Archive for June, 2004

We Have A Whole Lifetime To Know He Is There

Monday, June 21st, 2004

Three True Tales of Children
Yesterday, Sunday, was the summer party of my church. This means that the kids stayed with the adults throughout the service instead of going off to their respective youth groups, the message was very visual in nature and as we were celebrating summer, it rained.

But after worship was over, we stuck around and ate lunch together and caught up and hung out, which is known as fellowship in Christian jargon. But we also ordered two bouncy castles for the kids. One for the boys and one for the girls.

The reason we segregate like this, isn’t because we have butchered the Old Testament and believe it is wrong for boys to jump in the company of girls. It is simply because boys are boys and given the choice between constructively enjoying their own games and wrecking the fun of a little girl, the chances are they will pick the gender battle.

The first story regards two brothers, a twelve year old and an eight year old. We left the church’s music equipment set up in our haste to enjoy “fellowship” and so as I wandered around looking for my inhaler I found these two nerdy brothers at the piano. The elder was methodically tapping out the beat to “We Will Rock You” by Queen and the younger was singing loudly and joyously into the mic. It was amazingly cool and cute and it made me think that I should go father some kids immediately because they are so deadly.

Then I went back to the food area which is walled in one side by a bank of standard secondary school lockers- they’d fit a standard school bag and little more. The other kids were walking along the row of lockers knocking on the doors. After a while, the door would open and the head of a littler kid would pop out and they would have a conversation as if they were talking on a doorstep as neighbours. It was one of the most purely comic moments of my life. The kids squeezed themselves into these minute spaces, then weren’t frightened of the dark, cramped holes as the doors were shut and then in a stroke of comic genius, they started their little chats. Pure classic.

I am positive that in twenty years they’ll meet up in a hostel in Malaysia or at a conference and they will reminisce about the day when they pretended they lived in lockers.

The third and final story deals with the bouncy castles. The girls were happy to jump up and down and sing and dance and play games together. The boys quickly began deflating the castles at the power source and then grabbing onto the inflatable turrets as they re-inflated. This was great fun to them but they kept getting their feet trapped in corners or standing on the arms of their friends. At one point I was in the corner rooting a boy from the nefarious grasp of the inflating Spiderman castle when out of the corner of my eye, I saw another boy fly about 15 feet into the air.

As the main turret had inflated, it had catapulted this six year old into the air, for him to land with an audible-over-the-screaming-laughing-hyper kids slap on the wooden floor.

As fast as I could I got out of the castle, leaving Boy One to his fate and ran around to Boy Two. As I called his name, he didn’t answer and for a moment I was as frightened as anyone can ever be. As I got closer I saw why. He was lying sprawled out on the ground, limbs splayed, laughing himself incoherent. I took him outside the hall, thinking that maybe he was laughing to appear big and strong around the older boys. I asked him hurriedly where it hurt. He managed to get the sentence out between guffaws, “Everywhere and nowhere. I was flying!”

The idiot child didn’t even know how close he was to death. Oh well. Ignorance is bliss.

Everything was forced to calm down after that and as I left, a few hours later, the kid was pulling out of his mom’s arm talking about how he was going to write a story with pictures and he would call it “The True Story of the Day I Flew Through the Air.”

At least I had been cured of the illusion that having kids would be cool. I was right about them being deadly though.

Yours Correspondent, Who Only Has A Second To Spare

You Know Who Invites You To A Secret Wink Wink At The You Know What

Sunday, June 13th, 2004

I’m sitting here on a Sunday morning trying to write something for Zoomtard and at the same time trying to put a Bible Study together for a Tuesday evening group I attend and I can’t help but think that vertigo shouldn’t induce screaming.

Fiancé is roaring her head off about Liam Neeson and being stood up by a turquoise Nissan Micra. I think I’ll stop grounding her medicine into a vodka-like South African drink called Wit Blits anymore.

The Bible Study is going to be on Hebrews 11 and will be an ill-disguised attack on the citizenship referendum, which seems to have landslid into victory on Friday. Hebrews 11 is about how Christians should be resident aliens.

After all, why have respect and authority in your community if you aren’t even going to abuse it?

My little brother is in the middle of his Leaving Cert and qualification to his college course is weighing heavy on his small head. He worries that if he doesn’t get enough points for the course at Trinity where they teach you how to screw the poor and get rich off their sweat then his life will be ruined.

Am I bad man for thinking he’d be better off just coming out to Maynooth and forsaking his dream with all the D4 posh accents and the rugby shirts with the collars turned upwards and the loafers and the “yah yahs” and the ski trips and the business breakfasts and the “2 pints of Heino and an MGD now!” and the sheer pretension of it all? He could instead enjoy frugal comforts and the reassurance of community and he could learn that business is all well and good but you need a balance to your life.

I’ll feel differently of course when he graduates (rugby shirt or not) and makes millions that he then gives to me.

Your Correspondent, Needs a closer shave

I Knew If I Had My Chance

Thursday, June 10th, 2004

On my way into work today the sun was shining so brightly and the traffic was so slow and Ian and I were enjoying bashing the stupid referendum so much that we decided to get out and walk. After a block or two we said nuts to that and got on another bus. We have serious work to do. For me, there is a backlog of typing and staring into the distance at the old government. For Ian, he only has a week of being an apprentice to a cynical architect before he leaves on his round the world trip and he wants to treasure every moment of adding pointless coving to roofs and having his ideas rejected because planners wouldn’t agree or because its too complex or because its against the client’s religion to lay foundations.

Anyway, we boarded the bus but there were some coming-off-strung-out heroin junkies down the back. They were as sociable and winsome as heroin addicts can get, which means that the bus passengers were still on edge around them in case of an unpredictable freak out but we all enjoyed their conversation. Seriously, they were as happy and go-lucky a bunch of junkies as could ever be found. At least in Inchicore.

They didn’t make heroin addiction a lifestyle that I aspire to. In my weaker or more honest moments you could get me to admit that the wedding doesn’t sound as much fun as a round-the-world trip (the marriage will be great however) but I am not tempted to throw it all away for some crack. As pleasant as they were, they all still had the croaky dead man talking voice of a junkie, they all wore vomit stained clothes and they all looked like they beat themselves up in their sleep.

In Dublin there is a bridge called the Joyce bridge after the most over-rated ponce to ever come out of Ireland. It was designed by the genius Dr. Santiago Calatrava. Calatrava is one of those double barrelled architects. One, he can design kick ass stuff (specifically bridges but he has some great schools too in his portfolio). Two, he has an evil genius name.

Anyway, I’ll put a picture of this bridge up someday with my thoughts on it, since I am self-obsessed and think they are worthy of sharing but for now, imagine the bridge or Dubliners, think of the bridge.

The junkies go,
“eeer, look at the i bridge”.

“eeer, whachyamean?”

“eeer, remember the auld lad we were drinking with last week. he said it was meant to look like an eye, with eyelashes and shit”

“fuck off would you”

“fuck off you. look at it, the eyelashes and the eye is a bridge.”

“mad yoke. that is fucking mad. can you see them eyelashes. that’s fucking mad”

“here, that lad has a hurl in his skull----”

Seriously though, because what is a Zoomtard entry without a message, heroin scares me. Its heart breaking to see what it does to people and yet I am utterly helpless in the face of it. I feel like writing that I all I can do is pray for them but that is a substantial contribution, I guess. Regardless of one’s world view it’s a tragedy but from a Christian perspective, the total collapse of potential and of the individual’s sense of self and sense of worth is a tragedy that is hard to parallel. If we take what Christ said and did seriously, then we must accept that every man and woman has the potential (in Him) to excel far beyond their wildest dreams. Yet in a heroin addiction all point s of reference to the self are lost because the whole self is directed towards the drug. They don’t seem like real full people as a result.

The hard thing for me is to stop myself from seeing them as zombies and instead finding a way to practically love them.

I saw The Day After Tomorrow today. Its entertaining pants nonsense but pants of an extreme nature. The political message is as subtle as a jackhammer and as worthwhile as a snot rog used as a tourniquet. But I didn’t go see it to learn made up facts about the troposphere. I went for the action and I got it. Wolves summersault. I rest my case.

I also agreed with my friend Dee to start a new website and a new journal. It will be hosted here on antidisinformation but will probably be called The goal of this website will be to examine biblical teaching on women, especially in regards to teaching and leading churches and by putting things into context we might be able to change people’s mind. It will be ghey to anyone who doesn’t care about Christianity or feminism but everyone else is welcome to look at our structures.

It will start for real in July but it should be interesting

Your Correspondent, Who can make people dance and happy for a while

We Do It To Ourselves

Tuesday, June 8th, 2004

Fiancé works for an “Ivy League” university. But today she was diagnosed with vertigo. I don’t know what that is but she said that Doctor Man (he is Korean) warned her not to go near any hot temperatures or magnetic discs. Ags a result I have to do the cooking and housework even though I don’t live with her and I have to go fill in at her job.

The only reason I am not currently trapped in the vault she calls “Time Machine” is that I missed the bus this morning. The only reason I missed the bus is that the stupid backwater-hickstown-culchie-bog one-horse-fascist-popsicle-stand of a remote rural parochial excuse for a dwelling place she calls home has one ATM. And this ATM was broken.

Ah well. No business in town today then, I guess.

So instead she sat around trying to remember the other things she has to do to get better and the further symptoms she can expect. Its all a little too much for her, methinks, but the little warrior is battling through it. She is such a trooper.

So far she has remembered that she can expect extreme fatigue treated only by alcohol, rapid increases in temperature requiring urgent ice-cream and a near constant supply of high quality television, movies and computer games to stop her from going into a coma. I must also keep the house spotlessly clean because vertigo can easily develop into gangrene and she’d lose her legs.

So her kitchen is now an officially accredited as a suitable place for serious surgery or the production of semiconductors.

It wasn’t all hard work in my French Maid’s outfit. We wrote a song about bowels. I don’t think I’ll leave it here though because people who currently respect me read this site. I’d like it to continue that way.

Tomorrow I have to return to work for the Man (the actual government, not a Korean doctor) and that doesn’t fill me with mirth. The only plus side (beyond the paycheques) of my job is that it will help me develop a better theology of hell should I ever go to seminary.

I work with middle aged ladies with severe racism issues. Every black person they deal with must be screwing the system. Ireland is being swarmed by dirty foreigners who are stealing our houses, our jobs, our women and our shoes. They get BMWs when they come into the country and two mobiles. And then they are allowed go home to Nigeria three times a year courtesy of the tax payer.

Facts need not get in the way of their prejudices. Anyone, like me, who disagrees is naïve, over-educated and although good natured, definitely a cause of the continuing decline of the Irish state.

I had thought we were never in better shape and that we are more than able to take care of the poor “indigenous” Irish and the “new” Irish. But I was wrong. Or naïve. They want to destroy our green land and turn it into deserts populated with nothing but mosques, female mutilation clinics and Al Quaeda training centres.

A lot of this extreme sensationalism is down to this man:


Justin Turbo Catholic Barrett.
He is a friend to neo-Nazis in Europe and to Pre-Vatican II zealots here at home. But he is no friend to Johnny Foreigner. Forget that Ireland was substantially built on money sent home from the UK, USA and Australia by our economic migrants. Now that we have made it, we have no time for that.

My point though is this. Look at Justin. Scroll down and look at Clifford. These reactionary Irish politicians are so ugly. I say yes to immigration on a sexiness level. Make the Irish hotter by bringing in good looking eastern European and African young people.

It’s a spurious argument, I know. But no more than Mr. Barrett’s claim that we spend almost a quarter of a billion on asylum processes in a year. Wow! .04% of government expenditure on a process that protects and enshrines human rights. We are being ripped off.

Vote No on Friday. No facts. No figures. No reason.

Your Correspondent, In favour of people, even foreign ones.

My Intentions Become Not To Lose What I Won

Wednesday, June 2nd, 2004

Things I Did Yesterday That Didn’t Make Me Look Cool

Allowing predictive text on my phone to send the word reduction instead of seduction in a flirty sms.

Getting caught by co-workers dancing lamely to Heaven Is A Place On Earth by Belinda Carlisle.

Spending a fortune on a book called “Exclusion and Embrace” by a Croatian theologian, Mirsolav Volf.

Things I Did Yesterday That Were Cool

Watched Moonlight Mile with my cinema-buddy Ange, who has developed a crush on Jake Gyllenhaal that tops even Orlando Bloom.

Finally returned my library books, which carry fines of about €5,670 on them.

Decided that if Maynooth Community Church ever gets around to building a church, then we need to have neon light installation art in the main lobby.

The evening before last I saw The Day After Tomorrow. Ha! An enjoyable and deeply insulting romp. If I was a member of the US Republican party, I’d be sickened. I am so glad that Roland Emmerich thought fit to inform me that American energy and environmental policy was decided by one man, the Vice-President at that, and that his motivations were purely based on economic growth. I had been deceived by the mainline media and by scientists, eggheads and boffins into believing that global warming is a complex problem with no simple solutions. Actually this whole time, the solution has been so simple that the filmmakers didn’t feel a need to point out exactly what it was.

As long as you watch it either for:
a) Jake’s buff yet nerdy handsomeness
b) Action sequences with wolves in them
you won’t go far wrong. Don’t try to take a message from it. Temperatures don’t drop by ten degrees Celsius a second folks.

Some folks think that “liberal environmentalists” will try to appropriate The Day After Tomorrow in the same way that “evangelical Christians” used The Passion of the Christ. The problem with this is that no self-respecting liberal or environmentalist or intersection of the two would ever see Day After as anything but enjoyable tosh for a rainy summer’s afternoon. It doesn’t represent their views. All it does is take a fringe theory in the field of climatologic research, hyper-inflate it until it looks like the scientific equivalent of Meg Ryan’s lips and then put Jake in the middle with all the buff yet nerdy handsomeness that goes along with that.

In evangelical Christianity there was a lot of talk about how constructive or helpful the Passion movie was going to be. I think that the case is closed on that this week since the company behind it all, Icon (I think) is re-releasing Donnie Darko in the cinemas. Not just in the arty cinema clubs this time. They have enough money to actually push it into the cinemaplexi of the Western World. Who-hooo! One more thing we can credit to the Prince of Peace.

I am off from work sick today. Ange has a cat and so that may have triggered the red-eye monstrosity that confronts me in the mirror everytime I walk into my bedroom.
The walls of my bedroom are covered entirely in mirrors by the way. Looking at myself is the only way I can get to sleep at night.

Britney is in Ireland tonight to play a concert. I’m so pissed off that the illness will keep me away from live renditions of such classics as “Boys”, “Not a Girl, Not Yet A Woman” and “Flat Six-Packed Stomach Obsession Is Weird Since It Looks Like The Least Feminine Thing In The World And So On Some Deep Level Is Not Sexually Alluring To Me”.

Remember the Oops I Did It Again video? It’s a touchstone in any journey through the pop princess’ career. NASA launches a mission to Mars and their man on the ground finds a bizarre furnace/factory/dance-off staffed by humanoid martians who happen to be hot. That might have something to do with the hell like flames flying around the place haphazardly. Martian working conditions suck, apparently. Britney, clad in a one-piece red rubber suit and fashion suicide black boots is their leader. The astronaut is surprised and shocked. This is clearly not what they expected back in Houston.

Still he improvises as Britney dances and lip syncs. Towards the end of the video though, Brit somersaults through the air (embarrassingly bad special effects), takes the astronaut’s helmet off and they start to talk. The NASA guy can breathe in space you see.

This is where it gets weird. A strange voice in the back of the track can be heard to cry, “All aboard!” NASA guy gives her a piece of jewellery that turns out to be the piece of crap from the Titanic movie. The exchange goes something like this;
NASA Guy: “Before you go, there’s something you should have”
Brit: “Ah, its beautiful, but wait a minute, isn’t this--”
NASA Guy: “Yes it is.”
Brit: “But I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end.” NASA GUY: (Proudly) “Well baby, I went down and got it!”
Brit: “Aww, you shouldn’t have.”
(Cue music more bombastic then ever. Brit and a thousand backing singers merged into one voice by Pro Tools sing “Oops I Did It Again!--”)

I’ve been trying to figure this all out and I think I got it. It’s a conspiracy theory wrapped up inside a pop video. Ever see the Dilbert where they find out NASA have left horny women on the moon who only fancy engineers? Well its all true. Except the sex crazed honeyz have been found on Mars and they have gone so long without the comforting embrace of a man that even NASA engineers can get lucky. Yet these Marian Amazonians demand gifts and so NASA were behind the 1911 sinking of Titanic. They collected all the abandoned loot and brought it to Mars to placate their inter-planetary mistresses.

Its just about coherent for a Roland Emmerich/Britney Spears summer time extravaganza. Seriously though, I don’t mind the raunchy dance moves and ambivalent sexual messages transmitted by Britney and her dancing slaves. The damage that’s being done to our youth is in the form of thought-process bruising. How can you expect to grow up logical when your childhood is saturated by messages that say:
1) NASA send men to Mars
2) Mars is inhabited
3) By ladies who wear rubber and dance
4) And work in a fire filled cave furnace
5) And Britney Spears is their boss
6) And NASA didn’t find this out before setting off for the Red Planet
7) And Britney can make people breath and not die of hypothermia on Mars without a spacesuit, presumably through the magic of the All Aboard Witchdoctor
8) And she falls in love with the astronauts
9) And the astronaut packed a necklace from the Titanic in case he met marriage material on Mars
10) And Britney is not impressed

Won’t somebody please think of the children! If we don’t teach them how to think gooder, then within a generation I predict that they will be making fucking idiotic decisions left, right and left again because they read in Heat magazine that the centre is high in calories. For example, they may doctor the constitution. They may decide to fiddle with citizenship so that you can be born in Ireland and still not be Irish. They may do this because of preposterous urban myths about foreigners conning our welfare systems and getting brand new BMWs instead of butter vouchers. They may try to solve a legislative problem with a constitutional solution. They may even consider voting for this constitutional change even though it brings about a reduction in our rights.

I know it sounds ridiculous to you now. But if we don’t start combating broken thinking then Irish people will be that stupid.

Your Correspondent, Remind Me To Write About Church Buildings Sometime