Will “Teacup Yorkie” Replace the Beloved “Cleveland Steamer”?

Experts are dumping all sorts of prognostications into the mix and stirring quite a pot of confusion about this gripping question. Seasoned linguists from elite academic backgrounds currently find themselves in a pinch regarding the matter. Journalists of repute from every daily paper are rushing to seek the best answers that might drop under cultural pressure from the man, woman, and xzdyizobitwyk on the street:

VANDERBILT POOPER: “I was here in Times Square, just hosing-off my pumps and trying to get a random splash of moisture up into my gussets, when I met Fussbudgita, who was on her way to the grocery store to buy Klonopin. Realizing the timeliness of this wounding cultural battle between teacups and steamers, I literally flitted out of my ‘private mode’ and went FULL NEWSDOG, baby, asking this spicy Mama for her personal take on the enigma. I had some photos in my MxnSatchel, so that helped. I would have filmed our discussion on my new iPhone Probe-ANAL (Anti-Nascent Adumbrated Lariat) but Fussbudgita, who insisted I call her by her nickname, ‘Fudgie,’ didn’t want to appear on video due to potential knowledge of her grocery store’s supply of narcotics and the fact that she was about to unleash a world-changing movement that was not yet ready for mainstream publicity.

Nevertheless, the transcript of our brief exchange can be viewed below:

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Hi! You look glorious! What’s your name, sweetie?”

FUDGIE: “My name is Fussbudgita, but most folks call me ‘Fudgie.’ Who the hell are you and why’d you leap outta that fountain in a skirt with no shirt and them giant silver titty-clamps?”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Oh, these li’l accessories? They’re irrelevant, silly! I’m a well-respected journalist enjoying my day off!”

FUDGIE: “I don’t believe you.”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Ohmigod, what? That I’m a journalist or that it’s my day off?”

FUDGIE: “That you’re well-respected.”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Oh. Okay, I lied about that part, but what I want today is your opinion about this dreadful tug-of-war assailing our culture concerning the term ‘Teacup Yorkie’ potentially replacing ‘Cleveland Steamer’ in our beloved American lexicon!”

FUDGIE: “Yeah, that’s a tough one for all of us. Normally, I’d take a hard pass on this question, but it brings to mind another term that my own dear Mama used often and fondly about the very same phenomenon, and now I’m fit to be tied trying to remember what that term was.”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Ohmigod! What term was it?”

FUDGIE: “I don’t know, otherwise I would’na said I’m fit to be tied trying to remember, you buttermilk pixie. And don’t you dare try to film me with that phone you just snatched from your ninnywhistle, cabron.”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Fine, Ms. Fudgie. Have it your way. Instead of the phone—which really is special, once you rinse it—I’ve got these photographs in my SassySatchel. Photos from the famous trial currently underway … the trial that’s caused all this worrisome brouhaha about Teacup Yorkies and Cleveland Steamers, and which term will be most politically correct to use going forward! The future of a nation hangs on this conundrum, like hair shorn from a destitute Mumbai virgin weaved onto the head of a multi-suckling welfare mother in Lansing! Can I show you some photos?”

FUDGIE: “Well, I’ll look at most anything for twenty seconds. What have you got?”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Gah! Have a look at this, though I daresay it won’t help you remember your Mama’s beloved term for the Teacup Yorkie!”

FUDGIE: “Wrong, bitch. This brings Mama’s words flooding RIGHT into my brain.”

VANDERBILT POOPER: “Ohmigod?!? What’s the term?”

FUDGIE: “Dirty Sanchez.”


#BringOnTheAsteroid #AmericaTheBeautiful #TeacupYorkie #ClevelandSteamer #TheWestHasFallen #Priorities #AllOverButTheShouting #FiftyYearsAtTheOutside #NoWonderTheyHateUs #DisForDepravity #ReadGibbon #MonkeyPox #Goodnight

Who Could Have Possibly Foreseen an Ashley Judd Essay at this Juncture?


Mark my words: at Naomi Judd’s open-casket globally broadcast funeral there will be 12 Geese-a-laying, a minor cartel hit, medieval mummers identifying as Post-Structuralist origami artists, dill pickles, Norwegian sailors debating how to best bake a capybara, half a tennis ball, three county-approved tickle fights, the widow of a legless flamenco legend, a mysterious postcard, the extra box of wigs from that storage unit Uncle Cactus rented, and Fentanyl.

Also, there shall be navigating, delving, encountering, processing, rebirthing of prior analogues, entering, draining of unexpected reservoirs, primal grunting, immediate accessorizing of certainties, and rectification. Heaps of that last one.



France: Prolapsed Asshole of the West

Nah, nah, nah, nah—this is not really about the results of the supposedly nail-biting battle between Macron and Marine Le Pen. Please. Anyone who is masochistic enough to take a twig and stir it even lightly around the cesspool of French politics has long-known that there’s never been much difference between the sniveling dipshit Macron and the disingenuous, opportunistic Le Pen.

Same (but differentially ugly) sides of the same coin.

The main point, if any point is ever worth taking-away, at this juncture, is that the French are perennially useless as both members of the EU and as (dubious) members of the West, at this stage in history.

I do not say this lightly. I say this as someone of predominantly French extraction. All four grandparents, except one, were as French as blood-pudding. BOUDIN, Baby! It must have been the one parental strain from Ireland/England that led to my thoroughly unexpected and innate ability to eventually conquer every single thing I have ever fucked-up. If I were completely French, I would take the original things I fucked-up and solved, and then fuck them up again, permanently.

Ce n’est pas trop, mais merci a ZEUS … particulierment pour the bizarre ethnic mix and for small graces.

Three portions of my heritage are derived from pissy, bitchy, pompous, arrogant, melodramatic antagonistes … one forth comes from England, or possibly northern Germany. (I wish … the people in Niedersachsen are my kind of folk.

It’s all a bizarre genetic lottery, for any of us, but I can be thankful for a touch of bangers in my mash, and perhaps a bit of schnitzel in my kartoffelsalat.

And I want no grief from morons. I know of what I speak. The French (as a people in general—not by any means in entirety) are nihilistic whiners, at best. They are also, in general, irascible turds who have produced one blood-curdling (boudin!) fuck-up after another since WWI and WWII.

Since Late Antiquity, the French have always had a knack for inflicting the worst of their dysfunction upon others. Blecchhh. Yuccckkkk. Conards! More debilitating, most everyday American citizens, grandfathers, grandmothers, mothers, fathers, and sundry have no CLUE that the French really started to shovel even more heaping helpings of their scatterbrained insanity onto the rest of the West after WWII, when America and the rest of the globe were reeling to recover—rebuilding to forge an onward path.

That’s when the ever-infectious French began to peddle the stinking stench of Post-Structuralism into American, English, and German universities—yesssss, starting subtly, like bloodworms and fungi, at the academic level, while most sturdy and reputable people were focused upon rebuilding and recovery.

Oh, take a look at the perverted freaks that the French exported; their names now seem interchangeable, like clowns replacing each other, over and over and over, on the stage of some desperate and disreputable circus troupe: Jacques LaCan, Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, etc.—almost all of whom prided themselves upon “exploring” acts of depravity across the globe until they finally crumbled into balls of stink, dissolution, and their own self-aggrandizing versions of chronic ennui.

Yet, the febrile emanations from the diseased brains of these drunken pieces of willful cultural filth have nevertheless undergirded the educational platforms of every university curriculum since the early 1960s in the United States, Germany, and France, backed heavily and yet insidiously by blown-out Communist agitators and furtive instigators.

It was a great time for rubbishy minds to try to infect entire scholarly disciplines—while an already exhausted-but-otherwise-determined populace was busy cleaning things up in those awful, evil, capitalist WAYS!!! Yes. Believe it or not, humans once had the nerve to use actual monetary profit to refortify the very societies whose freethinking mandates made such pestilential dogmatics ever allowed, but also ever-sensibly defeated.

The French postmodernists, post-morons. Doyens of depravity who encapsulated in their sybaritic idiocy the very pits of stinking Paris and Berlin, seeking to plant the seeds of their fetid notions, not as marginal theories, but as foundational sources for all future learning, for everyone!

And they succeeded. Why?

Because everyday American and English and German and French people were too busy recovering and then navel-gazing. It happens.

Just like war, to begin with. It’s amazing to see wimpy new generations even glimpse the itty-bitty outskirts of foreign wars (Ukraine—Russia) through the lens of Kardashian Lip-Glossed Social (Diseased) Media. No concept. No clue.

Wars happen. Big, rollicking, civilization-shattering ones happen at least every 100-150 years, with lots & lots & lots of mind-boggling conflicts occurring in between.

War is to be avoided among people of evolved thought and values, but … it ain’t ever gonna work like that. Supposedly mindless species of aggressive ants get fired-up in remote jungle shadows and by the thousands they overtake and obliterate entire colonies of humdrum, relatively sedate ants.

You think humans—who have the faculties to actually plan, plot, connive, and amplify—are exempt from the very same stresses and conflicts and paradoxical impulses we see in every strata of existence, from amoebas to toads to birds to … Really?

One of the staggering reasons why people are losing their goobs with increasing ease, these days, is because the explosive diffusion of information in the past 50 years—the truly unprecedented acceleration of technological advance—has forced the “dominant” Western societies on our globe to confront, on a wide and even popular scale, the abject lie that humans were somehow immortally perfect in the beginning, created by a just Divinity, and then placed innocently in a Paradise stacked with “Don’t You Touch!” temptations placed there by the same Divinity, and then … humans fucked it all up by being curious, essentially.

GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT GUILT … based upon the frantic embrace of bad mythology. Based upon abject lies, for those who think the “BIBLE” is some document of literal, power drill-penetrating Truth.

This kind of religious/emotional, default manner of thinking has caused, in our age, in the West, a massive cultural Disconnect like none that has ever been seen before.

The bedrock ”Guilt and Atonement” Syndrome has been proven to be a lie, at least as applied to real, widespread human existence, meaning, and purpose … and millions are waking-up to it and freaking out, whether aware of the reasons or not aware—a sense of primordial guilt is inherited just like any other part of inherited culture.

Yet, what do societies do when that veil is lifted, even briefly, and the bedrock collapses?

The Churches do not do anything. Roman Catholicism and all of its ever-unseemly pomps, glories, and even genuinely lovely attributes are mired in the grievous Primeval Guilt (Original Sin) error expounded by St. Augustine, who, in his reformed lecherousness, was uplifted to dictate a terrifying trajectory of Western civilization. The Protestants kept that insidious guilt-dogma and, in most cases, made it worse. In an ongoing fit of convoluted pique, they tried to rid themselves of “Catholic trappings” but they threw out the best parts (Mary, Art) and kept the worst—Original Sin.

And they did this based upon the ongoing, hardcore belief that the Eden story in Genesis was absolute truth.

Well, we are seeing the cultural effects of the widespread (and deserved) breakdown of this doctrine. Again, whether people are even aware of it, as a determinative element of their very lives and cultures, or not.

And, in that sense, everyday people cannot be blamed for all of the chaos.

All of Western civilization has been based upon Roman Catholic/Augustinian foundations of Original Sin and Protestant Calvinism, plus 30,000+ offshoots.

Abjectly amoral and, frankly, malformed minds like Foucault, Derrida, LaCan, and others, may have thought, in their unproductive, substance-abusing vanity, that they were filling the obvious and widening cultural gap in that respect, but rest assured that these individuals were not even remotely equipped to tackle such a vast, extraordinary issue. Weak and pallid minds can never correct even the slightest, unintentional mistakes of far greater minds—and no bigger mistake has been made in Western history than the adoption and hunkering-down of Roman Catholicism/Protestantism of the Original Sin myth.

The Eastern Christians, the Orthodox, did not accept Augustine (or Roman popes) and they reject the idea of Original Sin, leaving the fundamental question of human meaning far, far more open than the Western platform … yet the Orthodox still ascribe to a “Fall” of humanity from a prior, immortal state of existence. So, in some significant ways, the cultural effect is the same: a primordial guilt and shame.

It’s a conundrum that none of the major Churches want to acknowledge in this age. The Roman Catholic hierarchy have so dogmatized themselves into inescapable corners that the slightest admission would destroy them, and, while I count many Catholics as lifelong friends and the finest believers/Christians on earth, it would be great to see the Roman Church—at its Vatican source—somehow destroyed and humbled. I do not want the destruction of the Medieval and Renaissance masters to ever fall. Life and Fire forbid. But it would be mighty if the Popes and Cardinals rebuked their pomp, dressed themselves in sackcloth monks’ robes, turned their wealth over to lay management, and then lived in honeybee-type cells out behind the Vatican—just like the poor but cheerful monks I used to visit frequently in fire-beleaguered New Camaldoli, in Big Sur.

I have news for the Roman Catholic Church: you peaked in the Middle Ages, and only by luck. You’re very old and bulky, with lots of worldly power, ancient property, and lots of jingles and jangles, but you have been on a downhill-slide since those Middle Ages and the Reformation. And in the big picture of Western human history, you have since been a far greater detriment to society than a unifying force. Looking closely, Protestants may not be that smart, either, by any shake of the stick.

But they were smart enough to get away from YOU, Rome.

I certainly do not ascribe to general Protestant obsession with the Bible (which, ironically, Catholics compiled and ratified in the 300s AD!) and their own ongoing embrace of Original Sin literalism. I do not consider most Protestants to be in “direct connection” with the very few realities that we know with some certainty, the elements Christ truly left behind —a meal, his mother, and a mission—but I will sit in a welcoming Lutheran church (just for example) before I ever again gather around a Pope-focused altar.

Such remarks are not made in a spirit of enmity against millions of marvelous Catholic lay people, who are probably light years more holy than I; these remarks are rendered because of my conscience. Roman Catholic papal jurisdiction is a sad, broken bust of a dead pagan emperor on the dust-scrap of human history, and I wish I had sensed that earlier in my life.

I don’t belong anywhere, as usual. Yet, as so many have said before, “I will not leave my mind at the door” [of the church, or churches].

As a legitimate historian, I have some yet unspoken perspectives regarding these matters, but I can’t imagine what they might accomplish at this ominous juncture. I hope that I am quite incorrect about the future, near or far.

My primary point amid this treatise was to underscore the fact that bogus, false, outmoded. wrong, awfully stupid (and ancient!) Christian “bedrock doctrines” about primeval guilt/original sin have destroyed as many lives as they may have won or secured over the ages. And these doctrines are embedded deeply throughout the West, and while these bedrock beliefs may have been effective when people needed motivation to ACHIEVE ACHIEVE ACHIEVE (before realizing that their worldly success was not bound to primordial guilt) these motives have reached a terrifying existential limit.

Once Darwin and so many of our best scientists—so many of them unheralded and forgotten, unlike so many psychotic “saints” who have been lifted ridiculously on high—so many of these scientists shed a striking and interesting and potentially WORLD-CHANGING light. As a result, this entire era/age has been forced to confront and question, through the overwhelming aegis of social media, some of the beliefs that even now keep them on their feet and safe in their homes and shopping for supper at a local market. It’s huge.

(And beware of scientists—scientists have become as cultish and as slippery-common as preachers, these days. This is not new. Ask me about ancient Egypt or Byzantium, I dare Ya.)

Reasonably bright people know where I am coming-from with this sort of exposition. If dogmatists of religious fundamentalists seek to blow their wigs and attack me … I could not care less. I would never treat another human being—sight unseen!—with anything less than kindness and respect. I have lived my entire life in that manner. It works, mostly. Don’t be a snob, don’t be a doormat. Just be courteous and respectful to EVERYONE, even if you don’t agree on everything like doctrine.

And to wrap-up, the staggering fools like Foucault, Derrida, etc. offered the worst possible “answers” to real and burgeoning questions; these were complete, propped-up French idiots, les dilettantes sans aucun raison …

But one of the sad facts of our species is that, while certain specimens are understandably willing to sniff around any old carcass, most leave the rotting ones to decompose. Some stay and feast.

Like the bizarre, almost parallel-world failures of Roman Catholicism and Protestantism to address the explosive tension in a new era, the Post-Structuralist nincompoops have failed just as spectacularly, if not more, given the direct evidence of their inane babblings. Even Popes have known—guilefully or diplomatically or wisely—to shut their pieholes, mostly, over the past century!

When it comes to French post-Structuralist solutions to our firestorm angst in the West, their dogmas of the divorce of text from context, of the divorce of reality from experience, have borne rottener fruit— we all see the putrefaction about us.

Whores are heroes!

Criminals are saints!

Actors are philosophers!

Addicts are Enlighteners!

The Obscenely Wealthy are Lonely, Misunderstood Victims!

Confusion is a Desirable State-of-Being!

Sense is for Base Pleasure!

Sensibility is for New Puritanism!

Life is Basically Cheap … and always at the beck and call of richer grifters.

And the putrid alleyways and sewers of France are the biggest suppliers of this oozing excrement. Blame them. Or blame Paris, which is well nigh the most unworthy place for even a rat to visit. Trust me. I have lived there.

Until apathetic people of any Western nation rise up against the egregious pendulum-swing, nothing will be resolved. And it’s already too late.

If you’re in your late 30s or early 40s you may well avoid the Breaking Point.

Otherwise, buckle-up. Feast and make merry as the primary goal of life. That’s the kind of spell that 80 years of human obliviousness can cast upon an entire globe.

It’s nothing new. But we, as a species, have less excuse than ever before in history, for allowing matters to collapse in such mind-destroying ways.

We possess far, far, far, far FAR greater technological, economic, medical, educational, spiritual infrastructures and powers than ever recorded, at our very fingertips.

And in case anyone might wonder, my words are not remotely about such pedestrian dichotomies as “liberal” and “conservative.”

I truly do not recognize either of those labels in this age of huddling sheep. And I do not belong to either camp, if such camps can even be said to exist. “Be a MAN!” as Brando spluttered in The Godfather. Or, obviously, be a woman. Be an individual, if you really don’t consider yourself either one of those boring basics.

But I will pin myself down to one thing: the French are to blame for much of it.

Hey, I’m human. I wanna blame somebody else and they seem likely.

#JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranAuthor #AuthorJonathanKieran #FrenchElection #Oracles #Macron #LePen #Derrida #Foucault #LaCan #Hysteria #SlowDrip

For Fans of Divine Smiting …

Yes, this is for real. An EXACT REPLICA of Noah’s Ark—just the way Almighty Big Daddy God commanded it to be built, according to that timeless work of scientific exactitude and geometric infallibility known as THE BIBLE.

The resurrected ark is found in Kentucky. It’s over 500ft long and 85ft wide and at least as tall as one of the higher Cherubim with a Flaming Death-Sword brandished aloft. FULL DISCLOSURE: Admittedly, there are no Biblical statistics regarding the exact physical dimensions of Cherubim with Flaming Death-Swords brandished aloft. Big Daddy God wanted to keep that a secret. Like toothpaste, for instance: a man-made—not God-made—invention which is transparently “of the devil” since Big Daddy God deliberately chose not to include toothpaste in the Bible. I mean, any fool can follow this sacred logic. BUT Big Daddy God wants everyone to know about Noah and the Ark—especially Baptists with money-to-burn and kids to feed, indoctrinate, and lodge in local hotels off the turnpike. #EveryShekelMatters

And don’t you dare call this a “tourist attraction”—even though packages, dining and hotel suggestions are amply provided—because this here is a state-o-the-artifice Spiritual Enrichment attraction. There’s powerful learnin’ to be encountered in this place. BOOK LEARNIN’!—from the only buk, buk, buk, buk-kuk on Earth that truly matters.

That’s right: The BIBLE, bitches!

And just have yourself a closer look at that happy family in the above website photo of Ark Encounter. They are practically floating out of that Ginormous Doomsday Bible-Boat on the fumes o’ glory, enraptured (which, FYI, is but a partial rapture before the REAL Rapture), elated by the truths and wonders they explored not long after hoovering every last crumb of Mitzi’s Old Fashioned Manna in the snack bar beneath the behemoth. By the Land o’ Goshen, it looks like Mother ate herself an entire Baked HAM-Son-of-Noah special (only $39.99 on Two-by-Two Tuesdays!). Yep, she’s carrying the leftovers in her Thoroughly Redeemed ‘n’ Recyclable plastic Ark Accessories & Purchases bag; later on, back at the hotel, the kids’ll scavenge that meat like ravens on Armageddon’s battlefield, all while Papa’s gittin’ him another kind of rump roast in the ensuite, heh heh heh. Just like LORDY GOD likes it and watches it and demands it:

Be fruitful and multiply! [The more to smite the merrier!]*

I don’t know about y’all, but that Ark-mesmerized family is so vividly showcased that I can hear their conversation as they depart the hulking tabernacle, that veritable Lusitania of Leviticus or whatever the hell Bible-Book tells all about the Noah Truth. (Oh, come on, we ALL know it’s delineated in Genesis. You think I don’t know my Bible? You THINK I don’t KNOW my Bible? Youthinkidontknowmyfuckinbible?!?!? Relax, bitches. I’m just messin’. But not only do I know my Bible, I know exactly what these four believers are saying as they bask in the Afterglory:

DAD: “Kids, wasn’t that the most magnificent and utterly unimpeachable encounter you have ever had with our God Jehoova? I mean, you couldn’t have gotten any closer to Heaven unless the Devil himself was on your ass and chasin’ you right up Jacob’s Ladder—which, I understand from that perky-bosomed ticket girl, is going to be built in 2023 right next to the Ark itself! Phase II of the Encounter: Stairway to Salvation! We’ll have to come back for sure.”

MOM: “Praised by Chee-zuss. Personally, I’d like to see ’em rebuild the Tower of Babel.”

SON: “Shut up, Mom. Your privilege is showing, again.”

MOM: “Sorry, Son. I know I am not to offer opinions forthright due to the wantonness of my womanly curse.”

SON: “Anyhow, Dad—I know it’s written down in the Bible by God’s own hand and all that, but do you really think that one crusty old farmer and his kids were able to build a boat that big out of gopher wood and tend to all the species of the entire world?”

DAD: “No doubt at all, son. You have to remember: they had magical instructions given to them directly by God and, best of all, they had Lot, but also lots and lots and lots of subservient wives and concubines to do the heavy lifting and globally sustainable poop-scooping and such. I sure wish God hadn’t revoked the right to multiple concubines somewhere along the way. So useful in a pinch.”

MOM: “I wish God still allowed concubines, too. I’m tired.”

DAUGHTER: “But Daddy, how did all the millions of different animal species of the world know when to pair-up and march, two-by-two, from all the regions of the earth to get on the actual boat? The logistics are staggering!”

DAD: “God told ’em to get their sorry asses on the run if they wanted to live, that’s how.”

DAUGHTER: “But how did all the individual species decide which male and female specimens among them had the honor of being the only ones to survive the Destruction? Wouldn’t animals have fought over something like that? Seems they would’ve, what with the teeth and feral drive to survive. That sort of thing.”

SON: “Didn’t you listen to the Ark Encounter tour guide, Sis? Our God Jehoova implanted a sacred Chip of Foreboding into the brains of all the chosen members of the various species beforehand. Then, when He decided it was the perfect time to smite, he activated the chip implants and they all just knew right away!”

DAD: “That’s right, Son, and well said. Our Jehoova God had everything in place before the time came to whack the world.”

MOM: “Praise Chee-zuss.”

DAUGHTER: “I don’t remember reading anything about implanted Chips of Foreboding in the Bible.”

DAD: “Don’t question God or your brother, girl. Remember that you are here only by virtue of the Borrowed Rib, accursed for all ages by the ease with which the snake that God put in the Garden seduced your frail and hungry spirit. You, like your mother, are no more than a metaphysical adjunct filled with an innate need to screw-up God’s royal plans at every possible turn due to the harrowing catastrophe of your female condition. This is why men were created first. Oh, boy!”

DAUGHTER: “Okayyyyyy. So you’re saying that God even implanted Sacred Chips of Foreboding into the minuscule neuron-clusters of thousands of butterflies and spider species? I mean, butterflies and spiders couldn’t survive a rain-smiting, right?”

DAD: “Yes, yes. Butterflies and spiders and insects were implanted too. They were all on the Ark. Noah and the rest of those poor bastards must’ve wanted to swat their hands through the air like crazy, but they couldn’t. God’s command forbade bug-smooshing. By the way, honey, stop peering too deeply into the mystery! That’s another sad devil-inclination of your wraith-bedazzled sex. Always with the goddamned chatter.”

MOM: “Yea, glory! So hath my Lord ‘n’ huzzbund spoken … so mayeth it be. Ith.”

SON: “You know, Dad, just before we came to worship at the Ark, one of my teachers said that the whole Jewish story of Noah was actually based on a much, much more ancient Babylonian story of a dude named Gilgamesh, and that the Israelites pretty much copied the details.”

DAD: “Babylonia … Gilga … WHUTT?!? Son, I will take this child on my shoulders and swing her like a club at your head until it fractures and brain-matter slops onto the hot Kentucky asphalt like so much discarded oatmeal. Don’t you ever mention these blasphemies again.”

MOM: “Oh, deliver us, Chee-zuss.”

SON: “Okay, okay. I was just curious. But have you ever wondered, Dad, why Jehoova God had to smite everyone to begin with?”

DAD: “It isn’t rocket science, son! The Bible tells it plain as plain and anyone with an ounce of logic can easily discern the reason. God looked down upon the earth one day, probably after a nap in the Garden, you know? And He saw that 99% of human brings were desperate, conniving, starving, dirty, diseased, frightened, reckless, faulty, and mistake-prone creatures. Then, like any higher being who sees that His creation is imperfect due to His own flawed blueprints and apparent ineptitude, God—who is male, after all—grew frustrated and had to throw a tantrum. Whereupon He obliterated all that He had made in a fit of spectacular pique. You remember that deck I tried to build in the back yard last year?

SON: “Oh, yeah! That wraparound deck was a hot mess. You really screwed it up from the first plank, but you kept on building and building until it was ‘finished.’ It hurt just to look at that hodgepodge. Then, when Mom—of course—fell through it at the unveiling, you spent days and days tearing the whole thing down with an axe, stomping on the hacked wood, screaming and wailing, drinking whiskey, then pouring whiskey over the pile of rubble and setting it all on fire. You stayed up all night to watch it burn … you watched it burn until you laughed.

DAD: “There you have it, Son. Jehoova God does the same thing when he is faced with his own fuck-ups. Only, when God decides to burn his faulty creations, he burns them for eternity, not just a day or two. And believe me, He laughs as they fry. Whoah, yeah.”

MOM: “That sounds fair. He is God, after all.”

DAD: “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, woman.”

MOTHER: “Praised be Chee-zuss.”

DAD: “Amen. Now, let’s all head back to the hotel. I could use a bath. I stink from spending too much time near the rhino enclosure. Those things sure can shit up a storm, especially when they get their stubby little tails swinging.”

SON: “Funny that God saved the rhinos on the ark only to see them hovering near extinction these days, right Dad?”

DAD: “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Son. And remember: there’s all kinds of smiting He can do. ALL KINDS.”

SON: “Amen! Hey Dad: now that we’ve seen this living re-creation of the greatest seafaring vessel ever known to recorded human history, built from the very mind of God Almighty Himself and lifted from the pages of His own international bestseller, can we vacation next year in California? I really want to go see Universal’s Jurassic Park tour—yet another educational re-creation!”

DAD: “Hell no, we won’t go there, son.”

SON: “Awww, why not?”

DAD: “Because dinosaurs are a goddamned myth, you idiot.”

* This addendum to the famed ”be fruitful and multiply” command is generally considered apocryphal and is preserved only in a few rare codices of late ancient rabbinical literature. It is included here in brackets because several current and respected bodies of academic study believe it was (A) An original portion of the Genesis verse in question, and (B) It sounds like something Jehoova would actually say.


#ArkEncounter #Satire #Fundamentalism #IKnowWhyTheAtheistsSnicker #Noah #BibleTruth #FamilyVacations #Manna #Paradoxes #GetMeOffTheFrigginPlanet #OnwardChristianSoldiers #BrainImplants #ChipImplants #SundaySchool #KentuckyArk #TouristTraps #TowerOfBabel #JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranWriter #Blogging #Parody #ButNotMuchParody #JonathanKieranAuthor #AGoodRogering #ReligiousInanity #YesInanityNotInsanity #ReligiousInsanity

The Fish Rots from the Head Down


There can be no question, now. The repeated words of Moscow Patriarch Kirill as he justifies in spiritual—even apocalyptic—terms the unprovoked aggressions and murders of innocent civilians (women and children!) in Ukraine cannot be misinterpreted. They cannot be “spun” in a positive direction while Kirill is alive or changed by history after he is dead, which is hopefully quite soon. His pontifications leave no room for ambiguity.

Under the leadership of Kirill, the remainder of those in the Russian Orthodox Church who agree with him must likewise be considered anathema—expelled by Christ, Whose messages of unflinching peace and the necessary separation of secular concerns from spiritual concerns could not have been clearer (“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s”).

It is one thing to look upon the vast struggles of the Late Ancient and Medieval Byzantine Empire as it sought to protect and defend itself from the predations of endless aggressors, often resorting to prayer and the stoking of religious fervor to galvanize a populace to protect the glorious walls of Constantinople from unjust siege by Huns, Goths, Saracens, Persians, Gauls, and other encroaching powers. History does indeed look with a measure of due pride and regret at the incomparable city that stood its ground for centuries, the New Rome that managed to thrive in the face of relentless assault long after the sacking of Old Rome in 410 CE.

It is another matter entirely when patriarchs and pontiffs launch Holy Wars and Crusades in the name of the Peaceful Christ, ever motivated by their lust for political power and wealth—a lust that has always and easily been disguised and “fed” to the poorer masses as a whipping-up of religious/nationalist fervor. The results of such misguided Crusades contributed to the destruction of Constantinople, and to the rape, butchery, and pillaging of untold men, women, and children, Christian and non-Christian, at the hands of supposed Christians. The vile Crusades led directly to the indiscriminate destruction of cities and irreplaceable works of sublime human art intended for the greater glory of the Divine. The Crusades achieved nothing but evil, being as they were spawned in the minds and machinations of reprobate Popes and treacherous aristocrats.

And now, many hundreds of years later, Kirill of Moscow would dare to champion the methods of the very Roman Popes he (and history) rightfully disdain, the very Popes whose eldritch campaigns contributed to destruction of his own Church’s Mother City (Constantinople) and to the jeopardization of all Western civilization to this day? Kirill would invoke the methods of foul Roman Popes to accomplish the ongoing, savage murders of Orthodox believers dwelling in Kyiv, the very birthplace of the Russian wing of Orthodoxy?!?

Patriarch Kirill has proved himself to be an abomination. The blood of thousands of innocents is now upon his arrogant head and upon his fat, Rolex-encircled hands for using his ecclesiastical voice to sanction barbaric evils that even Roman Popes in all their effeminate pomp and worldly wickedness have not outwardly fostered in hundreds of years (possibly because they were too busy with other, more clandestine crimes against humanity. Oh, yeah.)

Worse, the silence of everyday Russian Orthodox believers must be accounted as tacit approval of this disgraceful approbation manifested by Kirill. They, too, are guilty of a merciless and egregiously unjust war waged upon innocents.

Who can be surprised, though, even in this age of chaos and insanity? The Russian Orthodox Church (like certain fringe factions of any “church”) has been a much more pervasive breeding ground for the most extreme superstitions and paranoid, apocalyptic doctrinal obsessions. They are a medievally-minded lot. Even the Roman Church managed to cleanse a great deal of its inner-filth—the flotsam and jetsam, the accumulations and encrustations of squalid centuries—via the Vatican II reforms. However, the vast Orthodox confederation of autonomous churches, led ostensibly by Patriarch Bartholomew of Constantinople, has stubbornly refused to summon much-needed synods and councils aimed at better communicating their often beautiful and undeniably archaic rites and practices to a global society that is not all bad, automatically, just because it is global.

What a foolish line in the sand for a powerful Christian leader in 2022 to draw: Kirill is essentially saying to the West, “If the Kremlin deems your spiritual health insufficient we will murder you in the name of Jesus.”

That’s priceless and eerily similar to certain other worldly religious extremists who think and act the same way. The West is certainly fraught with a litany of problems more endless than the brain-frazzling, toe-cramping Akathist hymn to the Virgin Mary, but how rich is it that the goddamned Russians, of all people, think that they are the ones most fit to correct the rest of us?! Have another bottle of vodka for supper, and then a nightcap for your babushka, assholes.

In a world where reprehensible public behavior has reached epidemic proportions, we now behold the religious leader of a few hundred million believers behaving in the most reprehensible manner of all. A genuinely Christian man would protest the unjust, barbaric forays of his nation’s dictator and risk both alienation and martyrdom, as the martyrs of yore so often found the strength to do, courageously.

Kirill has excommunicated himself from “his” Christ by his own words, and whatever his motivation may be—fanaticism, greed, lust for power, or plain old imbecility—his doom is sealed.

No wonder we live in an age that despises religion. Who can blame the atheists? No wonder we live in an age that despises politicians. Who can blame the citizens?

A Great White Pas de Deux

Behold La Danse Macabre

Great White sharks possess such a chilling sort of nobility as they glide through the oceans—the larger ones appearing almost cumbersome, like stately jet planes or submarines, cruising forward unstoppable, resplendent with hefty elegance and a linear foreboding wrought by some distinct impression of glacial inevitability.

At times they appear to be quite aloof in their own environments … yet simultaneously aware, ever-aware. These phantoms pass as ominous, silent nightmares through the vast mind of the slumbering sea, haunting the submerged outskirts of sight and sensation, where all ghosts and unspoken terrors are most apt to be found.

But when they fix upon prey, these massive animals can move explosively into the real and lethal realm of frantic existence, whipping and bursting through the water at surprising angles, employing lightning-fast shifts in direction and thrust until. They. BITE 🦈

The luckless seal in the video above was performing some extraordinary acrobatic evasive maneuvers, and one might think that the smaller, sleeker animal would prove too energetic and elusive for the big fish, especially since the preferred element of surprise/ambush on the part of the shark was removed from the equation. But, no deal. Amazingly, the adult great white matched with ease the seal’s quicksilver agility. GAME OVER.

That’s what countless millions of years of refined hunting techniques and innate instincts bring to the table. The shark’s dinner table, that is.

#GreatWhiteSharks #SharkChat #PoetryWithTeeth #Predation #OceansAlive #JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranWriter #NatureInAction #Sharks #SharkAttacks #CircleOfLifeAndDeath #Jaws

Zanzibar Circus 3/17/22

It’s been awhile. Happy St. Patrick’s Day. At least the aliens are green.

#ZanzibarCircus #JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranAuthor #DarkComics #Illustrations #DarkHumor #AlienAbductions #AnalProbes #LittleGreenMen #FarmToTable #SustainableFood

My One and Only Bradshaw

There can be little question that I was fated to meet and become a friend of celebrated multi-media artist Robert Bradshaw, whose recent death at age 90 I am now saddened to report. Along with the sadness, I find myself a little bewildered that his passing was not marked with much (if any) public fanfare—Bob had long been an award-winning stalwart of both the Carmel and Palm Springs, CA artistic scenes, his work gracing some of the finest galleries in California and abroad. Nevertheless, Bob was retired and significantly older. He is survived by his longtime companion, Angelo, and I get the distinct sense that, with advancing age, the two (quite understandably) retreated a bit from the social activity demanded by the artistic milieu in Palm Springs, where Bob passed away.

Then again, Bob was always an enigmatic spirit who relished the wide success of his atmospheric, unique multimedia paintings and cared fairly little for the more glamorous elbow-rubbing that came along with the thrill of sales and gallery openings. Wry & dry of wit, gentlemanly to his very core, and wise in a winsomely mercurial fashion, Bob was a marvel. The story of how we met and became friends is truly one for the proverbial books.

After living for a year in Europe in 1993, I returned to the USA and moved almost immediately to California, scanning the Western “horizon of all horizons” for new opportunities and meaningful life-adventures in San Francisco. That city was still inhabitable by the hoi polloi in 1994 and I was able to find an apartment (in the then-newly revamped-and-revamping Hayes District) and a job quite easily. At the time, I was working as a waiter and barista at a fantastic three-level restaurant housed in a stately old Victorian on Diamond Street. The place was called “Ryan’s” and its namesake owners, Michael Ryan and his wife, chef Lenore Nolan-Ryan, decorated their popular eatery with some of the quirkiest, most brooding, and enchantingly surreal artworks I had ever seen on display in such a setting. I commented upon the superb quality of the paintings on my first day, in fact, and Mr. Ryan mentioned that these works had been created by their longtime friend, Bob Bradshaw, who lived a few doors down in their apartment building and who owned a successful home goods store on nearby Castro Street. At the time, Bob was painting as an enthusiast, rather than as a professional.

Fast forward to late 1996. I had left San Francisco for the quainter climes of Monterey, down the Central Coast, and had completely forgotten any initial remarks made about the paintings that bedecked the Ryans’ restaurant in the city. I had moved into an apartment complex not far from the heart of downtown Monterey and, coming and going as one does, I often noticed a slightly older gent in his 50s standing on his balcony directly above my own apartment, drinking his coffee (or martini) and gazing out at the beauty of the nearby oak grove. Being of a neighborly disposition, I waved and exchanged greetings whenever I saw him. Chatted about the weather or other niceties. We didn’t introduce ourselves beyond first names, but after a couple of months in the new place, the gentleman kindly invited me up for a home-cooked dinner. Lamb was on the menu and there was apparently an abundance of it. He couldn’t possibly eat all of it himself. The invitation was so friendly and casual that I was not inclined to beg off, so I dressed appropriately and went upstairs later in the evening to get to know my neighbor.

The moment I walked into the entryway of his smartly decorated place, something jogged my memory. Something I could not quite put a finger upon. My congenial host fixed me a drink and asked me to relax in the living room where we could carry on a light conversation as he worked diligently on supper around the corner in the kitchen. We made small talk about ourselves and our backgrounds, breaking the ice easily because we were both well-traveled and facile conversationalists. But something about his apartment’s decor continued to intrigue in a riddling way. I looked about, searching for clues in the very ether. What was it? After a few more moments sipping a Cosmo (the beverage de rigeur, then) and savoring the smells of braised lamb, the puzzle seemed ostensibly solved. The paintings on the walls—evocative and enchanting, like fever-dreams whispered by Hieronymus Bosch into the somnambulant mind of Salvador Dali—jolted me out of my cogitations.

“You know something,” I called into the kitchen, “the paintings you have throughout your place remind me very much of these works that decorated a restaurant I worked in a couple of years ago, up in the city. An excellent place called Ryan’s. They have virtually the same ambience, I swear. Sorry to say that I can’t remember the artist’s name.”

A grey-haired head, owlish behind round spectacles, popped briefly around the corner. “Not to worry. You have a good eye. The paintings you saw at Ryan’s in San Francisco were mine. I’m the artist, Robert Bradshaw. I painted all of the ones you see here, as well.” Then his head returned to the dinner preparations, having delivered that revelation in the most dry, matter-of-fact tone imaginable.

I nearly fell off my chair! What were the chances?

Needless to say, I had made a friend for life. Fortuna has her irresistible rewards … when she spins her wheel with an extra bit of serendipitous flair.

Over the ensuing years, Bob and I had ample opportunity to stay in touch and get to know each other better as both pals and artists. He bit the bullet and submitted some of his works to the very selective Carmel Art Association, becoming an almost instant success. I published my first work of fiction (a comic novel under a different nom de plume) to delightful cross-country reception in 2000, and Bob was as thrilled for me as I was for his watershed moment. It had been his dream sell his work at some point in life; he had started out as a professional illustrator decades earlier, so we had quite a few things in common.

Best of all, Bob took me under his wing for a spell and demonstrated his unique creative method, which involved a complex process of multiple India inkings on distressed canvas or hard board, followed by multiple ink-washes to uncover and reveal successive layers of visual atmosphere, followed by the later interpolation of his charming and surrealist figures and subjects. I was spellbound and fairly grateful to learn such a curious technique from a master—by that point, Bob had already become one of the most celebrated figures on the Carmel art scene. I have created a couple of works utilizing his style (combined with my own touches) but the time has not yet come to reveal them. Like Bob, perhaps I shall wait to unleash them when most of my many and varied other artistic projects have been achieved and the hour is ripe for a bit of a paradigm shift.

More than anything, Bob was crucial in terms of his ability to understand and respect artistry in another professional, especially from the standpoint of our friendship—a delicate balance often fraught with more than a hint of competitiveness and neurosis in the histories of other “friendly” artists, great and small. Believe me: artists and writers are just as notorious for not getting along as they are for establishing salons populated by their (usually) seething and competitive selves. Count me in, but count me out, if you catch my drift.

As the years went on, the one thing lacking in Bob’s otherwise contented, hermit-like existence, was intimate companionship. This void was filled when he met his life-partner, Angelo, in the early Aughts. I was so happy for him. Bob and Angelo relocated to Palm Springs not long after and we stayed in touch, regularly at first and then more sporadically. I was happy to buy one of Bob’s paintings before he moved South; it still hangs with pride of place in my home. In recent years, time and distance made our communication much more sporadic, but the lasting state of friendship was never in doubt. It was with great delight that I noted Bob’s even greater successes across the Palm Springs and Southern California art scenes in the years before his retirement.

There are at least a few dozen other marvelous “Bob Bradshaw Stories” I could rattle-off, but in honor of Bob’s own fondness for personal privacy I shall respectfully refrain. He revealed much to me about his background, exciting life, and the experiences that formed his inimitable character. Suffice to say, I am honored to have been his dear friend and mourn his passing, well aware that Bob lived a charmed private and artistic existence that would be the proper envy of so many across the wider creative landscape. To learn a bit more about Bob’s extraordinary gifts, as much of his past as he was willing to share with endorsement, and his ongoing legacy, have a look at the following gallery page, where his work is still featured and where it continues to thrive.

Arrivaderci, Roberto! Say “Ciao” to Federico, Giulietta, and Nino Rota in the Vast Beyond, where starlight fades and every mood of moonlight reigns sensuously supreme.

#RobertBradshaw #RobertBradshawArtist #PalmSpringsArt #Surrealists #CarmelArtAssociation #MultimediaArtists #Obituaries #JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranAuthor #JonathanKieranArtist #Reminiscence #ArtAssociations #ArtTechniques #ArtGalleries

What’s Behind Door No. 3, pray tell?

This new piece from San Francisco Gate states that it is now less-expensive to go to Paris than it is to tool around Disneyland in California.

So, basically, they’re saying it makes more economic sense to visit a dump than it does to get taken like a chump.

Neither option appeals at this time, thank you. Let’s rearrange the playing board. How does New York City stack-up against, oh, I dunno—Dollywood?

#JonathanKieranWriter #WorldTravel #NewYork #Disneyland #Paris #Dollywood #Economics #Vacation #ApplesAndOranges #BagelsAndCorndogs #JonathanKieran

Come Back to the Five-and-Dime …

Hard to believe, but on February 22, 1879, an enterprising merchant named Frank Woolworth opened his first namesake “five-and-dime” store amid the wintry streets of Utica, NY, having no clue that his brainchild would, by 1979, form the largest chain of mercantiles on the planet.

Vending everything from roasted peanuts to tchotchkes to saltwater taffy to dry goods, Woolworth was about as emblematic an institution as America ever boasted. Perhaps most famous for its ubiquitous lunch counter service, where one could nosh on crunchy breakfast hash-browns or the most grizzled and greasy of noontime burgers, Woolworth stood head and shoulders above all other chains for nearly one hundred years.

Of course, just as soon as Woolworth had reached its apex in terms of ubiquity, along came the K Marts and Wal-Marts of the world, not to mention the come-hither burger seductions of McDonalds, enticing die-hard customers away from Woolworth’s bountiful bins like so many famished bottle-flies migrating from one moldering carcass to a freshly splayed cadaver. Oh, Ronald, you garish minx! The doom of Woolworth was sealed in short-shrift and, by the late 1980s, the legendary chain had become largely … legendary.

In the Aughts, the entire company changed its name and its corporate emphasis to Foot Locker. What a come-down. (Well, feet are typically found on the floor.)

Whether or not Woolworth might have retained some of its luster and adapted to the changing times to give proliferating horror-spawn like Family Dollar Stores an eventual run for their money is a mystery never to be solved. It certainly didn’t help that the once-indefatigable concern’s most infamous heiress, Barbara Hutton, allegedly blew through men, hooch, and money like an elephant through the store’s Peanut Packing section. That sad little gal knew how to party.

Otherwise, Happy Birthday, Woolworth’s-cum-Foot Locker! You surely put thousands of everyday Mom-and-Pop shops out of business at the height of your glory, but you were only showing the world how behemoths are supposed to “behemoth” and, in the long run, you weren’t a patch on the Walton Family and their endeavors. Besides, there’s something to be said for the look of the classic American Main Street long-defunct, and what could look more “Main Street” than the old Woolworth sign amid the hustle and bustle of yore?

#JonathanKieranWriter #JonathanKieranAuthor #Woolworth #DaysGoneBy #PoorLittleRichGirls #AmericanEnterprise #LunchCounterGlory #BarbaraHutton #JonathanKieran

Nunsense and Big Screen Dreams

Initially, I was going to write a snarky article about the two nuns in Southern California who embezzled from the private Catholic school they were running in order to go on luxurious gambling vacations together. The old battle-axes robbed working people to the tune of $850,000 by setting up a Very Special Sister Slush Fund to maintain their less than immaculately starched habits. (Ha ha ha the jokes simply write themselves whenever Catholics are involved.) When the constituents of this Catholic academy complained that these manly looking Ladies of the Wimple were always jetting off to Vegas while the school itself was operating on a shoestring budget, the gals allegedly declared that a “rich uncle” was footing the bill for their extracurricular nunsense. At all events, the Concubines of Satan got caught and the bigger, burlier, more diesel-ready of the two Holy Terrors fessed up. She has repented and is going to spend a probably eventful year in jail, so all I have left to say is that Roman Catholicism (or at least that institution’s Persons in Power) remains the gift that keeps on taking. There you have it.

Otherwise, I’ll mention only that, among any number of moribund projects in my hopper, there is now also a short film. Yes, my first. The screenplay is flowing blithely from the synapses even as we languish together in relative obscurity, Gracious Reader. Just wait until I am able to tell you about the things I will be forced to do in order to raise investment capital for the project. No wayward nuns involved. Scout’s Honor.

Eh, that’s it for today. Carry on.

#JonathanKieran #JonathanKieranAuthor #NunsOnTheLam #Embezzlement #BrotherCanYouSpareADime #JonathanKieranWriter #Commentary #PointlessBlogging #Projects #ShortFilms #Financing #Aspirations

When in doubt, go back to Byzantium

Life currently sucking a lemon? World off its nut? Feelin’ LOW? Get thee hence to Byzantium, or what memories are left of it, via John Julius Norwich’s classic A Short History of Byzantium. That’ll put some starch in your goddamned undergarments. Trust me. Just keep knives away from your tongue and red-hot pokers from your eyes. Also, do not name your son “Constantine” or your daughter “Eudocia” or your struggling non-binary spawn “Theo—ANYTHING”. M’kay? Also, listen to Mylene perform a striptease and pretend that you are in the 7th Century, surrounded by porphyry.

Meet me at the intersection of Sex and Insanity, whatever. Who CARES?

And finally … you ain’t heard the last of me.

(I always wanted to say that to someone, somewhere, when I was feeling a tad on-the-brink. I guess I just did. Better already? Not quite, but it’ll do until “better” comes along.)

PS: Icons and art will actually LAST … unless you destroy it, you image-spooked motherfuckers of damnable history. Destroying and fearing the depiction of a human person is as superstitious and as ignorant as pretending an image is divine or miraculous. It’s creepier to destroy an image, in fact. Fear-saturated cunts.

There. Whoof. That’s somewhat out of my system. Eat my umbrage.

#WaitingOnTheAsteroid #JonathanKieran #Author #Byzantium #BlindedByTheRedHotPoker #SickAndTiredOf_______ #Rumination #BackToMedievalBasics #CalmDown #PointlessBlogging