Woke up this morning with this song in my head.
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Never before have I felt so strongly about a political candidate. Ron Paul has balls of steel and constantly exercises them defending life and liberty.
Don't like gay marriage? Get the government out of marriage altogether and leave it up to the churches, as it was for thousands of years.
Want to keep more of your own money? Cut the size of government and lower taxes.
Incensed about the senseless destruction of human life? End the wars and end abortion.
Ron Paul is the man. Watch his interview with Piers Morgan from August 15, 2011. The whole thing is good, but his argument against abortion is powerful and starts at around 9 minutes, 20 seconds.
Who will Pat Robertson endorse in 2012? The pro-abortion Rudy Giuliani isn't running this time so Robertson will have to find another candidate. Does Robertson have the sense to endorse Ron Paul? Probably not. But I do.
Vote Ron Paul 2012. I will. And I'm actually going to show up to the primary—a far cry from my political apathy of 2008.
"From hell's heart, I stab at thee! For hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee, thou damned whale!"
That Captain Ahab was one messed up dude.
The good Christian should beware of mathematicians, and all those who make empty prophecies. The danger already exists that the mathematicians have made a covenant with the devil to darken the spirit and to confine man in the bonds of Hell.
—St. Augustine
This song is a staple at funerals everywhere (I can't recall going to a funeral where they didn't play it). If he's still around, I want Victor Wooten to come play this at mine.
Really? You don't have it memorized? You can't look it up on your own? Well, okayfine here it is. Now, on to the application:
Q: Why are Anglicans no good at chess?
A: Because they can't tell the difference between a bishop and a queen.
Q: What do you get when you cross a Jehovah's Witness and a Unitarian?
A: Somebody who knocks on your door for no reason at all.
To become a father is also to become a finder of lost sippy cups. [This is true, of course, only if the aforementioned paternal parental unit remains present to his familial unit subsequent to parturition of offspring, and does not simply skip town immediately following the act of procreation. –Ed.] Being a father of two children—with a third on the way—I have looked under couches, sniffed through rooms, and otherwise hunted down many a lost sippy cup. Once one has found a lost sippy cup, one must then empty the remaining contents of said sippy cup and place the sippy cup into the dishwasher as quickly as possible, minimizing one's intake of noxious fumes.
Such familiarity with sippy cups and their contents recently triggered the memory of a nursery rhyme taught to me by my dear mother:
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Apart from leaving with me an unreasonable fear of spiders, my mother's nursery rhyme has left me wondering for most of my life what, exactly, were these mysterious tuffets upon which young girls—who were also mysterious—sat; and what, exactly, were these equally mysterious curds and whey. As it turns out, a tuffet is a stool without legs and without internal storage space, or so say the towering intellects who contribute to Wikipedia. Though I had had a great need to consult a work of reference to learn about tuffets, I needed no such consultation to become intimately familiar with curds and whey—I simply had to have children. [Girls of any age remain mysterious. –Ed.]
As milk spoils, its constituent parts separate. Curds are the coagulated material that remains after spoilage; whey is the liquid that remains. Any milk remaining in a lost sippy cup will spoil and will therefore separate into curds and whey.
And Little Miss Muffet ate this crap.
The towering intellects at Wikipedia suggest that "curds and whey," apart from being a card game, is simply ancient parlance for cottage cheese. Having myself been in the immediate presence of cottage cheese, this hypothesis seems entirely plausible. So plausible in fact, that I have considerable difficulty distinguishing the mushy white stuff packaged as cottage cheese from the mushy white stuff one empties from once-lost-but-now-found sippy cups.
Cottage cheese or spoiled milk? It matters not. A child should be protected from exposure to either one. One wonders where Miss Muffet's parents might have been.
Let's start with whatever provides your nautical vessel the proper buoyancy.
Jesus said to Martha, "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?"