Maybe you read that last post and dismissed it as just another example of Jeff’s excursions into nonsense; you wrote it off as the frivolous exercise of a stunted and puerile mind. Maybe you didn’t even really read it; you skimmed it enough to realize that you didn’t care, closed the web page (but not before thinking ever so briefly, “Why doesn’t he write serious? What does he expect?”) and went on to some other concern: jailed KY court officials, the recent bloviations of political candidates, sinking boats of refugees, the arrest of athletes, fad diets, cat photos, celebrity scandals, television critics, comic book fangirls, insurance commercials. I don’t know.
But maybe you read that last post and you bristled – just a little bit. Something, somewhere inside you noticed and recognized the subtle shades of blasphemy, the inverted biblical phrases, the deliberate reversal, the upturning, undoing. You closed the page and went on to something else as well, but you noticed it, and the irritation persisted.
Maybe you didn’t notice at all – but now that I’ve belabored the point you’ve gone back and read it again. And now you wonder why I’d go to such lengths, why I’d draw attention to it again and again. Perhaps it’s the narcissism of self-promotion, the little boy shouting, “Look at me! Look at me! (and once more for the rule-of-three) Look at me!”
Dismiss it again, if you will, but I saw the Satan defenestrated. He stood up, brushed the shards of glass and the grime of the streets from his slick, sweet suit, and walked away whistling. Now what can a poor boy do except write this all of this crap down?
Blow trumpets for battle: we’re fighting in the streets. Churches and flags are being burned.
Blow trumpets for battle: we’re dying on the sidewalks, handcuffed and beaten. In this day ye shall make a memorial blowing of the trumpets for an unholy convocation. Be warned. Be prepared. It is a day of judgment and no mistake. A Feast of Trumpets, one hundred trumpets and the walls of the city come tumbling down around us.
Behold I shew you a mystery: we shall sleep and NOT be changed. The trumpet shall sound and the dead will still be dead. Drowned on a beach, hung in a solitary cell, shot in the back with his arms up, dead. Eyes have not heard and ears have not seen. Nothing penetrates the heart of man. Evening comes and the sky is red, but this is not fair weather; it is on fire. We’re no longer able to read the sky – we cannot interpret the times.
The power spikes, the reactor fails. Shut it down.The roof is on fire.The palace burns.The earth is scorched despite the provisions of Article 54 of Protocol I of the 1977 Geneva Conventions (still unratified by such terrorist states as Iran, Pakistan, Israel, and the USofA). Stars falls from the sky, through smoke and the bitter fumes of aerosolized 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. We are tortured – but they won’t call it that, of course; it is “enhanced interrogation” – for five months. Five more months with no word of explanation. No phone call. No email. No communication of any kind from our commanders.