dances with muslims

Anissa lightly delivered the following anecdote.
 "My cousin Mohammed came into the living room when we were watching the Chelsea match. Dad loves Chelsea. Everyone in Tunisia liked Chelsea when Dad was young. So Mohammed is standing there looking at the television. And he says: Will someone explain the offside rule to me. And Dad roars: You are not a man, get out, get out of this room now. And he made him leave the room."
I stared at Anissa horrified.
"Anni," I exclaimed. "If that's how he treats Mohammed, he's going to eat me alive."
"Don't worry," said Anissa. "I'm not planning on bringing you home just yet."
This statement did not reassure me as much as you might expect.

the last knight of europe takes arms from off the wall

Full of love and peace, I wandered out of the prayer group meeting and betook myself to the Parish Centre kitchen.
It was the work of a moment to begin quaffing tea and snarfing chocolate biscuits.
Presently an ex nun who is a member of the prayer group entered the kitchen.
I had been warned four months ago by Uncle Throg that she is a bit of a bitch.
In the succeeding time she had never given me any reason to dislike her and I had never let her get too close.
Now she sat at a table with a cup of tea.
"James come join me," she invited.
I thought briefly and decided that the tenets of the ancient faith required me to sit with her.
I sat.
"James," she said immediately all school Marm and business, "do you mind if I ask you where you got that chocolate biscuit?"
It hadn't taken her five seconds.
Got me within bitchin range and opened fire.
That is to say, the moment she had me within bitchin range, off she went.
Where did you get that biscuit indeed.
Gentle readers, as many of you are aware, I try not to impose arbitrary small town pecking orders on other human beings and consequently I tend not to encourage attempts by unhappy people anxious to impose arbitrary small town pecking orders on me.
Awk puck puck puck awk, as we do say in the hen house.
But the X-Nun had posed a question and was still awaiting an answer.
"I do mind you asking where I got the chocolate biscuit, Eilish," I replied. "So there'll be no need for you to ask."
"Well I was just wondering had you taken a biscuit from the Bridge Club biscuits?" she persisted.
The Bridge Club shares the parish centre with the prayer group.
"But you've asked me do I mind you asking where I got the biscuit and I've told you I do mind, so clearly there's no need for you to ask," I repeated with a firm set to my jaw.
"It's just we're not supposed to take the Bridge Club biscuits," she pressed.
"I have a dispensation from the Pope," I said grimmer than grim. "I'm allowed to take as many biscuits from the Bridge Club as I want."
"There were complaints before," she chanced.
"So you'd better not take any biscuits yourself," I advised. "If you want one, I'll steal it for you."
My intonation, diction and demeanour had become reminiscent of a young Mad Max telling the outback settlers who were surrounded by a murderous bike gang: "Two days ago I saw a lorry up the road that'd pull that tanker. You want to get out of here... You talk to me."
There was silence for a moment as I finished my biscuit.
It was an awkward enough silence by my usual standards of silences since we were both still stuck at the same table and things hadn't exactly been going swimmingly.
The mood was not mellow.
After a few more polite and convivial munches and sips, I stood up and walked back to the press where the Bridge Club biscuits were stowed. I took another one, dunked it in my tea and savoured the splendid flavour of melting chocolate and seething nun.
Then I produced one of my business cards.
The card read: The Heelers Diaries, broadcasting from metropolitan Kilcullen to the whole wide world.
On the back of it I scrawled:
"IOU.
Six biscuits.
James Healy."
I placed the business card gingerly within the package so that it was snugly resting on the top biscuit.
Of course it should have read ten biscuits.
But such details are important to history, not to poetry.

the satanic rites of archy

Archbishop Diarmuid was back doing the media rounds this past month.
Photos and plaudits and paeans to his own virtue appeared suddenly in all the anti Catholic newspapers and anti Catholic broadcast stations.
Most strange.
Why do atheistic hedonists with a lifelong detestation of the Christian religion love him so?
The excuse to bring himself centre stage in the media once more, was his staging of a ceremony in a Dublin church where he washed the feet of supposed sex abuse victims.
Each sex abuse victim had been specially chosen to foster an illusion of guilt in the public mind relating to the church itself, ie each victim had supposedly been abused by a religious person.
The footwashing ceremony was in fact an insult to the vast majority of real sex abuse victims who had no place at it, and were completely ignored in Archbishop Diarmuid Martin's latest photo op.
Apparently their feet are clean enough.
Apparently they're entitled to no compensation.
Apparently they will receive no apology.
Because their victimhood cannot be hijacked in order to attack the Catholic Church.
Let me be clear.
I am alluding to the fact that there was no place at Archbishop Diarmuid Martin's foot washing ceremony for the preponderance of sex abuse victims, the hundreds of thousands who were abused in sports clubs, schools, hospitals, swimming pools, health board care and family homes by non religious people.
The overwhelming majority of abuse victims, and those victims whose abuse was in fact the most serious, the most grotesque, the most malign, running from egregious rape to vilest torture to satanic ritual to outright murder, the vast majority of those I say, had no place at Archy's foot washing ceremony, simply because their victimhood is of absolutely no use to Archy as he seeks to undermine the Church.
His attempts to remake the Catholic Church in his own image had been running out of steam somewhat lately, hence this new piece of foot wash theatre.
Will it work?
Among priests and Bishops his standing is virtually at zero. They regard him as a leftist infiltrator attempting to remake the Catholic Church in his own image.
Even the cosmically gormless media devouring public are starting to smell a rat.
And since Arch is now clearly relying on the same small circle of recyclable victims for his media showpieces, there are signs also that even the tiny minority of sex abuse victims who were actually abused by a priest or religious are themselves starting to see him for what he is and refusing to be his puppets.

theme tune for new saturday morning sitcom that will never be shown

Here we come
Walkin down the street
Get the funniest looks from
Every infidel we meet
Hey hey we're the Mussies
People say we Mussie around
But we're too busy self detonating
To let that get us down
We're just trying to be friendly
And impose a 7th century hell
We're the young generation
And we think the Burka's swell
Here we come
Walking down the street
Combing our beards
And opening fire with Kalashnikove AK47's at everyone we meet
Hey hey we're the Mussies
People say we Mussie around
But we're just trying to re-establish the Caliphate
And we may be coming to your town
We're just trying to be friendly
People say we're murdering scum
But we're too busy hacking heads off
Dum da da dum dum dum

the monica leech laugh in

QUESTION: What do you call a Muslim fleeing from a third world hell hole where he has committed crimes against humanity and arriving in your country with his Al Qaeda membership card in one hand, a gun in his pocket, semtex explosives strapped to his weiner, and a phial of anthrax in his anal cavity? ANSWER: You call him Citizen.

great moments in journalism

Saif: "If you hold your hand like this, you can make the shadow of a dog."
Lisa: "Mmm, yes."

the most important issue in the world tonight

Pray for Aruna. Pray that the hindu nation will spare her glorious beautiful immortal life.