I just spent a bit of time reading Rod Dreher, and I think I am finally beginning to understand. You know that guy on the bus, the thin one with the shiny, too-formal suit and rounded shoulders? He looks everyone in the eye and has a soft voice and whispers warnings of apocalypse and hellfire. He's carrying a couple of books stuffed with bits of paper for bookmarks. He's desperate to warn everyone before it's too late, and he's creepy as hell. That's Rod.
They're hunting us Christians, he whispers. His soft hands stroke his cheap Bible. The world is collapsing and we're all going to starve. Grow food, he hisses, looking around him furtively. The men in white coats think they're God. They're after me, too.
Please, someone put him out of his misery before he's found curled up into a ball in the corner of his basement, like a pillbug.
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Yeah, Crunchy Con's ultimate fate/demise/what have you will not be pretty. Yikes, what must pass through that boy's gray matter. I guess at some level I feel sorry for the guy in a way that I don't feel sorry for McMegan or El Pantloado.
Yeah, they are enjoying themselves;, while Rod's not having any fun at all.
It'd be fun to sneak new prohibitions into his bible and go "Look! No dessert on Tuesdays!"
Thou shalt not eat of the fruit of the sugar cane, yea, if thou dost 3eat of the fruit of the cane of sugar, misery and death shall follow thee until the end of thy days.
Heh!
"eat"
It'd be fun to sneak new prohibitions into his bible and go "Look! No dessert on Tuesdays!"
I wouldn't be surprised if that was already there somewhere in the maundering list of proscriptions, rephrasings and afterthoughts called 'Leviticus', but I refuse to look. There are three feckin' pages there, spelling out the exact list of symptoms that shall count as leprosy. Bugger that for a game of soldiers.
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