There is a reason why I no longer post daily.  In contrast, there are blogs with a half-dozen or more entries per day.  I had to hold true to my every-other-day discipline not to publish anything about Jennifer Wilbanks, the Georgia peach who is now dubbed, "the Runaway Bride."  You see, after following the apparent abduction story of John Mason's fiance with much interest, I was awake the other night when news flashed that she had been found alive.  "How wonderful," I thought.  During the previous several days, I was glued to the TV news reports about this story.

Of course, the media ate the story up and hyped it in the hopes of big viewership ratings.  Statistically, abducted people end up dead.  Whether the abductee is a child or a female, usually they are snatched up by some psychopathic sexual predator who has a day to remember with them, kills them so as not to leave a witness to their depravity, and then buries them in some wooded shallow grave.  Unless it is like a Scott Peterson redux.  I'm not a legal scholar, but logic tells me that you can only have three or four trials of the century before people start ignoring the manufactured and featured news.

Speaking of the news, I have a personal rant I need to get off my chest for a quick mention, and then I'll return us to the regularly scheduled train of thought.  Last year, my little slice of paradise successfully survived four hurricanes in nearly as many weeks.  I mean, sure the power went out, branches and trees fell, and it was a stressful month or so.

When the storms passed, my happy little life returned to normal in short order.  But, just recently I awoke to blinking LEDs on everything I could survey within my small kingdom because of some electrical outage from a passing thunderstorm.  Even though it may be several days until I synchronize the clock on my microwave oven with the one on the coffee maker, what pisses me off most is that all evidence points to a lightning strike on the Cold War sized satellite dish that provides me with television.

Yeah.  So what?  I'll tell you, "So what?"  Most of my television is piped through a third-party proprietary cable system originated from several satellite dishes and antennae arrays located out in the back forty of the grass and sand meadow, who some call a nine hole golf course.  While I think the sport of golf is truly lame -- a sport for fat, rich, old people who need half-a-day away from their spoiled and snotty families -- I'm bummed out that lightning must have struck those archaic dishes out on the golf course.

Why?  Because the only one left working is only providing me with the joys of Fox News, Christian Broadcasting and Shopping Channels.  After I felt the need to stab my own eyes out watching Fox's "Beltway Boys" and then stopped myself from performing a self-lobotomy with an ice cream scoop from watching these "Bush Butt Boys" on Fox, I watched three movies tonight about the old testament.  Unlike the ass-kissing Beltway Boys, at least Moses had a pair of balls big enough to speak his truth to power.

Mental Note: If one were to buy into the notion of Satanic symbolism, why aren't people alarmed that Moses' initial reason to jerk Pharoah's chain came from a burning bush (Flames=Hell) or that he was told to prove his Exodus message was truly from God by throwing his staff on the ground -- at which point it turned into a (Asp=Satan) serpent? 

Unfortunately, this thinking allows me to re-board some of my thoughts about Jennifer Wilbanks.  As I've already mentioned, I was awake when the news flashes came in.  Live. Some uncut and uneditted footage for the sake of expedient broadcasting of the news. CNN, MSNBC, and FOX  -- all jousting for the best spot and the newest, startling development.

Well, when Jennifer was found to be alive, people spoke of Elizabeth Smart miracles, and faith, and thank you for your prayers, and we knew God would answer our pleas.  Being a bit sarcastic (you think?), I thought of those sports teams who thank Jesus for the touchdown and the win, and the championship, and the champagne in the locker room, and the party in the house and the front lawn in Duluth, Georgia.  No one blames Jesus when they lose, do they?

It's never God's will that your loved one had a raccoon drag their skull fifty yards from a crime scene and identification of the body is delayed several days because the coroner can't get fingerprints from a corpse so decayed in a shallow grave.  No one really gave Jesus any high-fives or props when they found Chandra Levy's body scattered down a park hillside, did they?

Here's the thing that somehow got under my skin.  Everyone around this couple is so enamored with their feel-good, born-again christian psychological bullshit that they can't see the sword of Damacles hanging over their head, they refuse proven psychological normatives in the place of their disco-era faith in God, and they are obviously more concerned with their own vanity and what the community will think of them, rather than the reality of the situation and the facts on hand.  No wonder Dubya was re-elected.

Before you pop off that cut-n-paste hatemail from Pastor's website, read your bible.  I may bash Bush, and I may bash Evangelicals sometimes, but I do it because I'm continually surprised and simultaneously horrified that these so-called Christians don't bother to read their own bible.  There are some interesting fables in the bible.  I mean, Moses could probably have kicked ass against King Arthur's Merlin in some WWF smackdown.  What gets me all grumpy toward some of the self-righteous and hypocritical people thumping some revised version of their bible is that they are the same people so quick to point our how violent, evil, or nefarious the Qu'ran is in some childish method of finger pointing and tattling.

I have to say, "You all need a time-out in the corner."  Dunce caps are optional.  Don't worry.  Even though my sins have caused the Almighty to smite my good cable channels, I have total faith that sometime on Monday, some guy named Jesus (or Bubba) will fix the problem.

And that poor bastard, John Mason.  Talk about rejection.  His woman would rather cut off her hair and fake a kidnapping than get married.  Got cold feet?  Go Greyhound.

[Headphones] :: Allah's Helicopter (beta) - JfZ

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