Phelps and Westboro Baptist Church

If you don't know about the Westboro Baptist Church, I envy you. In my opinion they are to Christianity as what the Al-Qaeda are to Islam; although the former may be more law abiding than the latter. Their message is about hate, and I just couldn't take it anymore.

They have a website, which I'm not going to link here (they have all the publicity they need, believe me), in which they have a contact form. The following is an email I've just sent to the Westboro Baptist Church. I hope you can grasp the severe amount of sarcasm in there, and the fact that I needed to get their trust in the first paragraphs so they get to the good part in the middle.

Subject: Thank you. Ideas to save the USA from damnation.

Body:

Hello my brethren,

I do hope you don't trash this email with the rest of the scum that I'm sure floods your inboxes. I have heard your words, and read your message, and I'm intrigued. In fact, I'm disappointed. You see, I think you're doing too little in favour of God and the USA.

You say God hates Fags, and point to several parts of the Bible, word of God, that asserts it. There's no denying that, of course, we know that their decadent, filthy ways are the reason the USA is seen as only beast in the eyes of our Lord. How else can God see the USA if they fornicate and blaspheme as only dirty dogs do?

However, I think there are other things that you need to add to your holy message. Here's a humble list of what else I think can be done/said in the name of our God:

-God hates Family:
.Matthew 19:29. And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.

-God hates Children:
.Exodus 12:29. And it came to pass, that at midnight the LORD smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the firstborn of cattle.
.Leviticus 26:30. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.

-The latter also works for "God loves Cannibalism", which is confirmed by the Holy Communion where we eat the body of our Lord.

-God hates Jesus:
.Matthew 1:23. The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel [Isaiah]—which means, "God with us".
(That's not the name of Jesus)
.Romans 1:3. regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David
(The only descendant of Jesus is the Virgin Mary, not Joseph who is a descendant of David)
.Isaiah 7:16. But before the boy knows enough to reject the wrong and choose the right, the land of the two kings you dread will be laid waste.
(This never happened during the life of Jesus)

This proves that Jesus is not the true messiah, only a blasphemer portraying as the God's ONLY son, when we know all of us who have been baptised are His sons.

Hope that this helps in your quest for righting the USA out of damnation with all that damn tolerance towards family, children, and Jesus (and no support for cannibals) which the Bible, word of God, clearly shows as the reason that the USA is going to Hell.

Thank you,
Caleb

Carlin

I think it's time I write about someone I lost some time ago. Like any other death that I've experienced from afar, the feeling that I have for it doesn't come out until some time after. However, this time it's a little a different, as I've never met the man. I'm talking about George Carlin.

Those who know me know that most of the thoughts and positions that I waffle about have been brought up by comedians. Comedy is a wonderful, wondrous and wooing way to communicate. It disarms you, leaving you open for new thought. However, it is also tricky, troublesome and tormentful, as if it's done wrong, the message that was meant to be communicated may be misunderstood. And it is in this way that comedy strikes me as a very important medium: you need to be ready to be hit, you need to prepare yourself to open up. It is a bit like anal sex: you need to relax before it goes in, if not it's probably going to hurt (this one's for you Georgy).

It's on that regard that Mr. Carlin shines. He manages to convey his message beautifully arranged and perfectly portrayed, making it very difficult not to listen. He's going to kick you in the balls, and if you don't open up, he makes certain that it hurts. And in that exquisite pain, you start thinking about what he just said, and why it pains you. You start yelling back, trying to make some sense of your past knowledge about the subject, and at that moment it hits you: you don't know anything about the subject, just bits and pieces. So you research about it, you look into yourself for a new explanation, and you come out at the end with a new point. And then you realise that the new point is not so different from your starting point, and that in fact the slight differences between the old and the new are completely ridiculous. And in that ridicule you start laughing. You can't believe how important you thought those differences were, which now seem so insignificant. You listen to him again, and smile, and laugh... and an epiphany comes: You've just come to a conclusion about a subject with your own self, and with a smile in your face to top it off.

He's been my main tool for new thought since I knew about him. Even in his death he's helped me to know myself, as I've noticed that his death (being of a person I've never met) has hit me exactly the same way as any other death in my family. This suggested that I'm not particularly devoted to persons close to me, which I need to address. Either that, or I have unknowingly welcomed him as part of my family.

I know he would slap me on the face if I kept writing as if I was putting him on some sort of pedestal. He's not a saint (that specifically would infuriate him), and he's certainly not in heaven. But he's probably not in hell either. In his interview with Jesus in one of his books, there was a mention of the existence of a heck, which is not as bad as hell; who knows, he's probably there right now, playing poker with some friends of his. I suppose that now that he's dead he would enjoy the act of me writing shit about him. However, I tried, I really tried, but I can't come up with any bad things to write about him, other than he's white (which many people find offensive nowadays), and his idiotic quirk when he mimes fucking someone on stage.

Even his position in religion I always thought has been spot on:

If it's true that we're all from the center of a star, every atom on each of us from the center of a star, then we’re all the same thing. Even a Coke machine or a cigarette butt in the street in buffalo is made out of atoms that came from a star. They've all been recycled thousands of times, as have you and I. And therefore, it's only me out there. So what is there to be afraid of? What is there that needs solace seeking? Nothing. There's nothing to be afraid of because it's all us.

The trouble is we have been separated by being born and given a name and an identity and being individuated. We've been separated from the oneness, and that's what religion exploits. That people have this yearning to be part of the overall one again. So they exploit that. They call it god, they say he has rules, and I think it's cruel. I think you can do it absent religion.

For people who read this blog periodically (which I'm pretty sure I can count with the fingers of my left hand... the right hand is busy right now), you've probably noticed my unprecedented use of "foul" language in this post. Get used to it:

It's not a need [to use the F-word]. It's a choice. [...] It's a form of spice in my stew.

I've always tried to stop myself from using it when writing for this blog, but I don't think I will anymore. There's no such thing as "foul" language, they're just words, and damn it, I'm going to use every one that I deem necessary. In honour of Mr. Carlin, if it feels right, it's going in... that's what she said, I know.

I don't want to end without giving you what I think are his best two quotes:

In our school we didn't have grades. We didn't have A's, B's, C's and D's. The only A's I got -and this is a little corny- I got their Attention, I got their Approval, their Admiration, their Approbation, and their Applause. And those were the only A's I wanted, and I got'em.

As the answer for the question: If there was a Heaven, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Now we're going to have some fun!

Indeed.

Right Writer

Almost a year and a half ago I sat in front of this screen and pleaded for an unknown but familiar energy to move my fingers through the keyboard to begin writing. It worked like I knew it would.

I sat here and began the process of talking in my head, and then simply writing it down: think, write, think, write. I accustomed myself to the thought of seeing the writer in me emerge like it always has after what some may describe as a ritual: my plea to a god (in the latter case, Paz) in the form in which I needed to do. It's appropriate, as doing the plea involves the presence of the energy that I want the presence of.

It's a nice, illogical, but powerful circle that can't be defined, but somehow it works. I don't remember how it started to work, or how did I began understanding it. I'm pretty sure even now that I don't know how it works, but as with any rituals, it is not the inner mechanisms that we care about, but of their products; still, my rationale tempted me.

It's been long since I really delved into this being, into this ability again. However, this time, I'm frightful. My fear stems from not knowing what do I become when I write, is it me who is writing or is it this energy? And then I start to wonder if I'm the right vessel for such energy.

I read from others and sit in awe of their wondrous mastery over the word, and realise that I'm not a writer. I obviously don't think like one. The structure of my essays can't stand the rigour in which an essay needs to be written with. My stories don't hold the intense sway that I've read in others'. And the technique with which I write has been extensively criticised by superiors and colleagues as being plain "not good".

Still, I wonder: do these other writers, with their structural essays, swaying stories, "good" writing, have similar rituals as I do? Maybe not in the same manner as mine (a thought that not only saves their sane stature, but also my out-of-ordinary reputation), but with at least the same intent. They must have; even seeing a blank piece of paper (or word-processor screen) and imagining what to write about may be enough for this energy to come onto them. If this true, then an interesting concept creeps up:

Is it them who are writing or is it this energy? And then I start to wonder if they're the right vessel for such energy. The only difference between me and them in this respect would be my poetic attempts to make something more out of the seemingly ordinary event of starting to write something long. Nice little thought, but I won't go into it too much: I know I'm not a writer, I don't feel like writing everyday (thus, the rituals) and it is usually more what I say then what I write that feels more, you know, me.

Still, writers have always being mythical figures. They record history, communicate wisdom as well as help misinformation tactics, and even wind up being considered artists in the process. Of all the things that were considered historically significant in the last century, can you remember one that wasn't adhered to an impressive speech or important quote? And yet, borrowing a bit from a great writer/comedian (Lewis Black), to become a writer the only thing you need to do is to say "I am a writer" and you're done. Oh, and by his accounts, you also need to be full of shit.

As I'm staring at the end of this piece it has occurred to me that this is in fact the ritual that I just described (this time it was Lewis Black, who knew?), and, as I already know that I'm full of shit, there is only one thing left:

I AM A WRITER... so let it begin (hope Mr. Black was right).

EDIT: I tend to avoid editing a post after publishing it, unless I find some grammar mistakes or I know of something afterwards that needs to be added to the post. This is the latter. I just heard from Lewis Black in an interview:

If you want to write, sit down and start writing; that's what a writer is. Even if you're not writing anything of importance. Uhmm... THAT DOESN'T MEAN BLOGGING. Doesn't mean blogging. I don't care, it doesn't fuck count to me. It doesn't, [...] I get so upset by it I don't even... I really literally cannot form an opinion because when I say the word I just get enraged. It sounds like something... it sounds like fatty tissue. "I was doing very well, until I got this blog."

For those of you, like me, who doesn't know what fatty tissue is: it's the lump on the side of women's breast that signifies possible breast cancer. Here is the interview.

My opinion? I just laughed hysterically for about two minutes.

Brothers

He came into being with a bright light surrounding him and vanishing. He felt weak, and unknowing. He began moving and noticed others coming into being behind him. A voice came from a distance, "Welcome to Shadowglen. Young... young..." an unnerving pause shook the wind around him, "what are you?"

Another voices greeted the others behind him:

"Welcome to Shadowglen, young druid."
"Welcome to Shadowglen, young warrior."
"Welcome to Shadowglen, young rogue."

The voice that greeted him evolved from warm to chilling: "What are you?! What's your name?! Answer!" He searched his mind for an answer, "I don't know..." The voice retorted, "No newcomer is born without a name. Tenaron! Trespasser!"

Three dark birds came flying down quickly, and in mid-flight one turned into a bear, another into a cat, the other into a night elf. They all surrounded him, while a beautiful violet bird landed in front of him and turned into a night elf with a warm presence. "I am Tenaron", he explained, while looking him up and down. "You'll have to excuse our greeter. Although his main duty is to greet, he is also a lookout for Horde. It is very rare for Horde to even reach Teldrassil, even less probable for them to reach Shadowglen, but we never can be too safe."

"Horde? Teldrassil?", he said, searching for answers.

Tenaron, still looking him up, "Greeter, no cause for alarm. He is not of the Horde and does not wish us harm", turning to the spirit behind him, "but... he's not human, nor dwarf. Not even draenei."

"I am not of this world, it appears", he concluded. "The hostile greeting I've received makes me believe this Horde stands in poor graces with your kind... these humans, dwarves, and draenei."

"and night elves. We are Alliance, and you believe correctly. It is of long-stance this conflict. They have hunted and killed our kind for ages now. They are beasts that bear no reason, their society has no room for civility and understanding, such as we do." Tenaron proudly explained.

"Calling another an unreasonable beast is a sign of poor civility and understanding, Tenaron", he declared, looking straight into Tenaron's eyes.

"How... dare you?" a shocked Tenaron exclaimed, while a cat hissed, a bear growled, and night elf's hand started to glow. "We welcome you into our sacred land, and you answer with this pomposity!"

"My dear Tenaron, you judge me as pompous, while here you stand with three of your highly-trained guards preparing to kill a newcomer with no training whatsoever." He smiled to himself, "New... comer. New... Niu. Yes, that will be my name then: Niu."

Tenaron reacquired his posture. "I will not apologise for our ways to secure our home, young... whatever you are. Niu, is it? As our greeter has stated, no newcomer comes without name, appointed by the gods. The gods that have protected us and helped us fight the Horde. You are welcome to join us, Niu. I see potential in you, that will be of great benefit for our cause."

"These gods of yours did not appoint me my name. I have. I'm relieved of this, as it appears these gods crave for war and I don't want to be linked to them in any way." Niu shouted.

"Our gods don't crave for war, it is the Horde's gods that do!" Tenaron defending his creed.

"I'll figure that for myself." Niu, walking towards the outskirts of Shadowglen. The cat behind him stepped aside unknowingly.

"Very well. I should pray to our gods for your death to be swift. Although, if it's by a Horde's claw, I truly doubt that this will be the case." Tenaron shouted back.

After passing through Shadowglen's entrance gate, he felt an impenetrable presence surrounding him, making him unable to move. A strong and reverberating voice made itself present, "I thought I would never see the day. It was true. You were born. Niu: wondrous name. Elegant, cunning, sincere."

"Who are you?" Niu asking without fear.

"My name is irrelevant, but I am of the Gee Em, and we've been expecting you. The story of this land is long, and, although Alliance and Horde bear many differences, such hatred can be contemplated as ironic: they are destined to share this land forever," the voice whispered.

"How would you know this?" Niu grinned, as he knew the answer to his question.

"We wrote that destiny, young Niu", the voice warmly responded, "however, we didn't write how would they be sharing this land."

"This is where I come in," Niu interrupted. "Yes, Niu," the voice, seemingly impressed, "and your timing could not have been better. As we speak, the night elf who just spoke to you is receiving a warning of an incoming attack from the Horde, and..."

Niu smiled, "it is up to me. It rests in me. I come with a new age to this land. In me lies the possibility for them to live peacefully, for one of them to enslave the other, or..."

The Gee Em grievingly answered, "for both of them to destroy each other. Yes, Niu, your presence may come with their extermination, making them share this land in spirit... It is your choice."

Niu glared at the horizon. He looked at his transparent hands and body. He looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes, and smiled again. "Their hatred is the origin of their destruction. Me doing nothing will get them there. I am here, thus, their destruction is mine as well," He paused, "Slavery starts a never-ending cycle of animosity, that is probably the reason of why things are as they are now." The Gee Em's smile was felt throughout the land. "Ok. I have made a decision."

The floor trembled. The sky was flooded by mounted dragons, birds and planes, heading towards "Darnassus! Our capital city is being raided by the Horde!", a night elf shrieked.

"Take me there, wise Gee Em," ordered Niu. In a flash, he was standing in the portal towards the dock of Teldrassil. A moment later, he was seeing a figure appearing in front of him. It was Thrall, an intimidating orc, a leader of the Horde that has broken many Allies' necks with his powerful hammer. Behind Niu stood Tyrande Whisperwind, a fare night elf, a leader of the Alliance that has burned to death many Horde with her uncanny use of magic. All stood still, as if they were in the centre of a hurricane. "I gather you're here to kill them," Niu spoke to Thrall while a massive amount of orcs, trolls, undead and blood elves began to gather.

"Yes," answered Thrall, pondering who was he speaking to. "Are you with the Alliance?", he asked.

"No," responded Niu. "Then you must be Horde. You seem weak, but that shouldn't stop you from gathering yourself to attack these self-righteous scumbags," growled Thrall.

"I'm not Horde either," responded Niu. Thrall moulded a question in his mind that couldn't be put into words.

Niu turned to Tyrande, "I gather you're here to defend this land from the Horde." "Yes, these beasts have threatened us before. We're ready to finish them once and for all," answered Tyrande while the city began filling up with dwarves, humans, night elves and draenei.

"Threat?! You speak of threat when you're people enslaved mine for ages! How else are we going to be safe while your hands, feet, and bodies are still breathing the life my kind gave you?", Thrall shouted.

"You call it slavery, we call it protection from the lack of reason of your kind. The humans had no other choice than to put you in cages after your decent in helping for our destruction in the First War," Tyrande answered.

"We were brought here to prosper. We were promised land. A land of welcoming, but we were betrayed. Our elders tried to reason afterwards, but your fathers wouldn't listen," Thrall almost crying.

"Reason? What kind of reason lies in such beasts? Your elders would have betrayed us. Our fathers couldn't risk that to happen," Tyrande sniffing away Thralls tears.

Niu looked at the sky, took a small breath, and said: "You are both here to prevent your deaths by the hand of the other, but you wish to do so by killing each other. You seem both to me breeds of great reason, but of little understanding. And such misunderstanding has led both of you to think of the other as either mindless beasts or self-centered elitists. Allies, Horde: this is not your land. It is of itself; in fact, we are of the land. And we shall return to it one day, but not at the hand of each other, but at the words of the destiny writers. There is great power in both your lines of breed, but it can reach greater heights if you come to realise that your past is not your present, and that the acts of the dead cannot speak for the acts of the living. I see a great deal of both of you in the other, but you can't see that because pride has blinded you. A pride that has been bestowed upon you through a simple whim of destiny: you were born either Alliance or Horde, a decision which wasn't your own, but still you wave your flags, shouting words of pride for being an Ally or a Horde as if you had something to do with the fact that you are one. I am here, and didn't ask to be here, but it has been my choice to remain here and say this to you, and for that I'm proud, because it was my choice. Don't be proud for what your breed has done, be proud for what you personally have done and what are going to do. Look into your hearts, and see that the thing that will bring the most pride to each of your kind is to you see yourselves as children of these lands... as brothers."

Niu felt a small breeze through his body and he closed his eyes as his being was coming to an end. Everybody stood by as the essence of Niu evaporated. A Gee Em whispered to him, "Come back to us, son. You have done well."

Thrall and Tyrande looked at each other and gave a simple nod. Thrall walked towards Tyrande, and mid-way stopped and laid his hammer in the ground. Tyrande began levitating her staff and laid it on Thralls feet; she then casted a spell onto Thrall, making him feel stronger. "You bear now a mark that before only an Ally was able to bear: the Gift of the Wild. It should endure your entire life," Tyrande warmly remarked. Thrall picked up Tyrande's staff and ordered, "Horde, back to your cities and villages. We shall leave our brothers in peace."

...

For personal reasons, I have decided to stop playing World of Warcraft until an undefined date. These reasons will surely be explained in later posts. However, I want to mention that I have met a wonderful group people while playing the game, both Horde and Allies, to which I dedicate this story:

Thank you for fighting with me, healing me, and making me feel needed and good at what I was doing. I will come back a better man, and a better feral druid.

My armory page.

Obama Won

Obama won.

Shouting and celebration was met by a quiet rumbling of a dream of a junior king some time ago. I consider myself guilty of putting more attention of the politics of a country other than my own, but, frankly, who can blame me? That democratic race was a ride, full of gaffes and inspirational moments that made it unforgettable. All of those dirty moves and emotional speeches entertained me greatly for the last two years, always making me think about what will happen to the world with the next leader of that hate-it-or-love-it country. And, of course, I am going to be able to say that I was alive when the first black president of the USA was democratically elected.

However, I'm feeling somewhat disturbed. An stereotype, even if it has an apparent positive side to it, is still a generalisation, which takes offence and that must be straightened. Some news organisations and many US citizens are feeling pride of having elected a black man to office; and it bothers me because it is implying a racial stereotype that I thought was already overcome. Obama seems to be a good man, and if he is, that is the reason to celebrate, but to be joyful because he is black has a weight of prejudice that I see very similar as wanting a black man in your basketball team. I understand the historic implications of having elected a a black president, and it is truly a landmark event, but to present that as evidence of moral evolution and stating it as a reason to "believe in the USA again", is the same as being proud of not going to jail. Let me remind you that in that same election, Proposition 8 (a California state amendment banning gay marriage) was passed.

Was Nelson Mandela celebrated this way when he was elected president of South Africa? Would people feel the same pride when electing a white man to that office (he would be the first)? A Korean right now is the Secretary General of the UN (a highly important position in world politics), an African, a Chinese and many others of different ethnicities have been elected to that same office, where was their celebration? There wasn't, because there shouldn't be. Obama himself stated that race is only the core of oneself, not our identity. Obama's performance as a president will be irrelevant of his skin colour, so being proud of having a black president concedes itself as plain ignorance and prejudice.

For the record, I'm happy that Obama was elected, out of the two he seemed more humane, honest, and I really like his speeches, but, like with any other politician, I'm not keeping my hopes up. Frankly, none of the persons that were considered during the race seemed adequate. That bottleneck of a system that breaks people and gives out candy for following orders is still in place. Even though Obama frequently distanced himself from McCain, their policies on the fundamental issues of democracy and wealth are not that different (they both voted for the bailout plan). USA is still shouting itself as the beacon of democracy when in reality it's anything but... the citizen didn't get to rule on the war in Iraq (even with all the protests), or the bank bailout plan, or the healthcare system, which have far greater importance than the propositions they actually get to vote on. The only time they get to decide on an important national issue is for the presidency, the race for which spends millions of dollars of endorsements by corporations that are planning to cash their check later, and the options for which are just different flavours of the same thing. I'm sorry, but this is no different than before, other than the fact that the person elected is black; to shout "Look at us! We got the black guy on top, aren't we civilised?" is like a crack addict claiming progress because he only does coke now.

A truly democratic country would have the people running the country. It'd skip all the smokes and mirrors that this pseudo-democratic system has put in place, and make every citizen a politician. Debating each other, reading upon the issues, and getting acquainted with the world outside of their house, the population itself would strive to reach a true country-wide consensus. However, a person today is too busy to read, too tired to debate, and too docile to contradict the status quo. I won't get into why this is so, but I will say it is not entirely the person's fault.

And for all of you that are thinking "We just voted a black man for office, how is that not contradicting the status quo?", remember that you still went into the same ice cream store you have gone into for the last hundred years, the only difference is that you asked for chocolate instead of vanilla.