a leak in the Mississippi and roll the Third Army into St. Loony. He tried to tell me Missouri was pink (and so did the WELS), but did I listen? All this time, we thought the Russians were Godless.

Well, Comrades, it's put up or shut-up time in the Evil Empire known as the LCMSSR. We need to start "Radio Free Missouri" and overthrow the Holy Week Revolution.

"Mister Kieschnick, tear down this wall!"

Che, EFF YOU, Oh...

Word on the street is that the revolution continues as the Kieschnickistas have seized the synodical radio station, KFUO, and promptly deposed the last Lutheran on the radio. Issues, Etc. has been shut down, and even the archives of old radio shows have been removed - all gone down the big synodical memory hole, though I gotta say this, men, when I think of the words "synodical" and "hole" in one sentence, the missing word that comes to my mind in the middle isn't "memory."

So, for Todd Wilkin and Jeff Scwartz, it's definitely a kFUo from the LCMess. Happy Holy Week, Pastor, "You're fired!" No word yet on if the revolutionaries have put the Lutherans against the wall with a blindfold and a cigarette and set the bodies Ablaze!(tm).

Just another day in the ghetto we call the Missouri Cyanide.

Everybody drink your Kool-Aid, support the Loony Hour, and smoke a big fat cigar for the Revolution in the name of the King of Bling and the Queen of Diamonds of this little Banana-church body. "This isn't your grandfather's church." No shiite, Shirlock. Keep moving, people. Nothing more to see here.

"War is peace. Entertainment is church. Doctrine is contrary to mission." Put this and other slogans up on the big screen in the sanctuary, set it to an inane pop tune, and repeat as necessary until all dissent has been crushed.

Welcome to the post-revolutionary synod, Comrades!

Scuttle onboard with Ablaze!(tm) ???

Descriptions of Recent or Highligted Ablaze! Faith-Sharing Activities: Real faith-sharing stories from LCMS members and partners across the globe who have shared their faith with family members, friends, neighbors, and co-workers, as well as other people God brought into their paths.

2/6/2008

Rev. C.F.W. Scuttlebutt of Blessed Reformer Retirement Home shared the Gospel over Marlboros and Jack Daniels at the Legion Hall.

Pastor Scuttlebutt, a retired Army Brigadier General, staggered up to the bar at the Legion Hall near the retirement home where he serves as chaplain. He found a fellow pastor, mindlessly twiddling the tab collar that he had pulled out of his black clerical shirt. His countenance was downcast as he gazed into a beer.

Pastor Scuttlebutt pulled up a stool, leisurely lit up a Marlboro, and silently offered a smoke to the morose clergyman. He declined. Pastor Scuttlebutt then called him an obscene name and threatened to "knock [his] whiny ass into next Tuesday if [he didn't] man up." He renewed the offer of a cig. The pastor reconsidered, and accepted the smoke. He took a drag, coughed, and then placed it into an ashtray with the faded logo of the 3rd Marines peeping through the ancient cremains lining the bottom.

Scuttlebutt silently beckoned the bartender, ordered two doubles of Jack Daniels, slid one in front of the distraught cleric, and commanded: "Hit it, Padre." The two imbibed.

"So, what's your deal?" the retired general inquired.

"I'm an LCMS pastor," was the somber reply. Scuttlebutt nodded.

The two men said nothing for several minutes. The General snagged the bartender for another round of doubles. The men knocked back the Jack. The pastor wheezed, as the General gazed at him stoically. Another five minutes of silence ensued. In a metaphorical reference to the Trinity, the General signaled for a tertiary round. They drank. The General plunked the empty shot glass on the bar. "Gloria patri..." he mumbled, scrunching up his face and taking another drag on his Marlboro.

The depressed pastor finally voiced his problem. "Ablaze," he grunted. He shook his head. "Creative worship," he blurted out. Tears filled his eyes as he continued his litany: "Open communion. Women Elders. Power-mad DPs. Not your grandfather's church. Speed-bumps." His complaints picked up momentum and began to imitate the staccato of an M16 on auto. "Lay Ministry. Missional. Covenant Congregations. 8-01A. Specific Ministry Program. Ecclesiastical Supervision. DCEs. Unionism. Syncretism. Fanning the Flame. Small Group Ministry."

After brief silence, the General stood up and tenderly placed his hand on the weeping pastor's shoulder. "Son, I understand. Stand up."

The pastor wiped his eyes, sniffed, and rose from the bar stool. He caught a glimpse of a portrait of George S. Patton on the paneled wall, peering at him from his wool-lined leather flight jacket, ivory-handled pistols on his hips, jaw jutted out in a military pout. He turned and looked into Pastor Scuttlebutt's compassionate eyes.

Scuttlebutt kneed him in the groin.

"Now, you listen to me, Nancy boy!" the General glowered. "'Take up your cross and follow me,' sound familiar? Cripes, the bastards can't burn you at the stake. They aren't shooting at you like gooks in a rice patty. Hell, these guys don't even have the gonads to look you in the eye and say 'boo!' - rather they will grin and call you 'brother,' ask you 'How many are you worshiping?' and pretend to be your buddy while conspiring how to screw you and lying out of their asses. Big deal. Being a pastor in the Misery Synod is a helluva lot easier than the crap you took in 'Nam. Am I right?

The pastor felt the General's hot whiskey-and-tobacco breath in his face, as Scuttlebutt continued doling out his pastoral advice, index finger jammed into his listener's chest: "I know life in this synod is crap. But that's the hand we've been dealt, soldier. Have another drink, pray the office, study the Scriptures, say lots of Masses, smoke, and find a father-confessor that will kick you in the goolies and then forgive you. Do you read me, soldier?"

"Yes, sir!" he said, snapping to attention.

"Well, then. Ego te absolvo. Now get your ass back to work, son."

The pastor reinserted his tab collar, nodded, shook the General's hand, signed himself with the holy cross, and stumbled to the door to do battle against the devil.

Scuttlebutt shook his head, butted-out his ablazing cigarette, and once more mounted the bar stool. He pulled his tattered breviary from his jacket pocket and signaled the bartender for another round.