The city from my view.

A pulse on a vibrant Megalopolis.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

I Smell War

The other day a police car drove ever slow slowly in the alley. The Zionist Jihad Party Boys, sequestered in their bunkers, were on high alert. Wednesday afternoon, as David could testify as a known expert in Jewish oddities (being from Stanton Island and sounding as if he just got off the train from Queens) that the Jihad Party Boys were not arguing but discussing.

One of the discussing verbiage in ultra orthodox Hebrew came out so loud that even from three houses away and across the alley, David, the Jewish oddity expert, could not out shout. Now that's loud discussing in any culture. But wait there's more.

That night, as the discussing in ultra orthodox Hebrew became more intense, a quiet ensued just before the police helicopter appeared. Around and around the helicopter went with its high intensity light that could uncover even the thickest wool of a crochet cock and ball warmer, swept the neighborhood for a good hour.

The Jihad Party Boys and their Mean Queen and Daddy have been discovered by the Los Angeles Police Force. A force to be reckon with, a force who is not afraid of law suits for kicking black ass to Jesus. A force who now accepts queers if they're butch. And I mean real butch. Not just butch gay, but buffed out fucking marine, tight-ass butch. Only the ultra Butch queer can pass--or your ordinary lesbian--if she wears a jock.

They're in fucking trouble now. The Zionist Jihad Party Boys, their Mean Queen and Daddy who funds all their deeds, are in deep doo-doo. You don't fuck with the Los Angeles Police. No fucking way unless of course you have deep pockets. Or a celebrity, hell even a newscaster can get away with murder in Los Angeles let alone Nevada convicts. But you and me? Fuck no. It's, kiss your sweet fucking ass goodbye if you don't have a few big bucks to grease greedy palms.

Millie is staying close to home. She knows. Millie knows when earthquakes come let alone the vast tunnel system built to house eggs laid by Mean Queen and built by the Zionist Jihad Party Boys. They have nestled in their underground lair, large quantities of W.M.D.

Need I say more? Do I have to draw a Mushroom Cloud? Wake up America. Here in lower Encino--Armageddon is about to be let loose.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Mean Queen and her Daddy have Tanks and Bombs

The other day, well okay--Sunday; a large metallic truck pulled up in front of the Mean Queen's Palace. All the other cars were dispersed about the neighborhood and just coincidentally, an Israeli Festival was taking place in the park nearby.

Once the truck was in position, a black pick-up pulled up behind it, a star of David, plastered on the rear window, big and brassy as a red-neck Texan. They began talking Hebrew, a language only a rabbi could decipher. Quite clever of them to pick the house next door to pinko, commie atheist for their invasion.

They began to unload the bombs for the vast tunnel system that Millie so cleverly discovered days ago. It almost cost her life but I bartered a dozen eggs to get my Millie back. Cheap when faced with Zionist Jihad Party Boys. So we have an invasion ran by their Queen of Mean and Daddy funding everything. Daddy has deep pockets for a Zionist Jihadist.

Hold on. Hold on, the radio just went crazy and one of their tanks has just left the area. The house is dark, except for the pretty solar lights that change rainbow colors in the back yard. I'll be damned if I'll give up my fucking solar rainbow lights. I'll face any Zionist Jihad Party Boy face to face, cock warmer to cock warmer. If they can get their fucking gut out of the way.

The radio is back. The danger has passed--for now.

A woman dressed quite well, very un-Zionist, with heels walked from one bunker to the other in the alley at noon today. A prostitute, I'm sure, to satisfy the lust that goes on with Zionist-jihadist. Even I, as old as I am will not succumb to sex with men that keep their skull-caps on and I had crochet a bunch of dick warmers too for the Jew Fair, but sadly, no one bought one. They did like the skull caps with crossbones on them.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Obnoxious Hugh

Years ago in the bike club was a guy who rode with us nicknamed Obnoxious Hugh. The nickname is quite appropriate. Thankfully heterosexual, he is a true loser in his quest for a woman. He walks dogs and cuts children's hair. I'm not sure in what order he does this in but that's it folks.

He has this laugh that is completely obnoxious. Like clearing his nose at the same time, it comes out a sneer with snot. He came over today. His first act was to show his large butt to the dogs. The dogs sniffed. I looked away and thought, what next. Next was calling the dogs as he held his rump up. If it wasn't for the fact the dogs are both under ten pounds I think one of them might have mounted. Buster for sure. The clock is ticking, it is warm and I'm getting a queasy feeling.

Obnoxious Hugh pulls out some grass he scored at one of the dispensaries. I get a bong for him, hoping it will stop him from any more displays of his large ass. The dogs did like it though, the large ass and he proceeds to get stoned. Whatever it takes to keep him from talking is fine, hoping he'll smoke himself into a stooper. But he doesn't. He does get a call from someone who wants him to walk their dog. That's good because he is now showing us his collection of photos. If there is anything more obnoxious than someone telling you how great their photos are and how well he can digital enhance scenes of sand cleaners in the early light at the beach I would like to know.

He has no current girlfriend. His old girlfriend dumped him and she was no prize either. He now walks dogs, cuts hair and talks to anyone stupid enough to answer their door on a Sunday afternoon.

I do have a soft spot for him. As a teenager, he watched his father commit suicide on the apartment monitor. The father rang the apartment, Hugh clicked it on and his dad said, watch this, and then put a gun in his mouth and fired while his young son watched on the monitor. It would have to shake anybody up, I would think.

Hugh is a Jew. He is balding with a gut, a sneer for a laugh and no woman, not much dick that I could see but he does appeal to dogs and children. Funny how that works out.

Friday, April 23, 2010

The Mean Queen Stole my Mexicans

Editing and laundry, gardening and watering, I kept going by the bedroom window. The gardeners pulled up but didn't get out of the truck. The Mean Queen made a hasty U in the street and pulled up in front of her place for the first time. I went back to whatever in hell it was with an occasional looked out the front. One gardener was asleep behind the wheel. The other had disappeared.

I feared the worse. The Mean Queen probably needed other nourishment than fat children. Something with a lot of protein like a sinewy Mexican gardener. The one lost was old anyway but the one behind the wheel has the most beautiful brown eyes. Lean and lanky with a lazy playful smile. I give them beer when I have it. Tell them to skip when the weather is too hot or just awful. I know how to treat hot spicy Mexican gardeners.

The Mean Queen and her daddy grilled the older, sinewy gardener. They grilled and then put him to work. They both got out, cut my lawn and then went to pay homage at the palace next door. They worked and worked, cutting and blowing for the Mean Queen and her daddy.
Then daddy paid them and they finished my place.

It was cowardly of me. I could have ran out in my dick warmer with a cold beer in each hand but I figured after a bout with Mean Queen and daddy, they probably wanted to head south of the border, down Mexico way. I'll know next Friday if they come back and if they once again, are forced to serve for the Mean Queen her daddy.

Outside of my concern for the gardeners, I found a need to add more to a scene in Jawbone. Everything is ready to send out to publishers, the query and synopsis, but going over the work one last time, I need to clear up a scene better and it wouldn't hurt to add seven thousand words. That would give it seventy and more publishers seem to want at least that.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I See Dead Bodies

Caryl is driving to Riverside, a place that has more cows than people, to learn forensic science. I thought it was poll dancing because what does Riverside offer but bars and cows? The police department there is running a class in police procedures for crime investigation. Blood splatter is next on the list.

I told her to watch Dexter. All the blood splatter you would ever want to know is in that series. I loaned her my book, Forensics for Dummies. That, and she asked me questions on police procedures when I was a cop thirty years ago. Back then there wasn't a procedure. You shot or captured someone and let the courts do the rest. Simple really, I remember my training when it came to crowd control. You grabbed the nearest hippie in the crowd and put a plastic tie cuff on their wrists (they had just came out), throw them in the wagon and get another one.

Nowadays you can't shoot them first. You have to wait, yell that you are a police officer and that you have a weapon. You do not shoot running suspects. It is hard for the department to explain bullet holes in the back. What you need to do is run faster then they and shoot them in the front or tackle them. I preferred to run over them with my cruiser. I wrote a hell of an auto accident report.

So Caryl was a dentist and now wants to work on dead people. Well, they can't ask for more gas can they? Can't compare you to a Nazi war criminal because the drill slipped. I guess it will work out. But there is one problem with the dead I never got over. They are really dead. I mean if you have to lift one. It is back breaking heavy. No wonder Dexter sawed them up and put them in bags. How else can you move the damn things.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Boxcar Willie

Storm clouds have formed over the Santa Monicas. Good time to get Boxcar Willie and Mortgage Lifter into the ground. Each seedling got a good smear of home grown muck to snug them in their bed between rows of pole beans.

While at it, we picked a bowl of sugar snaps and another of greens for the salad. I think I might be able to keep up my composting with the new composter. So far I'm about even though I do run a bit short each planting of the composted straw and chicken manure. When the weather cooperates, I can have a batch ready by the time I clean out the hen house and pen. The barrel holds it all and then some and the composting action starts right up.

Once I get the bamboo grove out, the vegetable garden will almost double and the land is in a good location for year round planting. I thought artichoke plants along the patio border. I could put in corn too but you have to plant a lot of corn to get a good crop of it.

The jihad boys have been very quiet. Mean queen has been very quiet. Too quiet if you ask me. Something is a-foot. Something sinister is brewing in the barracks and the palace of the mean queen. I can feel it, almost taste it. The moon is waxing, becoming stronger and I think it may start the jihad party boys up in a fever pitch of clap-clap songs. The mean queen will want a fresh fat child. I can feel it in my bones.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Party Night

The weather cooperated, the jihad party boys were busy burrowing tunnels, the mean queen was hunkered down to egg laying after feeding on fat children and we had a party. Smoked ham, Boston baked beans and collard greens--Southern style.

The Weber grill is great. Weened off the propane, I'm finding that it ain't barbecue if you don't have smoke and wood. The ham came out fine, smokey and the apricot-soy sauce baste was excellent.

It was a sort of test. The induction stove top worked well. It really gets hot and I was able to use the crock pot on the same line. Now the next step is to see if the toaster-oven will overload the system or work too. Then I'll have an almost complete kitchen on the patio.

We had some friends over that we haven't seen in a long time. That was nice and some of them reconnected to others they haven't seen in while. David and Greg made nice and have a play date set for Saturday. If everyone behaves, we might have another party, hell maybe I'll ask the jihad party boys over. We can do the clap clap dance.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Dinner with Friends

Barbara and Fred are good people. They're both small, an ass-hair from being midgets but that doesn't make them bad people. Because they are both small they watch what they eat. They eat all that healthy shit, like a plate of fruit for a birthday cake. I was so tempted to drive out of my way to find a donut shop still open on the way back home. If there was a donut shop open on the way back, I would have stopped and got rid of that awful taste of lentils with cucumbers. I would have found a nice fat glazed donut, I think two, and I would pull pieces off and eat them, feeling the sweet fried dough coat my mouth giving me that giddy sugar rush I crave.

What's wrong with having a little milk in the house? Soy milk? Thought I would gag when I tasted it with coffee. Gag on coffee laced with soy milk and a sliced pear for desert. Gag on twigs and sticks for dinner. And for what? A skinny ass? Two days more on earth? I don't get it.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Millie is Taken Prisoner

She left the house this morning with her tail high to review her domain. A storm or two passed over, which usually sends Mil running to the house. But not this time. It wasn't until the afternoon, when I called her and heard a faint response. I kept calling and she kept hollering back until I located her under the house next door. I searched to see how she could have got under there and why she couldn't get out. Finally I knocked until the owner came to the door.

He let me in and opened the trap door in the bedroom. We got Millie out and I gave him a dozen eggs for helping me. We walked all around the house looking for a way that Millie could have got in but didn't find an opening. That means one thing.

The jihad party boys, in league with their mean queen, have set up a vast network of underground tunnels that permeate the hood. Millie must have sniffed it out and payed the price. Fortunately I found her in time before they could come back and do something terrible to Millie. I shudder to think what it would be.

They must be tunneling now. Vast networks to house the mean queen's eggs. Eggs that will hatch jihad party boys with skull caps and clap-clap songs. They are tunneling now. Making their way into the hearts of homes all through the hood for some sinister mischief. No wonder they hide. No wonder they fear cock and ball warmers and covers for their mutilated dicks.

I'll have to warn the neighbors that are still left. "Take heed neighbor and wear the cock and ball warmer I crochet for you last winter. It may save your life."

Sunday, April 11, 2010

I Spy

With cameras focused on the two bunkers of the jihad party boys and one in the backyard of their queen, it looks like the hood is well covered with roving eyes. The party boys have been extremely quiet. I suspect that once they get use to the glare of an all seeing telescopic lens, they will resort back to the happy clap-clap songs and the touchy feely free for all but I'm not sure because something new happened today.

Their queen had a small child over. The men left that live with the queen so as not to disturb her. The child played for a while and then I heard the unpleasant cry of a small thing in distress. The queen was toying with her food. Playing with it, like a cat does before the fatal strike. The cries ceased and thirty minutes later, the men came back to administer to their sated queen.

She is a mean, bloated queen, full of young flesh. It is quiet now. The storm clouds have gathered and torrents of rain will wash the crimson stains from the backyard where the feeding took place. The men soothe their queen, comfort her belly full of eggs. Eggs that will produce more jihad party boys to do her will.

I'll put signs around seeing if anyone is missing a child. Ralph's milk department should be a good place to look too. Or perhaps they went to another sector of the city to find the mean queen a square meal. It could be that the children here are under nourished, not fat enough for a mean queen to bother with. She needs a child filled with fruit tarts and gummy bears. A child, blubbery and soft, fed on bread sticks and chocolate bunnies to satisfy a mean queen.

Perhaps that is why all is quiet. The jihad party boys had dance and touched. The jihad party boys built their bunkers and stood guard while their queen grew and now is ready for her massive egg laying. The select men have spermed her and filled her sacs full of semen ready to implant each egg. She'll need more children, I can see that already.

Dear god! I wonder if the chickens are safe?

Friday, April 9, 2010

Queen of the Jihad Party Boys

They have a queen, the jihad party boys. Everyone has a queen, for myself--several. But next door lives their queen. And guess what? She must have ordered all the other women killed. A threat to the throne I imagine and the heir apparent, her daughter. I'm not kidding you. Today, she ordered my gardeners to air-blow leaves from her driveway. She felt when they mowed the lawn, some of the cuttings blew over to her side.

And they did it. The hapless Hispanic gardeners know better than to fuck with a Middle Eastern queen.

I'm going to mount a camera on the garage and have it face their back yard. They never come out except to argue about the leaves from my yard that fall in theirs. It's all in that secretive gibber-jabber. A strange language because, it cannot be spoken unless in loud, angry tones.

As they point to the tree between the properties and screech words that sound like people talking with a stone in their mouth, the queen berates the older man, until finally he yells louder than her that he'll fix it.

"I'll fix it, " is known throughout the world, whether you talk with stones in your mouth or not.

It means: you're breaking my balls; get off my back; first thing in the morning.

She is a mad queen and I think the camera can prove that she is in cahoots with the jihad party boys. They have been silent today. Really silent. No yodeling, no clap-clap songs. I thought maybe there might be a gathering but no movement at all on their part. Just the queen screaming at my gardeners to air-blow her fucking driveway.

Here's another thing, she parks on the other side of our house and then walks to hers. It may be that she has a camera in her car. I'll have to install more cameras I think. Two in back, one in front and definitely one on next door. That could be where the next threat will come from. It could be that the queen is furious about my idea of giving the jihad boys a sheath for their cocks. Red ones, blue ones, rainbow. Hell, be creative I say. I think she likes them cut. Puts them in their place so to speak.

"You want that I should order more taken off?" She screams at an errant jihad party boy.

No wonder they're hiding and probably plotting an overthrow. I think they really liked my cock and ball warmer. In fact I know it because it was all they could look at yesterday in the alley.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Jihad Yodel

While gathering eggs this morning, the jihadist were calling to one another. I think their communication system must have broke down, so they had the look-outs yodel.

"Ba-woo," the West look-out said.
"Yu-oh," the East one answered.

Back and forth these two went on and so I thought, here's my chance to get in good.

"You-whoo," I yodeled in a much higher pitch than there's. After all, you have to sing out the yodel, not croak it out.

Last night I looked through the winter yarn bag and came up with something I think works for a skull cap. I have a nice turquoise and some fuchsia yarn and so it sure didn't take long to crochet a beanie. These things are a snap but they don't cover shit except for a bald spot, if you have one. I put some tassels on mine too. Sort of spruced it up.

I yodeled again, "Yu-whoo---."

There was no answer, so I thought, I'll just see if the garbage was picked up, knowing it wasn't but this way they could see I'm wearing a skull-cap, and a rather captivating one at that. My thought was, once they see the skull-cap then they'll think I'm a brotha, and I thought after we break the ice, I could introduce them to a cock and ball warmer. They are so easy to make and if you put pon-pons on the cord that goes around your dick and nuts like a cock-ring, it is really striking. They have an added bonus too because you can add quite a bit to your equipment with one, depending on the thickness of the yarn.

I opened the back gate and casually looked down the alley one way and then the other. There they were standing absolutely still, like deer in headlights. I opened the blue trash can and saw the papers and empty champagne bottle. Then I sort of wiggled my head to give the tassels a bit of a shake, slowly turned so they could have a side view of my cock and ball warmer, it really is impressive.

They both had the strangest look, I waved. East gave a slight wave, west had some slobber on his chin.

"Nice day isn't it?" I said in a loud, clear voice.

East smiled, a thin smile and said a kind of, "Yes. Yes--nice day, " in a very thick Middle Eastern accent.

"How long have you yodeled?" I asked.

"Voidel? What is Voidel?" He asked.

"Yodel-lay-he-who---" I replied

He had the queeriest expression, almost as if had a gas bubble or passed a wet fart. "Mishuggah," he said.

"Mishuggah, to you too," I said with a wave and smile. Such a nice greeting. Like saying ciao in Capri I imagine.

They turned and walked back to their guard station. Leaving me to ponder, where to locate the camera once I'm asked to join in a happy clap-clap song.

And I was also thinking that I could show them how to make a foreskin for the end of their dick. You know, those days when it's not cold enough for a cock and ball warmer but you do need a little covering. They could crochet a little covering for the head of their dick and then see for themselves that having a foreskin isn't so bad.

I think I could have a career in the diplomatic area. I always thought, nothing brings men more together than a crochet party making cock and ball warmers for the holiday seasons.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Update on the Jihad Party Boys

Okay, this is very strange. Suddenly these guys are wearing skull caps. They haven't always worn skull caps but now they are. They're still singing the songs and clapping the beat. I don't know if they're Jews or Arabs anymore. There is another strange thing. No women. Seriously, it is now all guys. Before there were woman but one day one of them screamed for help and I guess they killed the bunch of them. Not sure if they had more than one woman, it seemed more than one was there but now--well it's just the boys.

Young dudes, and all look like they came from the same village. It's freaking me out. Seriously, they walk back and forth between the two fortresses. Exactly three houses East and West in the alley on the other side are two fortresses. There is no backyard, only these real dull, uninteresting buildings that look like bunkers. I'm not shitting you. They are fuckin' bunkers, full of radical skull-cap wearing Jihad party boys.

They march between the two fortresses, and there, ten feet from the alley, Wally and I are with the chickens, watching it all. It is really fucking weird. Here's another weird thing, they have their cell phone conversations right in back of the fucking bushes we have to block the alley. I can see why, it's the only fucking green thing around. But besides that, I can't understand one thing they say. They could be talking about taking out the hood. You know, bombing the shit out of us atheist pinko commies. Who the fuck knows, but why the bunkers and the clap-clap party songs?

I'll have to put in a fucking bomb shelter next to the hen house. I hear them now, another round to work themselves into a frenzy before sundown. What's with the sundown thing with these people. They don't believe in vampires do they?

Monday, April 5, 2010

The Old Ticker

The last time I was at Kaiser I had to race there to make it on time. The nurse strapped a blood pressure cup on and wham, It's 150 over, a hundred. I said, "Ya gotta let me calm down. You see, I was trying to find a parking space when this stupid bastard had a senior moment and couldn't decide if he was going into a stall or out of one."

I think his diaper needed changing but I waited patiently while he somehow made it out without hitting to many cars, then hobbled with my cane in one hand to the dermatologist. She waited maybe two seconds before turning on the squeeze. Now it was only 140 over ninety.

"You may get a call to see our hypertension clinic," she said. Then the doc came in and began the burn off of all the pre-cancers that pop up from my days in the sun.

It was 125/84 and the other arm was 120/80. I was given a diet that says I'm to eat more fruit and nuts and less prime rib and gin. I'm to fast for blood work and come back in two months to see if I need any further discipline for having a high blood pressure rate when some older fuck than me begins to drool behind the wheel.

I suppose that if I chanted, or painted a pretty flower while the dufus was deciding to shit in his pants or move forward, I would have tiptoed in with bare skin glowing, waiting for the nitrogen to freeze the shit out of my fucking flesh and still come up with a perfect blood pressure.

"Oh doctor, that stings so good!"

Then the scabs come. And people begin to look. You hear comments like, "Shouldn't he be wearing a bell to warn people?" And "Oh my god Ethel, don't let the children see this."

Sure, of course your blood pressure is high when you're treated like that. Whose wouldn't be, but do the doctors understand that? No. "You say you don't smoke but you do smoke grass from time to time. And you drink? Daily is that it? And you eat pork and beef. You eat cake and you just can't say no to a fried shrimp? Well, we want you to read this diet and follow it."

I read it. Nothing about how to make a good martini. Not a thing about blue cheese versus cheddar on a hamburger with bacon. Fuck no. It's fruits and legumes, fruits and legumes. Jesus fucking Christ, sticks and twigs, no wonder you don't have high blood pressure on a diet of that shit. You probably can't make it out of the field you just foraged for the ingredients.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Potato Seeds

Years ago, when the vegetable garden was new, I planted everything. I planted okra, a really lovely plant from the hibiscus family. The leaves are different but not the flowers, a creamy white that opens just like hibiscus flowers and quite prolific. I like them coated in corn meal and fried. Like eating popcorn only better.

I had some potatoes that sprouted eyes, so, I took them out, cut them in pieces and planted them. Had lots of red potatoes later in the year. It was no problem, no wonder the tuber is grown all over the world. But that's not what seed catalogs tell you. For some reason, when you buy potato seeds, which are nothing more than a left over potato, that all changes. I read the directions three times, maybe four. Take them out of the paper sacks if you aren't going to plant within two weeks. Place in a warm dark area until they eye up. Then place them in a cool lighted place to green up. After that you can cut the seed into sections but you want at least two eyes to each section. Plant them in mounds of rich organic material.

I forgot what it cost me, they came from Maine and I ordered them back in the winter, around Christmas. They just got here the other day. Small little spuds none as large as a chicken egg but they are different colors. Red, blue, white with red skin, yellow and the flowers are the colors of the potato. Say you have a red potato with white flesh. The flower is suppose to be red and white. Blue for blue potatoes and so on.

You see, the seed catalog said it wasn't a good idea to use potatoes that come from the market because they spray them with a chemical to impede sprouting. Okay, maybe they do, but it doesn't seem to work on any potato I had left over in the refrigerator. All I have to do is put a potato at the bottom of the vegetable bin and in three days it will sprout like crazy.

Now I'm watching these little nuggets in their cardboard box from an organic farm in Maine, waiting for the damn things to sprout something. So far they look like dirt balls sitting in a box. Not a sprout on them and I'm wondering, should I plop them in the frig, nestled with the rotting lettuce at the bottom of the bin? Would they sprout then or should I go to the store, like I did years ago and get potatoes that are just waiting to get home to sprout within three days if I don't use them. What has the seed catalog wrought?

Friday, April 2, 2010

Religion's wasteland

I stopped believing in religion once I found out for myself that all religions are man-made. There is no god, no angles, no devils, no spirits or ghosts. There's just superstitious belief systems left over from our cave dwelling days.

When I read about the priest at the Vatican giving the Good Friday homily stating that the church leaders are being attacked and persecuted and that it was akin to the Holocaust, I couldn't believe I read it correct the first time. I had to re-read the article to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me.

First, the victims of these pedophiles, the victims that run into the thousands, having to hear that because they endured child rape, the church leaders in Rome are suffering. Some were forced to sign agreements not to testify that they were raped, repeatedly, forcibly as young children. Some of them handicap. The depth of depravity that the Catholic church as been mired in for two thousand years is mind boggling.

The Inquisition, the burning alive of gay people, non-believers, and Jews that went on for over a thousand years is appalling. Why would anyone believe in the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church let alone any religious belief is beyond comprehension. It's as if human beings must have wholesale slaughter to satisfy some inner craving to appease some sort of god.

If we can only survive as a species until religious belief is dead and buried for good in the sands of time, can I see any hope of us raising above self appointed speakers of a god to announce such self serving diatribes as this priest at the Vatican who thinks the pope is being terribly prosecuted. What rot.