Well, for once this kid Father Hollyweird has something worthwhile to say about the cat getting the Reporter's tongue about Issues, Etc-gate. But then again, did anyone realistically expect to see pictures of Randy Raspberry and Willie Weedon holding signs that say: "Hell No We Won't Go" and "Bomb Iran" to grace the pages of the official synodical paper? By the way, Yours Truly was also at this little gathering outside the Crinoline Kremlin. I'm in some of the pictures. I'm the one carrying the sign that says: "Make Seven Up Yours." I like to do my part to support the American soft drink industry.I hate to admit it, but I agree with Hollywoodhead's assessment. The Reporter is crap, pure and simple. The paper would be put to better use by Mr. Whipple. And that's the best damned construction I can put on it. The only reason I save them is because the local puppy mill needs them for housebreaking, and the change I get from the proceeds goes into the beer fund. And as far as I am concerned, canine target practice is too noble a purpose for this waste of tree pulp.
Ever since that paperhanging corporal took over the POTS, (thanks again, Herman, you idiot...), the "organs" - and that pun is most certainly intended - of our Beloved Synod have become pure parlor pink agitprop. The Lutheran Witness has become the Kieschnick's Shameless, and the Reporter has gone beyond being simply the Distorter to outright being Repravda. If the Presidium had tanks, they'd be rolling in the streets every May 1.
In fact, my cardio doc ordered me not to look at those papers. And as soon as I finish this pack of smokes, I'm going to run out to Wallgreen's to get my blood pressure checked and my scrip refilled. Don't let me forget. But anyway, that damned rag has driven me to drink every month. Well, at least it's good for something, I suppose.
And I just love what the synod calls "missionaries" these days. It used to be a fella would have to put on a pair of jodhpurs and a pith helmet, live in a mud hut in the jungle, and learn to talk with a series of clicks and gutteral growls - after being ordained and called, of course. These days "mission work" means a broad with manicured nails, perfect teeth, a Gucci bag, and a boob job spending a couple weeks in Europe. According to the latest Repravda, one of the LCMS "mission gals" is serving a "mission" in London, England. Now, I know the Limes ain't exactly the most churchgoing folk in the world, but has this tootsy ever heard of St. Augustine of Canturbury? Somehow, I doubt that a helluva lot of "mission work" is going on in her "call." But then again, maybe she's teaching English as a Second Language over there. That would be par for the synodical course.
Then we have another missionarionette serving in Wittenberg, Germany. Hmmm. Now, where have I heard that name before, troops. It's right on the tip of my tongue - next to this damned horse pill I'm trying to wash down with a Bud Light. Yes, I can see where "mission work" would come in handy there. Wittenburg. Judas Priest, it's Wittenberg Germany! Hello? Why, I'll bet they've never even heard of what a Lutheran is in that neck of the woods. Good thing the LCMS is Johann-on-the-Spot! What a damned embarrassment!
It's getting to the point where anyone who is familiar with conventional sexual practices will be tagged as "missionaries." Of course, no word on pastors like this May fella who was pulled from his mud hut in French West Africa because raising a quarter million bucks on his own wasn't enough ka-ching!(tm) for the French-cuffed fatcats in St. Loonie. I suppose this pastor will be replaced by a blue-eyed blonde college girl with a digital camera who will stay just long enough to e-mail a picture of herself surrounded by a gaggle of smiling brown people that will end up in the Repravda as evidence that your synodical dollars are not (are) being wasted. Meanwhile, the natives will be left to eat each other. I mean the ones in St. Louis. Cannibalism is pretty much a thing of the past in Christian Africa - unlike in the post-Christian Missouri Synod where eating each other is simply a way of life. Let's ask David Strand. I hear it tastes like chicken, Davey Boy. Well, that pencil-necked little bloodsucking liar oughtta know.
And check out that pie chart for Fan Into Flame(tm) allocations. Half of the money is to go to "The Ends of the Earth." About a sixth is ear marked for "Jerusalem." Another sixth is for "Judea" and finally another for "Samaria." Now, first of all, what in the hell are the "ends of the earth"? Can't they be at least a little specific? And haven't the Satan First crowd listened to any of those Paul Meyer talks? Samaria doesn't exist any more, knuckle heads. I suspect that hunk of money will actually go to the Kieschnicks' indoor pool/hot-tub/shiny rims/gold-teeth fund. And ditto for "Judea." Why are we sending money to places that don't exist? Finally, Jerusalem. Well, at least it's a real place, but how much mission work is going on there anyway, unless you want to count the Ablaze!(tm) nonsense, like when the security goon at the El-Al counter sneezes and you say: "God bless you. Jesus loves you" and you run home, log onto the computer, and add one more to the great McDonald's tally of hamburgers sold. I don't know, I think maybe we need to have an audit. Maybe we need a campaign called: "Flush into the Drain(tm)."
And what is this "theAlley" crap? Is it a church, a bowling establishment, or a place to pick up hookers? I guess these days, you can have one-stop shopping. Back in my day, "the alley" was where the queers, dope fiends, and drunk musicians went to urinate. Well, I guess some things just don't change after all.
And what's with this "guitar chords" business for the new hymnal? I suppose we'll soon have the COW working on a special bongo-drum-and-kazoo edition that CPH can give away with the purchase of each pair of "Here I Stand" athletic supporters that they sell. That's another reason to stick to TLH. Back in '41, they weren't even playing guitars yet, except like the kind you see on the Andy Griffith Show. And even then, what the hilljacks did with their banjos and missing teeth had nothing to do with the church. It was certainly nothing like this electric twanger racket that Fritz Baue plays with his hippy friends. The problem with LCMS music today is the same problem as with the typical pastor and most of the bureaucrats: "not enough organ."
In fact, like I said, I wish someone would get this Molly Zeitgeist Hemmingway fella to run for Synodical President. Even with that girly name, this guy's got the stoneware that seems to have turned up missing for the palace eunuchs in the Violet Vat. It's always been a mystery for me, both in the military and in the church: are the bureaucrats already carrying "empty luggage," as it were, when they are elected, or is there some kind of snip-snip ceremony once they get to the holy city? It's kind of a chicken-and-egg mystery - one that hope not to find out by personal experience. I may not need a "pair of aces" for procreation these days, but I do believe Deuteronomy 23:1 is still in the canon - the interpretive prowess of the Ablaze!(tm) crowd notwithstanding. I'll keep the old "book ends" on the shelf, thank you very much. I know my circuit counselor (the pastor of St. Origin Lutheran Church) has long since surrendered his to the service of paper-pushing long ago.
I'm just waiting for the purple criss-cross thing at the top of the Reporter to be replaced one day by a pink hammer and sickle. Cripes, we see as many headshots of Kieschnick as the Muscovites saw posters of Stalin. Coincidence? You be the judge, dammit.
As for Father Hollywood, somebody needs to tell this kid to get a hair cut. But at least he has a job - even if it only pays minimum wage.
