Considering the seriousness of yesterday’s post, I suppose it’s a poor reflection on my maturity that it left me thinking of this.

One sure warning that you are about to hear a really bad song is when the singer announces, “This is a song the Lord gave me.” At that point, you should plug your ears, and probably hold your nose, as well.

A couple weeks ago, Calvin’s comments on John 2:4 provoked a discussion in which I learned something I hadn’t known about Roman Catholic Mariology: apparently, Mary is the “New Eve.” Of course we know that Christ is the “last Adam” (1 Corinthians 15:45), but I had never heard any mention of another Eve. Turns out it’s because there isn’t any. What should have immediately occurred to me, but didn’t, is that there couldn’t be a second Eve because Christ already has a bride (Ephesians 5:22–27), chosen before the foundation of the world (Ephesians 1:4).

Well, the gentleman who was schooling me on this mysteriously dropped out of the conversation, so I never really got a satisfactory explanation. While I was waiting to see if he would return, my mind began wandering through the maze of papist Mariology, and I began to wax poetic. Those who remember my previous poetic works, including a contribution to contemporary worship music and a collection of cheese couplets, may want to go elsewhere at this point. Anyway, considering all that the Bible says about Mary, and adding to that all that Rome has said . . .

“This is a song the Lord gave me.”

Not Quite the Magnificat . . . (tune and inspiration)

A couple thousand years ago, I was a Jewish lass
A strange thing happened to me (pardon me if this sounds crass)
I was impregnated by the Spirit of the Lord
And had a holy baby who was very much adored

This baby was the son of God and made me very proud
He was so good that some folks claim he never cried out loud
And then some guys in funny hats invented theories odd
Among them being that I am the very mother of God

So now I am God’s mother and the mother of his son
But I’ll reveal a stranger fact before my song is done
My baby was the second Adam, I, the second Eve
Which made me my son’s wife, a thing I hardly can believe

Now if I am God’s mother, Jesus then is my grandson
I know that is a weird thought, but it’s not the weirdest one
I’ve come to a conclusion that is sticking in my craw
If I am Jesus’ wife, then I’m my granddaughter-in-law

So . . .

I’m my own grandma, I’m my own grandma
It sounds funny, I know, but Rome says it is so
Oh, I’m my own grandma

How about some plain old frivolity on a Saturday? Alright, then; here you go:

I am not a sports fan. There are certain sports that I enjoy occasionally, but when it comes right down to it, I couldn’t care less. That doesn’t mean I can’t muster a strong opinion on particular games or teams. Those opinions are usually manifested in dislike for teams who play the games about which I couldn’t care less. No, it isn’t actually the teams I dislike; it’s the cities, states, or other entities they represent, and what they represent, that I dislike. In short, it’s usually something political.

For example, I could never be a Redskins fan, even though the political incorrectness of their name is attractive. What the Washington machine has been doing to my beloved Constitution since long before Il Duce took power requires me to oppose all things DC. I could be a Steelers fan, would even like to be, just to have something in common with the venerable Dr. Sproul, but the union logo on their helmets constrains me. I can’t tell you why I oppose the 49ers; this is a family blog, and besides, I might get being charged with a hate crime. Closer to home, the Vikings have my indirect disdain. Al Franken is why. Well, not Al Franken per se, but the road they have long been traveling that has led to Al Franken.

Being married to a native cheesehead, Minnesota-hate has been quite convenient — until Brett Favre went to the Vikings, that is. My wife has been in quite a dither over the whole situation. Favre was the hero of Green Bay for so long that it has been difficult to separate Packer-fanhood from Favre-fanhood. She has even been heard to suggest, with the agony of a woman in labor, that she might have to root for the Vikings if they make the Superbowl. I, supportive husband that I am, have suggested what a beautiful irony it would be if the Viking’s first Superbowl win was led by Favre, in his first year as a Viking, after defeating Green Bay in the playoffs.

Not everyone, it might interest you to know, appreciates irony.

So there we were, yesterday afternoon, in front of the tube waiting for the Packer-Viking tip-off, or first pitch, or whatever it is they do on a football court. Well, one of us was waiting. I was daydreaming about something profound (I’m sure, though I don’t remember) when I was rudely yanked from my reverie by a sound reminiscent of my only professional hockey match (at the beginning of the first inning, the North Stars fan behind me was instructing his young son in court-side etiquette as the Detroit Redwings took the field). The Packer fans were booing Brett Favre! Now some of this post might be taken frivolously, but please take me very seriously when I say I was disgusted. Such shameful behavior! Disgraceful!

Anyway, there was only one thing I could do: I launched into a rant against unsportsmanlike behavior, in which I repeated the adjectives above repeatedly (incessantly, some might say, but she’s exaggerating) and decreed that the support of the entire household was to be thrown solidly behind Favre and the Vikings. Shocking, I know, but such was the heat of my fury. So there I was, all afternoon, cheering loudly for a bunch of guys in purple from the Al Franken state performing some of the most meaningless (or is that least meaningful?) antics imaginable. Alas, how low I had descended!

Not really. I went back to my profound ponderings without another thought. I needed a nap.

Congratulations, Mr. President.

I gave my daughter Voddie Baucham’s book What He Must Be if he wants to marry my daughter. I asked her the other day how it was and what she was learning. If you don’t know who Voddie Baucham is, I need to tell you, for the purposes of this story, that he is black. You also need to know that I and my family are as white as Scandinavian-Americans with roots in Minnesota and Wisconsin should be; that is, very white.

One section of Baucham’s book deals with inter-“racial” marriage. His view is that it is both wrong and foolish to narrow your matrimonial options based on ethnicity (I concur). As he discussed this issue, he personalized it in the context of his own pigmentally advantaged family. If a godly young man of differing shade wanted to court his daughter, and she was amenable, that would be fine with him.

So, when I asked my daughter what she was learning, she replied,

“I’ve learned that I don’t have to marry a black guy.”

I grew up with a medium-sized list of things Christians shouldn’t do. Don’t get me wrong, there are many things Christians shouldn’t do, but this list was not exactly the Decalogue. On this list, probably somewhere in the middle below drinking alcohol and above playing cards, was going to the movie theatre. It wasn’t considered a sin per se, but it was definitely a sign of worldliness. I’ve never been able to negotiate the difference between sinful and merely worldly, but trust me, it exists. They said so, or at least, implied so.

So it was through a bit of serendipity that I first stepped into a theatre at ten years of age. Some cousins from Big City, Minnesota came to visit during the summer of 1975. They were liberals (no kidding, they really were) who had no scruples about the theatre; so, stuck in Small Town, South Dakota (population 650, give or take) and bored to death, they were going to the show that weekend, whatever it was. As luck would have it, it was The Apple Dumpling Gang (still one of my favorites). It was rated G, and I think my parents weren’t quite sour enough to frown and tut-tut at the cousins. Consequently, they were in a bind when, in front of aunt, uncle, and cousins, my siblings and I declared that, yes, that would be fun! Long story short, we went; which, I believe, broke down the barrier between yours truly and an event that would have a dramatic effect on my wee little psyche in the summers to come.

What, The Apple Dumpling Gang messed me up? No, this story is not about cute orphans and bumbling “desperados.” It’s about [cue ominous music] sharks. You see, 1975 was also the year Jaws was released. I’ve told this story many times, and every time I’ve said I was twelve years old. Who lets their twelve-year-old see a movie with graphic people-eating? But my fact-checking revealed the shocking fact that I was actually only ten. How I managed to finagle Jaws from my theatres-are-evil parents is still a mystery. Anyway, in those days and in that town, no ten-year-old was getting into a PG movie unaccompanied, so it fell to my sister, then seventeen, to take me. She was a better date than you might expect, jumping and gasping in all the right places, giving me mucho teasing ammo for days, if not weeks and months, to come. Her gasps grew to shrieks in my gleeful accounts of the evening. But I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.

It was either that same summer or one of the following two that our family met some other cousins, these from Even Smaller Town, South Dakota, at the Oahe Reservoir near Pierre, the state capital, where we camped, swam, and fished for a week. On at least one of those days, the wind blew something fierce, as it is wont to do in the plains states. Oahe is a big lake, so a big wind produces big waves — too big for fishing, skiing, or any small boating activity. But we were there to have fun, so rather than sit around outside our tents watching our potato chips and paper plates blow away, we did the only thing we could do. We went swimming. Well, not swimming, exactly. My uncle, father, cousin, and I put on life jackets and swam out from shore as far as we could. Then we just laid in the water and let the waves take us in. Up and down we rode for hours, on waves six to eight feet high, reaching the shore and swimming back out again.

There I was, laying on my back in the water, watching the waves tower over me, then riding to the top and surveying the lake around me and the approaching beach ahead. I could have just laid back and fallen asleep, it was so relaxing. Relaxing . . . relaxing . . . when suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the image of a huge shark thrust itself upon me. I nearly shot out of the water and hydroplaned to shore. Slowly, I got a grip on myself. “It’s a lake. There are no sharks. It’s a lake . . . it’s a lake . . . it’s just a lake.” My heart-rate slowed, my breathing steadied, and I was mostly alright. I laid back, shaken, nervous, and wishing for the shore, but pretty sure I wouldn’t be eaten that day.

Now, you need to know that Jaws had awakened an interest in me. From the day I saw that movie, I was hooked on sharks. I read everything I could find on them. I even got the novel and read it (and was disappointed with the discrepancies between book and movie). I knew that sharks have a cartilaginous skeleton, that they have to swim constantly to avoid drowning, have multiple rows of teeth that rotate forward to replace lost teeth, and that, rather than scales, they have a network of dermal denticles that sheath their bodies in a virtual external skeleton. Shark skin has the texture of sandpaper, and has in fact been used as such. Mark that fact, Dear Reader.

But I was not thinking of those things on that warm, windy day as I rode the waves to shore. I was trying to put all things fishy out of my mind, and had mostly succeeded. Riding to the top of a wave, I was relieved to see the beach within yards. Sinking to the bottom of the swell, laying face down now with my feet trailing behind, the top of my foot brushed the sandy bottom. I’ve never been a good swimmer, but I’m sure I broke somebody’s record that day. Spitz and Phelps had nothing on me. I hit the shore running, and collapsed just a few yards onto the beach.

That was the end of my “swimming” for the day.

My interest in sharks waned as years passed, but still, whenever I see something like this I think, “cool.” I didn’t enter the theatre again until 1979, for Hal Lindsey’s church-approved The Late Great Planet Earth. I don’t remember a thing about that one.

. . . this will never be me:

(see previous post)

More love from the religion of peace.

“Famous musicians shouldn’t grow old.” I’m not sure the younger (1974) is so much better than the older (2008). Stephen King once wrote of a character singing “with a voice that could melt screws.” I think we’ve found him, if you can call that “singing.” On the other hand, here’s a famous musician who got old: hear him in 1957, 1969, about (I’m guessing) 1985–90, and in 2009 — at 100 years old. I guess it all depends on what you call music.

Oh, Benny. This is so ironic you wouldn’t want to leave it out in the rain . . . you know, because it would rust.

Conclusive proof we elected the wrong man: our President drinks light beer.

And finally, possibly the worst joke I will ever tell. This is no exaggeration. It is utterly horrible, but it’s also so much my style that I can’t resist. The worst part is that it’s original; it just popped into my head the other day. It’s really only funny in the perverse way of bad puns and the twisted minds that love them. So you have my sincere apologies in advance. Prepare the tomatoes.

David, son of Jesse, King of Israel, walks into a bar . . .

Yep, clichéd lead-in and all. Sorry.

. . . has drink, shares casual banter with the bartender, etc., and leaves. Spends the afternoon writing several Psalms, plays Harp Hero with one of the boys. Wanders back to the bar later that evening.

The bartender says to himself, “Wow, man. Dave à Jew.”

These are just a couple of loose thoughts rattling around in my head this morning.1

• Item One:

  This was brought to my attention twice in one day (Thursday, to be precise). I take that to be a sign from God that I must comment on it. First, I heard it on the radio. As I seldom listen to the radio, that must be significant. Then, I was reminded in print2. Since “in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established,”3 I take this as an “anointing of the spirit”4 to share a “word of knowledge”4. And, today being Saturday, this is as good a time as any to share my wisdom. Prepare for the profundity.

  Anyone who can sing “Easy like a Sunday Morning”5 has obviously never gotten eight (or even one or two) children ready for church on Sunday.6

  If that requires any explanation, you should perhaps consider a life of celibacy.

• Item Two:

  This year marks the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing, or perhaps I should say, alleged moon landing. No, I’m kidding; but God, in his loving providence, has given us some entertaining folks who are not. More proof of his providence is that this was captured on video. I’m not saying what Aldrin did was right; I am saying that viewing it provided me with a moment of schadenfreude7 for which I have yet to feel convicted.

• Item Three:

  I like lists and footnotes.8

1 Yes, you may say it: along with a couple of loose screws.

2 You won’t see it in this link, but the text that came through my Google reader was “Easy like a Sunday Morning.”

3 Matthew 18:16. Yes, I know I am ripping it violently out of context. Believe it or not, I’m only following a precedent I’ve encountered in using this verse.

4 You may insert one of those rolling-eyes emoticons here, if your religion allows.

5 A truly horrible song, second in horribleness only to We’ll Sing in the Sunshine.

6 No, ladies, I don’t have to be a mom to know that.

7 A word that makes me look scholarly.

8 Footnotes add to the illusion of scholarshipliness. Lists give the appearance of orderly, structured thinking.*

* Footnoting a footnote is taking it a bit too far.

We recently watched Cast Away starring Tom Hanks. It’s not a great movie, but a pretty good one. I like the ending. To be true to the spirit of Hollywood, and to the prevailing moral climate in general, it should have ended with an adulterous tryst, but it didn’t. My compliments to the screenwriter.

Still, as much as I liked the ending, it would have been even better had it ended like this.

Wrapping up rerun week . . .

We used to be funny here on Saturday. Okay, scratch that. We used to tell jokes here on Saturday, about various things, including

• a duck
• some Indians
• and a frog.

Uffdah! Another lame April Fool’s Day gag!

RSS readers won’t get it. Click here to see what you missed.

For your information:

Viz. is an abbreviation of a Middle English word, namely, videlicet, which is a contraction of two Latin words, to wit, videre licet. There are several abbreviations of this sort commonly used in English writing: e.g., for example, abbreviates exempli gratia. Another is i.e., that is, id est.

I hope this is helpful.

Saturdays on the blog are normally reserved for things ranging from trivial to frivolous to foolish. Today, due to the out-dated nature of my offering, we can add irrelevant. As promised, I have refrained from political outbursts for the last week. Well, almost, anyway. Technically, I should wait ’til tomorrow; but tomorrow is the Lord’s Day, and as this post is both frivolous and political, I’d best get it out of my system today. It’s not much—pretty lame, actually—but I reckon it’s worth the price of admission.

The Presidential election was too close to call.  Neither McCain nor Obama had enough votes to win.

There was much talk about ballot recounting, court challenges, etc., but a week-long ice fishing competition seemed the sportsmanlike way to settle things. The candidate that caught the most fish at the end of the week would win the election. After much discussion, it was decided that the contest take place on a remote lake in northern Minnesota.

There were to be no observers present, and both men were to be sent out separately to return at 5 P.M. with their catch for counting and verification by a team of neutral parties.

At the end of the first day, McCain returned with ten fish.  Soon, Obama returned with no fish.  Well, everyone assumed he was just having an unlucky day or something, and hopefully, he would catch up the next day.

At the end of the 2nd day McCain came in with twenty fish and Obama came in again with none.

That evening, Harry Reid got together secretly with Obama and said, “I think John McCain is cheating.  I want you to go out tomorrow and don’t even bother with fishing.  Just spy on him and see how he’s cheating.” The following night, Reid asked Obama, “Well, tell me, how is McCain cheating?”

Obama replied, “Harry, you're not going to believe this, but he's cutting holes in the ice!”

Experience matters.

See you in church tomorrow.

You Might Be a Redneck . . .
I think this looks like fun. Does that make me a redneck?

Funniest thing I‘ve read all week:
“Student volunteers from colleges around New York State braved freezing cold temperatures on their bikes Wednesday to send a message to state and federal political candidates: pay attention to climate change.” (HT)

Are you one of those ultra-idealists who vote purely on principle, with no thought as to whether your candidate has the slightest chance to win? Well, then, have I got the candidate for you:

Me!     (HT)

Disclaimer: When I created this ad, I was not thinking of the fact that their actually is a Constitutionalist party. I just love the Constitution.

I‘ve done this before — been suckered into giving a free plug to despair.com, that is. Here‘s another demotivator relevant to our context.

Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.

And now, for something completely different . . .

Not hip with the postmodern scene (i.e., don‘t get it)? Click here, here, and here. Click here to view image full-size.

I have no statistics to prove it, but I’m willing to bet that Calvinism is the fastest growing theology today. Calvinism is spreading like an epidemic. Calvinistic churches are popping up everywhere. Calvinists are writing best-selling books and building mega-churches. People who wouldn’t normally attend church at all are flocking to Calvinist churches.

It’s no wonder, really. Who doesn’t love Calvin?

Louisville, Kentucky; April, 2008. Albert Mohler has just concluded his lecture at the 2008 Together for the Gospel Conference. I make my way to the front of the auditorium, clutching my copy of Dr. Mohler’s new book, Culture Shift, hoping to get it signed by the man himself. If successful, this will be the second signature I have acquired, the first being that of John MacArthur on the new 25th anniversary edition of The Gospel According to Jesus. I feel confident — not in my chances of getting the coveted signature, but of something far more important: not saying something stupid in the few seconds I will have in his presence. I managed to maintain my dignity with my Favorite Living Theologian, Dr. MacArthur, even making a couple of intelligent comments; surely I can manage it with Mohler, as well.

I wait behind the ropey-thing that separates the celebrities from the groupies while Dr. Mohler converses with a young seminary student (I know he is a seminarian because he has that broke-but-trying-very-hard-to-look-scholarly appearance). He approaches, pausing momentarily to jot a note on a scrap of paper and hand it to one of his minions. Suddenly, it strikes me: he has more brains in that fancy fountain pen than I have in my whole body. Like a child ducking behind his mother’s skirt, my brain sneaks away. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I silently hold out my book, only vaguely aware of how stupidly mute I am. Dr. Mohler looks at me expectantly; I say nothing. He takes the book, signs it and hands it back. Finally, my tongue breaks loose.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, and moves on.

Back at my seat, I open the book. It is signed, “To David.” I spend the remainder of the day, name tag hanging around my neck, wondering how he knew my name.

This could be me.

Sorry, this is the best I can do today.

What was the name of the horse in Jingle Bells?
Bob*.

This joke is funniest if you can imagine it being told by a small child — which is how I heard it.

. . . so maybe I’m not nice.

This has to be the best scam I’ve seen in a long time.* (HT: The Riddleblog)

The home page of youvebeenleftbehind.com explains the purpose of this “ministry.”

You've Been Left Behind gives you one last opportunity to reach your lost family and friends For Christ. Imagine being in the presence of the Lord and hearing all of heaven rejoice over the salvation of your loved ones. It is our prayer that this site makes it happen.

You’ve Been Left Behind will send your email message to up to sixty-two of your loved ones who didn’t make the rapture.

Imagine how taken back they will be by the millions of missing Christians and devastation at the rapture. They will know it was true and that they have blown it. There will be a small window of time where they might be reached for the Kingdom of God. We have made it possible for you to send them a letter of love and a plea to receive Christ one last time.

“But wait,” you say, “who will send the emails?” Good question. I wondered, too. Maybe they have a few volunteers on staff who have intentionally, sacrificially put off “making a decision for Christ” until after the rapture. A risky move, for sure, but what an expression of evangelistic zeal and love that would be! But no, they’ve got it figured out:

We have set up a system to send documents by the email, to the addresses you provide, 6 days after the "Rapture" of the Church. This occurs when 3 of our 5 team members scattered around the U.S fail to log in over a 3 day period. Another 3 days are given to fail safe any false triggering of the system.

Okay, now that you’re hooked, what will this cost you?

The cost is $40 for the first year. Re-subscription will be reduced as the number of subscribers increases. Tell your friends about You've Been left behind.

Alright, what are you waiting for? Subscribe now! Get my re-subscription rate down!

Just sign here . . . (video links open in popup windows)

End women‘s suffrage! (HT: Lawn Gospel)

Ban dihydrogen monoxide! (warning for the faint-hearted: some bad words used)

Would you believe . . .

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

If you only knew.

Well, after taking that quiz (HT: DJP), I took this one:

Well, of course. This is one of the few things I‘ve worked hard to achieve. It‘s just part of being an obsessive pain in the

Economist and syndicated columnist Thomas Sowell occasionally titles his column Random Thoughts. If you’ve read those columns, please lower your expectations several degrees before continuing.

These are just a few things that have crossed my mind in the past week or so. Some are thoughts inspired by conversations, others are just the fruit of a wandering mind.

On singing:
   Yukon Rebecca shared a nice hymn on Sunday, complete with a performance of said hymn by Fernando Ortega. She commented that it was “one of the few versions I could find that was not sung in a breathy female voice.” She almost set me off on my own list of irritations with popular singers, but I saved it for you.
   Rebecca already mentioned breathy (kiss me, baby!) singing. I’ll add: growling, whining, moaning, groaning, panting, yelling, screaming, and any other vocal affectation. Please — sing with the voice God gave you. It might not be a great one, but trust me, it’s better than the one you’re faking.
   My most hated musical crime is poor enunciation. I’m not referring to the careless kind, although that’s bad enough. I mean the intentional kind, in which the singer pronounces words in ways he never would if he was speaking, because it’s cool. Come on, people. Get Hooked on Phonics.
   A serious offender on both counts (this is one of those “wandering mind” segments) is Bob Dylan. Some say he can’t sing, but we’ll never know; we’ve never heard him try. I’d call what he does a combination of whining and moaning. And he obviously has no respect for phonics. His fans, if any are reading this, are thinking, “Yeah, but man, can he write. He’s a brilliant lyricist.” Yeah, whatever; I’ve got some poems I wrote when I was in 7th grade and in “love” with a gorgeous 8th grade blonde that might impress you, too. I was in Montana, and she was in Bismarck, North Dakota. It was never to be . . . Sorry, I wandered a little too far, there. Sigh.

There is no male gender, nor female. Male and female are not genders; they are sexes. Gender is described as masculine or feminine.

Does my wife read every word I post? I’ll know soon. OK, Honey, if you’re reading this, when I say, “Dylan,” you say, “stinks.”

How do you pronounce evangelical? Most say “ēvangelical”; some say “ĕvangelical.” As I’ve observe who says what, I think I’ve figured it out. It’s those uppity guys with “Dr.” in front of their names who use the latter pronunciation. The rest of us are right, but will never be published.

Every time I go out, I see people, including adults, wearing sweats — in public. What is wrong with these people? It really is a sign of societal decay when people are more concerned with being comfortable than presentable. For my part, if I meet you in a public place (not a gym or a jogging path), and you are wearing sweats, I’ll assume you can’t be trusted with serious responsibility. After all, you didn’t even manage to get dressed before leaving the house. No wonder your kid can’t wear his cap straight or pull up his pants.

Sometimes I don’t understand my wife. The other day, she told me a story that was supposed to be funny, about a Norwegian who, overcome with emotion, confided in a friend: “I love my wife so much, I almost told her.” What’s funny about that? I thought it was touching.

Pray for Jonathan Moorhead as he teaches a seminar on Jonathan Edwards at Word of Grace Bible Church in Battle Ground WA today.

This is a Russian-speaking congregation, so he will be working with an interpreter. Pray also that he doesn‘t do this — or maybe that he does. A guy‘s got to have some fun, after all.

Numbers — we all say we don’t care about them, some of us really mean it, but most, I think, can’t resist checking them from time to time. The numbers, we might think, tell us if we are as brilliant, profound, insightful, witty, and most of all, popular as we hope we are. The numbers I refer to are, of course, blog statistics. Our stats tell us, “Wow, people actually read my stuff!” or, that hardly anyone does.

Stats can either build our egos, or crush them. Most of us, no matter how small our numbers, can probably find some cause for pride in our stats. I recently did a little analysis to see what the numbers mean. I’m not sure I got it right, but if I did, my conclusion is that I have far less to be proud of than a superficial reading of the numbers indicates. Sure, I have x page loads, y unique visitors, and z returning visitors; but z is the only number that really means “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!” And that number is considerably smaller than x. So, here are my stats, in percent rather than numbers to avoid [ahem] boasting.

71% of you stay for less than 5 seconds. By “you,” of course, I mean “them,” because if you’re reading this, you’re not one of “them.” These are probably the folks who came here by way of a Google search for “asparagus and a theologian” and ended up here.

2% of you are also probably not reading this. You (they) check out in 30 seconds or less.

The remaining 27% of you are actually reading something. 10% stay for at least 30 seconds, but less than 5 minutes. That may not sound like much, but you can actually read quite a bit in 30 seconds. 4 minutes and 59 seconds is far more than I spend on almost any blog I read.

17% stick around a while and probably deserve some kind of award. 6% are here for 5 minutes to an hour (1% for 20 minutes or more). An amazing 11% stay for an hour or more. An hour? Here? These readers are most likely incarcerated somewhere, or they are Norwegian*, but not both; Norwegians never get incarcerated.

So, looking more closely at my stats was a rather humbling experience. But I’ve saved the worst for last: of the 573 posts on this site, the most popular is a guest post by an eighteen-year-old girl†. It’s a good thing I don’t care about the numbers.   . . . and [David] went and hanged himself.

Together for the Gospel 2008 was a great experience, one of the highlights of, oh, the last several years. But, as most of us know, high points are often followed by depressing lows. Such has been the case with me.

Arriving home after a grueling but exhilarating week of fellowship and fun, giddy with excitement and fairly bursting with experiences to share with my dear readers, I began posting. I posted pictures. Then the comments came rolling in. Several readers who had been at the conference wrote in praise of my wife, who was surely deserving, but were rather less complimentary of yours truly. (One fine fellow said I looked like an Oxford professor, which I think was a compliment, but then I‘ve never seen an Oxford professor, so I don‘t know.) While she was described with such adjectives as “terrific,” “wonderful,” and “lovely,” I was pretty much ignored — at least until one character who shall remain nameless called me “weirdo,” and his progenitor, who shall remain hairless, besmerched my necktie. I wonder: does he even know how to tie a tie? I’ll bet he wears clip-ons. Sorry, I’m wandering.

Anyway, you can probably understand, then, why my self-esteem might have been trampled on . . . that is, might on have been trampled . . . or something like that. (On top of it all, I’m still struggling with prepositions.)

Then, finally, one kind lady — with impeccable taste — said I was a “sharp dressed handsome fellow.” I perked up. My wife said she was “just being polite,” but I know better. Yes I do. I do so! I read it again: sharp dressed handsome fellow. And again: sharp dressed handsome fellow sharp dressed handsome fellow sharp dressed handsome fellow. ZZ Top began playing in my head. Da-dum da-daah, da-da-dum-daah, da-da-dum . . . Yeah, that‘s it, you know what I mean . . . They come runnin‘ just as fast as they can . . . What? Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming again.

Well, that was only the beginning. While it‘s nice to be admired superficially, we all want recognition that is more than skin deep. We want to be recognized for our character and intellect, don‘t we? Mine was coming. My blue funk was finally and completely dispelled when, on his very own blog, no less a scholar than Dr. Michael A. G. Haykin, a man with two — two! — middle initials, called me “brilliant.” Brilliant brilliant brilliant . . . So there. I guess my terrific, wonderful, lovely wife is lucky to have me.

A lot of bloggers will be posting some sort of gag today, hoping to catch you unaware and make a fool of you — hence the title “April Fool’s Day.” There will be none of that frivolous nonsense here. I know, in the past I have been guilty of flippant humor here on this blog. I repent of that idle foolishness today.

I know that you, my readers, live serious lives in a serious world and have no time to read the vain jesting of some wise-cracking, glib smart-aleck. You need sober truth for the edification of your minds. Humor has no place in the conversation of mature Christians. We face grave issues today. We must remain sober. I hope, from this point forward, to refrain from resorting to the trivialities that have so often marked me previously.

Please pray for me as I seek to become more sober-minded, and that we may be mutually edified in our pursuit of a solemn, thoughtful demeanor.

Things are looking up. I might be able to pursue that college degree after all.

No examinations! No classes! No textbooks! If I had known how easy it was, I would have done it years ago.

I would make a horrible attorney. I hate to argue. Obviously then, apologetics is not my bag. I like to state my case once, and leave it at that. If you don’t agree, fine. Just stop arguing about it.

I’m a presuppositionalist. In fact, you could call me a hyper-presuppositionalist — more roto-tillian than Van Tillian. What is, is, and it’s obvious. All truth is based on a few self-evident facts that are as plain as the nose on your face, and if you can’t see that, I probably can’t help you.

I’ll give you a couple of examples of how my arguments go. Let’s pretend I am a college professor . . .

There once was a scholar from Esser
Whose knowledge grew lesser and lesser
It at once grew so small
He knew nothing a all
And now he’s a college professor

. . . One morning, as students are filing into the classroom, I am regaling some of my more manly students with riveting tales of my hunting adventures around the globe, when in walks Ms. Teensy Eyequeue, who has just come from professor Hillary Steinem’s Obnoxious Liberalism 101 class.

Teensy: “I think killing all those beautiful animals is horrible.”

Me: “If you don’t kill them, they won’t lie still on the grill.”

Teensy: “I’m a vegetarian.”

Me: “If God didn’t want us to eat animals, why are they made out of meat?”

It’s as simple as that.

And then there are those who think there has to be a winner of every argument.

Me: “As I was saying . . . non curat de minimus lex . . . and, as Socrates said, . . . and so, . . . hypotenuse . . . cogito ergo sum.”

Argumentative person: “Dude, . . . blah blah blah blah . . . yer just, like, totally bogus.”

Me: “Adversus solem ne loquitor.”*

AP: “No way. Blah blah blah blah . . . blah blah blah blah . . .

Me: “          ”

Because I have gone silent, AP now believes he has won the argument. Later, observing that I am continuing as before, unchanged in spite of his stunning rhetorical victory, he resumes the attack.

AP: “So, you’re still going to do that even though you know I’m right?”

Me: “I never said I agreed. I just stopped arguing.”

AP: “Dude, yer like so passive-aggressive.”

Me: “Call it what you want, Dr. Freud. One of us knows when to shut up and stop arguing, and the other is a moron. Which one do you think you are?”

AP: “That’s not very nice.”

Me: “Age. Fac ut gaudeam.”†

There you have it. Apologetics for curmudgeons. It won’t make you any friends, but it will save you a lot of time.

We did our best to guard the goods this year, but we briefly lost the high ground to a post-Christmas enemy surge.

After a tense stand-off, our forces were able to flank the enemy drive her back.

Happy New Year!

It seems that no matter how hard we try to be frugal, we always end up spending too much at Christmas time. Then we wrap up all that money and lay it on the floor under a tree, where anyone could walk in and carry it off. This has been a worry of mine for years, but no more. Son #3 has assembled a razor-sharp squad of mercenaries to provide security this Christmas season. They have been instructed to be on the look-out for fat guys in red suits who have been known to take credit for the hard work of parents around the globe. Intruders will be shot on sight. No prisoners will be taken.

If there is any doubt left that I am a nerd, this post should take care of it. I like math. It’s not that I’m especially good at it, I just like it. I like the absoluteness of it. 2 + 2 = 4, √25 = 5, the area of a circle is πr2, and there is nothing the postmoderns can do about it. I also like limericks. In fact, I love limericks. So this post displays all kinds of nerdy goodness about me. These are a few math limericks I’ve collected.

An algebra teacher named Drew
Tried to find the √2.
He found it between
¼ and 14,
But couldn't get closer. Can you?

There was an old man who said, “Do
Tell me how I should add two and two.
I think more and more
That it makes about four—
But I fear that is almost too few.”

A mathematician confided
That a Moebius band is one-sided.
And you'll get quite a laugh
If you cut one in half,
For it stays in one piece when divided.

There was a young student from Rye,
Who worked out the value of π.
“It happens,” said he,
“That it's just over 3,
Though I'd rather you don't ask me why.”

If inside of a circle a line
Hits the center and goes spine to spine
And the line’s length is “d”,
The circumference will be
d times 3.14159.

There was a young lady named Bright
whose speed was much greater than light.
So she set out one day,
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.

The Professor said, “Now I'll tell you
A fact known to only a few
Men and women alive.
Two plus two equals five!
(For large enough values of two.)”

This is my favorite, credited to John Saxon, the author of our math textbooks:

A Dozen, a Gross, and a Score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
equals nine squared and not a bit more.

Here’s one for you to solve:

There once was a woman from Dundee,
Whose age had the last digit three.
If her whole age reversed
Is the square of the first,
Then what must the woman’s age be?

I know I'm a sucker for providing free advertising like this, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to pass on this bit of encouragement to my fellow bloggers.

I think I know what I'm getting for Christmas.

So Al Gore wins a Nobel prize for "raising awareness about global warming."

I've spread countless loads of manure—beef, dairy, swine—on fields from Wisconsin to North Dakota. What do I get? A big, fat nothing.

Is that fair?

My dear wife has been pestering asking me to post this; so, to get her off my back because I’ll do anything for her, here it is. Please bear in mind that she has been under a great deal of stress lately and may not have been thinking clearly.

Thirsty caught cheating

Yes, as terrible as it is to have your illusions shattered, it is true.

The Thirsty Theologian has been caught red handed, in the act, hand-in-the-cookie-jar caught! I, Mrs. Thirsty, was casually strolling by the office tonight and happened to stop in only to see a computer page quickly disappear and be replaced by another scholarly looking page with writing and computer language that we novices don’t understand. It was only through my superior powers of observation that I noticed a minimized tab at the bottom of the computer that read DVD Player. Then the jig was up. I knew that he was guilty. That’s right, guilty.

We had recently been watching the first season of The Andy Griffith Show, and it was a family event. Once in a while, when the work was done, we would gather round and watch an episode or two. Then, today the second season arrived in the mail and that’s all it took. While I was slaving away making tater-tot hotdish (tater-tots were on sale), he was on the computer with the sound turned down low, sneaking a few episodes while I thought he was working industriously at his blog. All I can say to those wives out there who have husbands who blog is, “Beware! This could happen to your man, too. It is a good thing to be on guard. Sin could be crouching at the door.”

It’s not like it sounds. I was doing research.

. . . the armless man attacked her brother.

"They got into a big confrontation, a verbal confrontation and a fist fight . . .

I know it's not really a funny story, but an "armless man" in a "fistfight" just cracks me up.

If you weren't a Newhart fan, you won't get this. It won't be even slightly humorous. Kind of like a lot of my jokes.

The Last Newhart

Things I’ve Learned after It Was Too Late

• Never touch a sensitive part of your body when you’ve been cutting jalapeños.
• Don’t smoke a pipe under a ceiling fan. The fire will get hot enough to roast marshmallows. The marshmallows will taste bad. OK, I never did that. The marshmallow part, I mean.
• Don’t forget to put a sling on your rifle and then shoot a deer half a mile from your pickup when there is no way to drive in. Carrying a rifle in one hand and dragging a deer with the other is a lot of work.
• Be careful what you say in front of your children.
• Swallowing a live grasshopper is stupid, even if your friends offer you two dollars to do it.
• If you’re given a month to do an assignment, and you think you can wait until the last week to do it, the assignment will take at least two weeks.
• If your wife asks you if you liked the new recipe, the answer is “Yes.”
• When you go camping, don’t let your five-year-old son drink all the pop he wants all day long, and then tuck him into his sleeping bag without first visiting the bathroom.
• Simply naming a tobacco “Presbyterian Mix” does not make it doctrinally sound.
• Men and women are more different then they appear.
• God may not help everyone who helps themselves, but if you don’t help yourself, your kids will eat all the cookies before you get any.
• That cake your wife baked that you snitched a piece from? That was for church.
• If you buy a rare book on eBay for sixty dollars, two identical copies will sell next week for twenty-five.
• Shipping from Australia is really expensive.
• All the really good old books are owned by an antiquarian bookseller in Australia.
• When your wife is nine months pregnant, don’t suggest naming the child Jonah.
• I’m not as funny as I think I am. See above.
• Your sins really will find you out.

Well, it's Friday afternoon, and I haven't posted anything since Sunday. I really don't have anything of substance today, either, but came across a video that reminded me of this satirical piece I posted a while back. In case you didn't get this picture and caption (don't worry about it--I'm used to it), this video might clear it up a little. Anyway, I thought it was funny.

When I first went online about six years ago, I got a lot of email forwards promising rewards from Microsoft, Coca-cola, etc. if I would forward the email to as many people as possible. Then they petered out and finally stopped coming. I thought that maybe people had wised up, but now I’ve started getting them again. The latest one promises a new laptop computer. Scrolling down the page, I found that the email had originated with our elementary school principal. He had received it from a colleague. Nowhere Elementary School — Educating the Suckers of Tomorrow.

I’m considering sending a junk email of my own to everyone who forwards me one of these hoaxes. It would look something like this:

What do you think? Too sarcastic?

I’m going to kill two birds with one 12-gauge light target load. First, Jen posted a quote from G.K. Chesterton that highlights a sad literary truth: “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” Hard to believe, isn’t it? Sure, there may be a verse or two on cheese hidden away somewhere in a Shel Silverstein book, but I’m afraid this beautiful gift has been almost entirely, inexplicably, overlooked by the poets. I aim to rectify that.

Second, Brian, the sheepish one, has tagged me with one of those meme things. I reserve the right to arbitrarily choose to participate or not in any meme. Participation in this meme does not obligate me participate in any others. So there. So, here you go: cheese (or cheesy) poetry and 7 things that others may not know about me.

Cheese Couplets

Colby is fine, but what I like better
Is the lovely bouquet of extra-sharp cheddar.

For a good, tasty snack that will never miss,
Try a nice dunkel bier and a platter of Swiss.

My lips smack
When I eat Pepper Jack.

Grab a sheep and pull and squeeze—
That’s what it takes to make Bleu cheese.

Though Muenster cheese may sound quite German,
It’s American, like Munster (Herman).

Feta is a royal treat,
Although it smells a lot like feet.

When cheese smells bad, it means that it’s good—
I’d say that of my verses, if only I could.

7 Things about Me that You Might not Know

1. I scored high on my driver’s license and hunter’s safety tests. The rest of my academic record is a wreck. In spite of my lack of formal education, I am a grammar tyrant. If you use the word “like” improperly, I might correct you — even if you’re in the middle of a sermon. I even appreciate it when others correct my grammar, spelling, & punctuation. I also love math. I admire those guys who memorize π to a bunch of decimal places. Off-hand, I can do 3.141592. I’m such a nerd that I actually use all those digits when I do geometry.
2. Six of my eight children were born at home. I delivered four of them myself. My wife helped a little. She came in pretty handy.
3. I have worked with dairy, swine, and beef. Pigs are smarter than cows. Cows are smarter than sheep. Sheep are smarter than Democrats. Democrats are smarter than straw bales. I have also worked in construction. Straw bales are smarter than drywall hangers.
4. I‘ve been busted for drag racing on the highway. When I told my story — “We weren’t racing, I was just passing” — the judge laughed out loud. I was passing. Unfortunately, I was in the right lane.
5. I’ve only been kissed by two women other than my wife. The first was my boss’s wife at a New Year’s Eve party. I never saw it coming. The second was a girl in a bar in Glasgow, Montana, who found out it was my birthday. I’m pretty sure she had thrown up recently. My kissing experiences after that have been much better.
6. Andrea Bocelli is my favorite tenor. Christopher Parkening is my favorite guitarist. Yet I have a few Hank Williams tracks on my computer.
7. My rugged good looks are only rivaled by my poetic skill.

There you go. Am I not a wonder to behold?

If all the sand in northern Africa was spread out, it would cover the Sahara Desert.

As you can see, I have nothing worthwhile to say at the moment. I just felt that I should say something.

Yes, I know it’s Friday. If the title bugs you, click away and come back tomorrow.

I don’t remember when I first discovered despair.com, but I immediately fell in love with it. For better or worse, the creators of Demotivators® and I think alike; so it was no surprise at all when I received The Pessimist’s Mug one year for Father’s Day. It was a bitter irony when it was dropped on the kitchen floor and broken. I now have this coffee cup sitting on my desk. A recent post at Between Two Worlds reminded me of these and inspired me to pull out and fix up a few knock-offs that I had made some time ago, before I had a blog to post them on. Call them the product of idle hands and a twisted sense of humor.

The kids watched 101 Dalmatians last night. I didn’t watch, but I was in the next room listening, and I’ve seen it a few times before. This is not the 1961 animated one Hundred and One Dalmatians, but the 1996 live-action remake with Glenn Close as Cruella De Vil. I don’t usually care much for remakes, but this one is good. Glenn Close is a hilariously evil Cruella De Vil, and Jeff Daniels and Joely Richardson are perfectly charming as Roger and Anita. Pongo and Perdita are played by dogs, who carry off their parts quite convincingly.

It is unfortunate that the scriptwriters chose to transform Roger, originally a song writer, into a video game designer, but it did create some very funny dialogue. For example:

Cruella: And what is it that you do that allows you to support Anita in such… splendor?
Roger: I design video games.
Cruella, to Anita: Video games? Is he having me on?
Anita: O no, he’s very good at it. And it’s a growing business.
Cruella: Those horrible noisy things that children play on their televisions? Someone actually designs those? What a senseless thing to do with your life!

Well, this is turning into a mini movie review, which is not what I intended and is rather lame since the movie is now eleven years old. All I really wanted to do is repeat for your edification what I think is one of the funniest bits of movie dialogue I’ve ever heard.

The setting is fashion designer Cruella De Vil’s office. Present is Frederick, who appears to be an upper-management type. He, like all of Cruella’s employees, is horribly intimidated by her. Cruella is looking over some of Anita’s designs, which have spots.

Cruella: Do you like spots, Frederick?
Frederick: O, I don’t believe so, Madame. I thought we liked stripes this year.
Cruella: What kind of sycophant are you?
Frederick: What kind of sycophant would you like me to be?

From:"usman karim" <usman_karim0015@hotmail.com>
Subject: FROM THE DESK OF DR USMAN KARIM
Date: Fri, 12 Jan 2007 11:22:44 +0000

FROM THE DESK OF DR USMAN KARIM
Manager Bill And Exchange Dept
BANK OF AFRICA(BOA)
Ouagadougou Burkina Faso.

Dear Friend,

I know that this mail will come to you as a surprise. I am the bill
and
exchange manager in BANK OF AFRICAk .I Hoped that you will not expose
or
betray this trust and confident that i am about to repose on you for
the
mutual benefit of our both families.

I need your urgent assistance in transferring the sum of $11.3 million
immediately to your account. The money has been dormant for years in
our
Bank here without any body coming for it. The owner of this account is
JOSEPH F. GRILLO, foreigner and he is the Manager Of petrol chemical
service, a chemical engineer by Profession. He died in world trade center as
a victim of the September 11,2001 Incident that befall the United State
of
America, the bank has made series of efforts to contact any of the
relatives
to claim this money but without success, you can confirm through this
website:

www.september11victims.com

I don't want the money to go into our Bank treasury as an abandoned
fund.
So this is the reason why i contacted you ,so that the bank can
release
the money to you as the nearest person to the deceased customer.
Please i
will like you to keep this proposal as a top secret and delete if you
are
not interested.

Upon receipt of your reply I will send you full details on how the
business
will be executed and also note that you will have 40% of the above
mentioned sum if you agree to transact the business with me.

Dr.usman karim
BANK OF AFRICA,
Burkina Faso-West Africa.

I received this email yesterday, and I am not sure what I should do. Forty percent of 11.3 million dollars is a lot of money. Not as much as one hundred percent, of course, but still enough to live comfortably on if one is careful. I think I would enjoy having this money. If anyone would like to offer advice on how I should handle this, I would appreciate it. Of course, I can’t take counsel from just anyone on such an important matter, so in order to verify your identity, I will need you to provide a credit card number and expiration date. In return for your help, you will have 40% of my 40% of the above mentioned sum if you agree to transact the business with me.

Loki will not be bringing us a Saturday Stupidity post today. I could make excuses for him, such as that he has been very busy while on sabbatical in Iceland working on his Doctoral dissertation (Pickled Herring in Nordic Theology), but the fact is that he is growing tired of it. He has suggested that I fill in for him, but I am really not that funny. We might revive regular Saturday Stupidity posts sometime in the future, but for now Loki might just pop in occasionally on a Saturday, we might fill in with something else at times, or we might just let the blog sleep.

Have a nice weekend.

Merry Christmas from the Thirsty Theologian (Source)

Subliminal messages in Christmas carols—it’s true. Listen for yourself. Listen several times, if necessary.

(HT: Doxoblogy)

It’s all Darrin’s fault. Having no consideration for weaker brothers, he put a stumbling block in my path. I didn’t mean to do it, honest. I was just looking. It doesn’t hurt to look, does it? Anyway, here is what he did: he posted—callously, I might add—this excerpt from J. H. Merle D’Aubigne’s The History of the Reformation. So I went shopping—just looking, mind you!—and I found it, used. Now, Darrin had stated (the previous link is my witness) that it has rarely been out of print, so I emailed him to enquire if he knew where it could be found new.

This is where it gets ugly. No, it could not be found new; but there were many options, from merely used to antquarian. He sent me links. One of them had over 300 listings. I tried to resist, really, I did. I tried to click back, but the page loaded too fast. I had no choice. I scrolled down. Then I scrolled down some more. Like Jonah, I went down, down, down, until I had gone too far to turn back.

Then I saw it: a promising specimen. I clicked the link. It was a nice set, and reasonably priced. I bookmarked it, virtually guaranteeing my demise. Still, I told myself I was just looking. Certainly, if my wife had walked in and caught me, that would have been my defense: “Just looking, Dear! (nervous laughter here) Really! (more nervous laughter, beginning to perspire) Oh, nothing, heh, heh, just some old (mumbling now, hoping she doesn’t catch the damning word) books.” That’s when I will get THE LOOK.

You see, we’ve been down this road before. My fellow book addicts will understand. Money magically disappears from your pockets when you walk past a bookstore. You wake up clutching a strange hardcover, with no memory of acquiring it. You have books on your shelves that you had to have but haven’t yet read. Challies reviews a book, and you click the Amazon link every time. Of course you don’t buy every one, but you add them to your wishlist until it is bloated beyond any useful limits. Your wife begins to squirrel money away in Switzerland, out of your reach. No, she’s not leaving you—she’s just hiding the grocery money.

I kept scrolling and clicking “next page.” I bookmarked two more pages before I stopped. I now had three serious temptations before me. I clicked back and forth between them feverishly. The one that called my name the loudest was a beautiful 1843 edition in quarter-leather binding. I’ve purchased used books many times before, but I’m no expert on antiquarian books; so I emailed Darrin once more. He gave me his opinions, which were pretty much what I had hoped for. I was gazing hungrily at the screen, mesmerized by antique leather, when my wife walked in, jarring me from my trance. From this point on, my memory is hazy. This is how I remember it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I decided to play it straight—as straight as I could, anyway. “I, ah, I’m looking at some books.” Her eyes narrowed. It was THE LOOK. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. THE LOOK is only worth a few, but they are unambiguous. Whatever you are doing when you get THE LOOK, you know exactly what it means, and it is never encouraging.

“What kind of books?” she said, her voice low, eyes narrowed, brows arched. It was THE LOOK, deluxe edition.

“Antique Reformation history books.”

“And how much are they?” It was an accusation, not a question. I gave a number. “Hmmm…,” she said, voice very low. THE LOOK intensified. “I have to do laundry.” She stalked ominously from the room.

I looked at the screen. My cursor was situated directly over the “add to cart” button. My heart began pounding. My ears were ringing. My vision became cloudy. A voice in my head whispered, “It’s now or never!” I heard a click, and another. Then, before my eyes, a form was being filled out. A name—my name! An address—my address! Numbers, dates, click, click! The room was spinning! What is that black bird above my monitor? What does he mean, “Nevermore”? Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells! Click, click!

I awoke with a start. No! I thought. It was a dream. It had to have been a dream. Then I saw it: the little envelope icon on my taskbar. You’ve got mail. I clicked Outlook Express. There is 1 unread Mail message in your Inbox. Hands trembling, I clicked my inbox. Thanks for your recent order! This is confirmation that your order has been received . . . My heart sank. Then, slowly, the cloud lifted. 1843; leather; History of the Reformation. I couldn’t help it. A warm sensation engulfed my body, and the corners of my mouth began to creep apart until a broad smile stretched across my face.

My wife walked in. “Oh, no,” she said, “you’ve done it, haven’t you?”

I just smiled.

The newest edition of The Sacred Sandwich is out, and as tasty as ever!

Front Page
Warren Unveils the R.I.C.K. Plan on Humility
"Fantasy Church" Champian Will not Win this Seaon Season; Drafts Old Baptist Pastor by Mistake
Barbie Dream Church
Ergun Caner Talking Doll

Giddy with joy over having won an award today, I am going to hand out an award of my own. Well, it's not really an award, as there is no title or trophy. Call it a commendation.

This commendation goes to Julie R. Neidlinger for making a point with wit and brevity.

See for yourself.

"Tom Cruise is one of the most important stars ever in the motion picture business." -Universal Studios President Ron Meyer

Ever?

On this day in 1899, John Albert Burr patented the rotary-blade lawn mower, paving the way for motorized manually operated mowers, depriving me of many a Saturday morning's sleep thanks to my neighbor who thought Saturday morning was a good time to mow his lawn! CURSE YOU, JOHN ALBERT BURR!

I just had an interesting conversation with daughter #5 (5 years old).

"We can't go out naked," she informed me, as if I might be considering it.

"No, that's right, we can't go outside naked," I agreed. "We have to get dressed first."

"But cats are outside naked."

Yes, cats can, but people can't."

"'Cause then they would be all cold."

"Yes, they would be cold, but that's not..."

"In the Summer, they can," she replied, and ran from the room before I could answer.

I suppose I'll have to finish that sentence one day.

This isn’t actually the first song I’ve written, or even the first of this kind. It’s just the first I’ve inflicted on the public. It doesn’t have a title. I’m sure you can think of something to call it.

Sing to the tune of “Hooked on a Feeling”. Pretend you're David Hasselhoff.

Words that are so simple
Don’t require no thought
Stir up my emotions
With pathos fraught

Yeah, I sing them
Over many times
All I ask is
That the verses rhyme

I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m high on believing
That this is worshipping

The second verse is kind of
Like the other one
Mindless repetition
Can be pretty fun

I just love this feeling
Flooding over me
Yeah, it’s warm and fuzzy
It’s kind of dreamy

When I stand here
Hands up in the air
With my eyes closed
I ain’t got a care

I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m high on believing
That this is worshipping

When I stand here
Hands up in the air
With my eyes closed
I ain’t got a care

I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m high on believing
That this is worshipping

I-I, I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m high on believing
That this is worshipping

I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m hooked on a feeling
I’m hooked on a feeling*

The April issue of The Sacred Sandwich has been published! If you are a Christian with a healthy sense of humor, you love The Sacred Sandwich. If you've never heard of it, well... isn't it damp and cold living under that rock? Chris Carmichael and the League of Tyndale fellows produce the best Christian periodical on the web. In this issue, Maurice & Emmet Peabody, the Twin Theologians, tackle the DaVinci Code. You will be shocked by what they reveal! Be sure to visit their sponsors while you're there.

Chris Carmichael is also the proprietor of ChristianUnplugged, which has mysteriously disappeared, but promises to return.

It is always heartbreaking to learn that one of your heroes is flawed. It happens to all of us at some point at least once. Depending upon your degree of admiration for the fallen one, it can be quite devastating. Even worse is when one is led down a dangerous path by the one he had admired before discovering that he is being led astray. That is the situation I found myself in today. A man I have long revered, whose writing has had a considerable influence in my Christian walk, has fallen into a dangerous habit, and I have followed him into it. Who is this wolf in sheep’s clothing? Brace yourselves, you will be shocked.

It is none other than Albert Mohler. Yes, the President of Southern Baptist Seminary has an addiction, and I’m afraid I’ve got it, too.

I've always liked numbers. I like math. My only regret is that I didn’t like it back when people were trying to teach it to me. Anyway, I like numbers; so I was especially vulnerable when Dr. Mohler wrote this blog post about his addiction to Sudoku.

In fairness to Dr. Mohler, he did warn of the addictive nature of this numbers game right at the start, calling it “one of the most addictive puzzles ever invented.” But then he began his seductive sales pitch.

He said playing would make me smarter. Who doesn’t want to be smarter? I consulted my wife. She thought it would be good if I was smarter. I think she said something about “a miracle,” but I wasn’t really listening. I was already Googling Sudoku.

He implied that it might qualify as mental athletics. I’ve never been athletic, even as a kid, and I certainly am not now, so I was drawn to the idea that I could be a jock. A smart jock, even. How many of those have you heard of?

So I found a place on-line and tried a game.

“That’s kind of fun,” I thought, “I’ll play just one more.” I played one more… and one more… As the sun began its descent in the west, someone knocked on my door. “Not now, I’m working!” I snapped. Well, come on, I was about to finish one!

Now I’m hooked. I’ve had to drag myself away for the evening, but I’ll be back. Maybe there is a twelve-step program for guys like me. Maybe I’ll sit next to a distinguished gentleman who will stand and say, “Hello, I’m Al, and I’m a…” Probably not. On the bright side, at least now I can say I have something in common with Albert Mohler.

On this day in 1908, Cincinnati Mayor Mark Breith stood before city council and announced that “women are not physically fit to operate automobiles.”

Today is the birthday of composer Maurice Ravel, born in Cibourne, France, in 1875.

I have not always been a dignified theologian. Back in the '80's, I had the moves, baby (click the buttons on the right to see how many).

Having nothing to say for myself, and wanting to post more than once a week, I decided to post this item that I received in an email some time ago. I don't know who the original author is. I wish it was me, but it was not.

"With the death toll from the tsunami likely to hit 150,000, is the Bush administration finally ready to admit that the war in Iraq was a mistake?" asked a reporter.

Scott just stared back silently in response.

"Bush's tubby press secretary was rendered speechless by my insightful question," the reporter said aloud as he wrote in his notepad.

"Okay! That's it!" Scott shouted angrily, "I put up with your questions about whether Laci Peterson and her child would still be alive if it weren't for the war in Iraq and whether the Matrix sequels would have been better if we hadn't 'rushed to war,' but now I'm drawing the line. I want some relevant questions."

"How do you respond to the water god Pochanto saying that the tsunami is in retaliation to Abu Grahib?" another reporter asked.

"Who?" Scott exclaimed, "How do you know that's not just some crazy guy?"

"It's not our job as reporters to 'know,'" the reporter responded indignantly, "It’s our job to say stuff and things to the public." All the other reporters nodded in agreement.

"Well, even accepting your idiotic premise, the tsunami was caused by an earthquake, so..."

"You admit the Bush administration angered the earth gods then?" one reporter interjected.

"No! There is no relation between the White House policies and the tsunami!"

"Then why weren't there tsunami during other presidencies, such as the revered Clinton administration?"

"Yeah," another reporter followed up, "Why won't Bush ever admit to a mistake and that he has angered the spirits of nature?"

"And how do you respond to the U.N. calling the U.S. stingy in this crisis?"

"How much have you reporters given to help?" Scott challenged.

"It's not our job to end suffering," a reporter answered, "It's just our job to tell people about suffering." The other reporters nodded in agreement.

Rumsfeld burst through a wall. "Rarr! We will not be stingy with our righteous vengeance!" Rumsfeld yelled as he violently tried to grab the reporters. A chain was holding him back, the end of which was in Chomps's mouth.

"Please excuse the Secretary of Defense," Scott said, "He's been very agitated with reporters since one planted a question with a soldier. Thus, we got Chomps, the world's angriest dog, to hold him back."

"Is there any chance that dog will become angry at us instead of the chain he's holding?"

"Well..."

Chomps stopped violently tugging on the chain to notice the reporters. He then growled, releasing Rumsfeld who shouted "Rarr!" and jumped at the press. Chomps followed suit.

* * * *

"A whole press conference of reporters was found dead today," the news anchor announced, "All were either mauled, beaten with a chain, or both. Police have no specific suspects but say it was probably the work of an extremist... such as a Christian. All detectives are sure of so far from the evidence collected is that Bush's Press Secretary is 'tubby.' Now stay tuned for a report on how this somewhat senseless slaughter of reporters could have been avoided if it weren't for President Bush's rush to war."

Disclaimer: While Carla Rolfe is my source for this material, and therefore the instigator of this rant, she should not be held responsible nor should her character be impugned by anything contained in this post, stated or implied.

Carla Rolfe posted this last Saturday. I’ve seen it before, and let me tell you something: I’m sick and tired of men being made to look stupid by the feminist world, which, by the way includes the entire population of the free world, minus a minute fraction of the Church. And when I say “Church,” I mean the true body of Christ, not the nominal church. As irritating as that is, what irritates me more is when men accept the stereotypes invented by the emasculators and play along. While much of this list consists of valuable correction that many women sorely need, plenty of it plays into the “dumb, sports-obsessed, artistically ignorant, self-centered, little-boy-with-whiskers” stereotype. So here is my answer. I’ll try to keep my words simple and my sentences short, because I want the guy who wrote this to comprehend… I mean, get it.

At last a guy has taken the time to write this all down. Finally, the guys' side of the story. We always hear "the rules" From the female side. Now here are the rules from the male side.

These are our rules! Please note…these are all numbered "1"ON PURPOSE!

All are numbered “1” on purpose? Why? Because you can’t count any higher? Or because you are unable to prioritize? Maybe you’re just so arrogant that you think every single one of your concerns are paramount. Go ahead, spend all day in front of the television. I can’t imagine who’d miss you, anyway.

1. Men are not mind readers.

Oh, stop it. If you want an excuse for being clueless, be honest. It’s because you generally aren’t paying attention. Sure, women sometimes assume too much, but most of the time you just weren’t listening. Admit it.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

Fair enough, but doesn’t it bother you to walk away from the toilet leaving the lid up? The seat has to come down first. I hope you know what that role of paper is for.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

You, sir, have no concept of reality. If you miss the game, the players still get paid, and the Packers still lose. It might surprise you to learn that if there was no game, the moon would stay in orbit, and the tides would… you do know what controls the tides, don’t you?

1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

That depends on what you’re shopping for, doesn’t it? Be honest, if the quest is for power tools, boats, or firearms, instead of furniture or frilly things, your attitude is entirely different. How about showing some interest in something that someone else enjoys? How about actually developing a genuine interest in those things? No, I don’t always want to shop with my wife, any more than she does with me, but I usually don’t mind. I like being asked “does this look nice.” After all, my opinion of her appearance is the only one that should matter. How do guys like you even know how to buy your wife a gift? Do you know her sizes? I do. Yes, all of them.

1. Crying is blackmail.

You’re either stupid, utterly heartless, or both. It’s also possible that you have no conscience. Of course, some, maybe most, women are guilty of this at some time. Anyone of nearly-average intelligence can tell the difference between manipulative tears and the real thing, unless they haven’t been paying enough attention to know the woman who is crying. Right… I guess we’ve already covered that. Could you consider the possibility that she has a legitimate reason for tears, and it is something you did?

1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

This one is kind of funny. It would be nice to get the straight scoop right away. I hope most men are not too dense to figure most things out without a roadmap. Wait, that one is coming. Isn’t there a contradiction here?

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

I have to agree with this one; unless it’s chocolate or vanilla. This goes along with “brevity is the soul of wit.”

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

See, now you’re just a jerk. I’ll bet you’re not been married, and if you are, she’s staying only for the sake of the kids. This is where grace and truth are supposed to merge. We can do both.

However, ladies, take a lesson from this. We are problem solvers. Sympathy is good, and you should expect it, but if we let you go away comforted without telling you how to avoid similar pain in the future, we’ll be sorry, and so will you; and it will be our fault. You’ll be sure to point that out.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months IS a problem. See a doctor.

That’s right, Prince Charming, you’re aroused by anything with a pulse, why isn’t she? I can hear it now: “Whaddaya mean, yer not in the mood? Yer awake, ain’tcha?” I have so much to say on this, but we would have to discuss it in private.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

In other words, you’re utterly unreliable. Your word isn’t worth anything at all. Unless you have retracted it, whatever you said six months, six years, or six decades ago is what can be expected of you. Don’t worry, it’s not a trap. Now is not too late to retract whatever you no longer believe.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.

All women think they’re fat. I’ve known that since my oldest sister hit puberty. That’s why there is anorexia, but no opposite disorder. Anyway, she isn’t asking if she is fat (usually), she just wants to know if you’re still attracted to her.

This also is not the time for “No, those jeans don’t make you look fat, your big …,” no matter how hilarious you think it is. Trust me on that one.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

This one is usually true, except if it’s the guy who wrote this list. He probably meant it the way you took it. Get used to it. He’s not growing up any time soon.

1. You can either ask us to do something, or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

Ladies, this one should be in the wedding vows. That’s all I’m going to say.

1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

We don’t have television, but we do watch DVD’s. First of all, nothing on television is important – nothing. However, I agree completely with this one. If I am going to watch something, I am going to watch all of it, or I don’t want to watch it at all. Suppose you are reading a book, and someone grabs it and tears a page out – just one page. You can go on reading, skipping the missing page, and you will probably get the gist of the story, but would you tolerate that?

Let me be more specific. Don’t ask what just happened. Pay attention. You must definitely never ask what is going to happen. That’s not how it works. If it hasn’t happened yet, you’re not supposed to know. If you have already seen it, and we haven’t, don’t spoil it. If you can, avoid statements such as, “O, haha, this part is good!”

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

We get ridiculed a lot for this, but the civilized world should be thankful that it is so. Columbus did not need directions, but he had navigational skills. While Mrs. Columbus probably got by with left and right, Christopher knew where north, south, east, and west were. So do I (I’ll speak only for myself, but this is an important skill that most men excel their women at). If I miss a turn and get off course, that doesn’t mean I’m lost. Give me just a couple of turns, and I’ll be back on track. If necessary, I’ll get out a map. In extreme cases, I’ll pull over while I read it. Only then, when my efforts have failed, will I ask for directions.

Don’t try to make a theological lesson out of this. It won’t apply. This is a good thing, part of being a man – taking care of business and fixing your own mistakes. If everyone thought like that, there would be no Democrats in Washington.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

Yeah, that’s right, our idea of art is Dogs Playing Poker. I know what mauve is. I’m no aficionado of the arts, but I also know the difference between a recitative and an aria, and why Michelangelo’s David is not circumcised.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

You are no better than a dog. That’s all.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

This guy can’t tell if there is actually anything wrong, but many of us can. In the case that we sense there is something wrong, we will walk on eggshells, steeling ourselves against the inevitable eruption to come. It is really much better if you tell us right away.

On the other hand, when we say there is nothing wrong, it means (a) there is nothing wrong, or (b) there is nothing wrong that is worth upsetting you over, and if you leave us alone, we’ll get over it. Your options, in both cases, are (a) let it go, or (b) nag us half to death about it until we become visibly irritated, and you say, “See? There is something wrong! I knew it!” We probably won’t agree on which option is more fun, but (a) is definitely the right choice.

1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer you don't want to hear.

True.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear Is fine... Really.

That is, unless you are Meg Bundy. If you don’t know who Meg Bundy is, good for you. Really, if you actually care if we like what you are wearing, give yourself a gold star on your Good Wife chart. Thanks for asking.

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or golf.

Life with you must be soooo boring.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

Probably true in many cases. However…

You’re a slob. You have enough clothes; they’re just not the right clothes. Have you ever had to wear a suit (the phrase “had to” is significant), perhaps to a funeral in January, and wore a ski jacket with your suit coat hanging out below because you don’t own an overcoat? Are your dress shoes black Nikes? Are black jeans “dressy?”

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

I hope you don’t mind if hers is, too.

1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight; but did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

No, I’m not sleeping on the couch, and neither should my wife. I won’t hold my breath and bang my head on the floor, either. This is my bed, and I do mind. I hope she joins me. I don’t have a headache.

Last week there was no Saturday Stupidity post. There was also no Lord's Day post, or much else this week. Instead, I challenged you readers to submit jokes in a competition for coveted Thirsty Theologian merchandise.

Well, it seems that either our readership is exceedingly shy, comedy challenged, or just doesn't want our stinkin' stuff, because only a few brave souls bothered to participate. To my surprise, all were good submissions.

Two of them had previously appeared in Saturday Stupidity posts, one of them verbatim (the poster no doubt got it from another site, which got it here, or he was having fun with me).

This one, submitted by Daniel, was classic Saturday Stupidity style:

Ghandi walked barefoot most of the time, which, as you can imagine, produced signficant callouses on his feet. Likewise, being an acetic, he ate very little, and consequently was quite frail. His odd diet didn't help his oral hygiene either, something which (contrary to the popular image of Ghandi) troubled him greatly, as it meant that he suffered from bad breath most of his adult life.

Some say that is why he was called a .... super calloused fragile mystic vexed by halitosis.

Certainly, that one deserves an honorable mention. However, there were two others that scored marginally higher that our expert panel of judges are still arguing over, so a decision has not been rendered. I will post both of them tomorrow, and the winner will be announced.

Thanks to all who participated.

The staff of the Thirsty Theologian is taking the weekend off. Tell your own jokes, read your own Bibles (paraphrases and DE translations will be disqualified), and read some Reformation or Puritan literature. Go to church, sing loud, and don't fidget during the sermon.

The Contest: in lieu of a Saturday Stupidity post, submit a joke in the comments of this post. The winner will be chosen by an expert panel of judges whose sense of humor may not be anything like yours. Submissions will also be judged according to rules of correct grammar, so don't write it the way most people tell jokes ("So, this guy goes into a bar, see, and there's this penguin wearing a toupee..."). The winner will receive his choice of a Thirsty Theologian Geneva Mug or Sola Crania Cap. Submissions stolen from here, although clever, will be disqualified.

See you next week.

Note: Yes, I am aware that the web address on the merchandise does not match this address. I will be moving to that address, and then the cosmos will be in balance once again.

Update: The contest will run through Thursday, and the winner will be announced on Friday.

You've been naughty, haven't you? No indulgence for you, then!

If you believe in evolution, you might as well believe this.

On Thursday, Jonathan Moorhead posted the following poll:

Which category do you most appropriately fit as a Christian?

Persecuted Minority
or
Moral Majority

My first reaction was:

Are those the only choices? Come on, man, very few of us are persecuted, we are not the majority, and I do not want any part of the Moral Majority as a political force.

I thought that was an astute observation. Dr. Moorhead disagreed:

David, are you kidding me? I know better than to make “Neither” a choice! It’s not necessary what fits you perfectly, but what fits you most appropriately. You best go ahead and choose the red or blue pill.

Well, knowing that Jonathan is from the South and packing heat, I decided it might be prudent to let him have his way:

O, fine, be that way, I'll play. While I'm at it, would you like a date with Michael Moore, or David Duke? It’s not necessary what fits you perfectly, but what fits you most appropriately.

Ha! I kill me! I may not be a Th.D. candidate, but I’ve got B.S. aplenty! Which led to:

David, you're a good sport. It will be your job to interpret the results of the poll.

I thought he was joking, but I guess he wasn’t. So here is my interpretation.

Early results (14 votes) were 100% Persecuted Minority. There are two, possibly three, types of people who identified themselves this way.

The largest group is like me. We don’t really consider ourselves persecuted, but we loathe the political force that uses the name Moral Majority. We also have experienced some minor unpleasantness due to our faith, so we told ourselves we really weren’t lying.

The second group are whiners. They actually consider the previously-mentioned unpleasantness to be legitimate persecution. Some body call the waaaaaambulance.

The third, and smallest, group are those who have actually been persecuted. Yes, it happens, even here in the U.S.A. More likely, though, they are not Americans.

The Persecuted Minority group dropped to 87.5% when two tough guys voted Moral Majority, making 12.5%. There are two possible descriptions for these voters.

Possibly, they have had their head in the sand long enough that they don’t know what the Moral Majority is/was, and they are in favor of morality.

More likely, they really approve of the Moral Majority and the Christian Coalition. These are scary folks! But they are good with guns, so they are not all bad.

Or it could be something else entirely. What makes you think I know anything?

Finally, recognition for all my hard work! I may not be the sexiest man alive, but I've got enough farfegnügen to make the cover of Der Spiegel.

Many of you probably think I do nothing but play with this silly blog. Well, I'll have you know that this is only a hobby. I also photoshop pictures am in great demand for interviews with European magazines. I am very skilled at striking a pose with my finger pointing at my head, indicating great intelligence. In fact, I am so good at it that others are beginning to imitate my technique. Just today, I overheard my two oldest children talking about me. When I looked over at them, my daughter was pointing at her head, and my son was nodding.

"Now, kids," I told them, "I'm not as smart as you think." They laughed. I said, "Really, I'm not!" They laughed again. Kids!

Now, if someone can tell me what Der Spiegel says I'm famous for, that would be a big help. My eighth grade German is a little more than rusty. Thanks.