Tvilsom humor

I rollen som Den Tvilsomme Humanist, har jeg nettopp omtalt Didriks artikkel om gutteromsmisantropi, skrevet i anledning den første finske skolemassakren.

Ettersom Den Tvilsomme er en jobbblog, klarte jeg til nød å holde meg i skinnet og lot være å gi etter for den opplagte fristelsen:

Det bør selvsagt skrives på svensk og uttales på parodisk finlandssvensk: Den førsta finska skolmassakren ...

Synd, fordervelse, djevelskap & fortapelse

Jeg har i forbindelse med et knoklete prosjekt sett litt nærmere på Robert Southey (1774-1843) i det siste. Det er en fascinerende opplevelse, om ikke direkte litterært høyverdig. Hvilket aldri har pleid å plage meg.

Southey er den minst kjente av de tre mest kjente såkalte Lake Poets. Og etter å ha lest litt av ham, må jeg tilstå at jeg ikke er så veldig overrasket over at de to andre huskes bedre. Coleridge og Wordsworth mener jeg å huske at de het.

Anyway, mens jeg satt der og leste, kom jeg over dette sjarmante stykket litteratur om synd, fordervelse, djevelskap, skrekk og fortapelse. Og slikt kan man jo ikke annet enn dele med sine medmennesker ...

The Old Woman of Berkeley

The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
And the Old Woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.

'Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,'
The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
'The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,
Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.'

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,
And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.

The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door,
And she cried with a voice of despair,
'Now take away the sacrament,
For its presence I cannot bear!'

Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
'I have tortures in store for evermore,
But spare me, my children, now!'

Away they sent the sacrament,
The fit it left her weak,
She look's at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.

'All kind of sin have I rioted in,
And the judgement now must be,
But I secured my children's souls,
Oh! pray, my children, for me!

'I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat,
The fiends have been my slaves,
From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath,
And breaking by charms the sleep of death,
I have call'd the dead from their graves.

'And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,
My witchcrafts to atone;
And I who have troubled the dead man's grave
Shall never have rest in my own.

'Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,
My children, I beg of you;
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin, too.

'And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,
And fasten it strong, I implore,
With iron bars, and with three chains,
Chain it to the church floor.

'And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
And let fifty Priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

'And see that fifty Choristers
Beside the bier attend me,
And day and night by the tapers' light,
With holy hymns defend me.

'Let the church bells all, both great and small,
Be toll'd by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my body away.

`And ever have the church door barr'd
After the even-song;
And I beseech you, children dear,
Let the bars and bolts be strong.

'And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save;
Till the fourth morning keep me safe,
And then I may rest in my grave.'

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim,
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.

They blest the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers due,
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
The chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty Priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred Choristers
Beside the bier attend her,
Who day and night by the taper's light
Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the Priests and Choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.

And the church bells all, both great and small,
Did toll so loud and long;
And they have barr'd the church door hard,
After the even-song.

And the first night the tapers' light
Burnt steadily and clear,
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door
Like a long thunder peal;
And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the Priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away;
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and pray'd all night,
They pray'd and sung all day.

The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.

The Monk and Nun they told their beads
As fast as they could tell,
And aye as louder grew the noise
The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the Choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,
And the Priests as they pray'd to heaven for aid,
They smote their breasts full sore.

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew
From the voice of the morning away;
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing,
And the fifty Priests they pray;
As they had sung and pray'd all night,
The pray'd and sung all day.

The third night came, and the tapers' flame
A frightful stench did make;
And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more;
And strokes as of a battering ram
Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen, they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer;
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.

The Monk and Nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground in dismay;
There was not a single Saint in heaven
To whom they did not pray.

And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong,
Falter'd with consternation,
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
Uplifed its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast,
That shall one day wake the dead;
The strong church door could bear no more,
And the bolts and the bars they fled;

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite,
And the Choristers faintly sung,
And the Priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd,
And on all the Saints in heaven for aid
They call'd with trembling tongue.

And in He came with eyes of flame,
The Devil to fetch the dead,
And all the church with his presence glow'd
Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hand on the iron chains,
And like flax they moulder'd asunder,
And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm,
He burst with his voice of thunder.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,
And come with her Master away;
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,
Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
Never did mortal hear.

She follow'd her Master to the church door,
There stood a black horse there;
His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.

The Devil he flung her on the horse,
And he leapt up before,
And away like the lightning's speed they went,
And she was seen no more.

They saw her no more, but her cries
For four miles round they could hear,
And children at rest at their mothers' breast
Started, and scream'd with fear.

Skjønnhet og sjarme

Det har vært så mange tentakler her i det siste og inklusjonen av Haakon Lie og St. Hillary i det lokale monsterpanteonet, fikk Dronten til å krype bak sofaen og gjemme seg i hutrende angst. Én ting er Hans Fryktelighet i all sin tentaklede velde, noe annet er sånne virkelig skumle monstere.

Så som en motvekt (og for å lokke Den Nebbete frem igjen): Her er et bilde fullt av fager blond ynde, i diverse aldersgrupper, og litt sunn, germansk arkitektur. Alle som har sett det filmatiske mesterverket The Postman, med Kevin Costner i en av sine fremste roller, vet hvilken glede Julie Andrews som Maria von Trapp kan spre til selv det mest forkvaklede sinn. (Ja, ikke H & H, da selvsagt.)

Og for de av dere som aldri får nok av sunn, germansk ungdom i amerikansk tapning, er selvsagt et besøk på sidene til The Von Trapp Children ikke til å unngå.

Når monstere møtes

Fra sitt hvilested nedenfor Ekebergskrenten, viser Den Fryktelige, Gamle på ny tentakler. Han er opprørt over at ikke Hillary ble presidentkandidat.

Haakon Lie er med andre ord kommet med ny bok ...

Adios, Thabo!

Rett nok måtte det en korrupsjonssak til for å få ham ut av presidentsetet. Det er allikevel en glede å se Thabo Mbeki gå av. Og i sin tid viste det seg jo at skattesaker var hendige for å ramme amerikansk mafia .

En ANC-president som får seg til å kritisere Afrikas Mugaber er nok for mye å be om, men det er i det minste håp om at det kan bli en som vedkjenner at HIV har noe med AIDS å gjøre.

En grusom plan

Som noen av dere kankskje har lagt merke til, har jeg brukt noe tid i det siste på å se etter spor av Hans Fryktelighet i kyberrommet. Og mens jeg søkte etter Hans påvirkning på den pågående amerikanske valgkamp, kom jeg over spor av et komplott mot vår art og vår sivilisasjon, et komplott så ondsinnet, så grusomt, så ... tentaklet, at det er vanskelig å fatte. Men det er ikke lenger tvil, kjære lesere, de sprer seg.

Jeg har derfor sett meg nødt til å dele resultatene av min forskning med dere, så mye jeg enn hadde villet spare mine medmennesker for den uhyggelige kunnskapen. Men skal dere ha noe håp, er det nødvendig at dere vet:

Denne er tilsynelatende mest søt:

Men denne? Hvem kan gjøre noe slikt?

Og her er det ikke lenger tvil. De kommer. De er her allerede.

I sitt hus på Ryen hviler de og samler krefter til Det Store Måltidet.

Og hvem, spør dere dere kanskje, hvem kan det være som står bak denne djevleske planen? Hvilket ondt sinn er det som skaper denslags skapninger med ganske alminnelige garn og pinner. Hvem?

Jeg er redd jeg har funnet svaret. Og svaret er mer skremmende enn noe dere kan forestille dere.

Kan det være?


Kan det virkelig være?


Er det mulig at det kan være?


Kan det virkelig, virkelig, virkelig være?


Ja, det kan det:

Ææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææææ

Evolusjonens høydepunkt

Og siden gikk det bare nedover ...

Denne var på et fødselsdagskort som ble meg overrakt, av en sjarmant representant for det edle kjønn, i forbindelse med min siste fødselsdag.

Hva kan man si?

For fear of little men

Det har vært lite poesi her den siste tiden. Det må rettes opp. Under følger en gammel favoritt av mannen over, William Allingham (1824-1889).

The Fairies

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.

FrP vs (Blod)Rødt

Mine venner i Fri tanke skriver: "For tre uker siden sendte Fritanke.no ut en e-post til alle partier om hva de synes om kirkens praksis med å beholde ikke-døpte som tilhørige fram til de er 18 år. Kun ytterfløyene svarte." Ytterfløyene viser seg å være Rødt og Fremskrittspartiet.

Dette er en kuriøs sammenstilling. Fremskrittspartiet er et demokratisk parti, om enn en smule høyrepopulistisk. Det er mye negativt å si om partiet og jeg sier det gjerne, men det er ikke, som Rødt, et antidemokratisk parti. Rødt fungerer rett nok for øyeblikket innenfor rammeverket av det norske demokrati, men jeg er ikke alene om å anta at det kun er fordi revolusjonen for øyeblikket ikke lar seg gjennomføre.

Ytterfløyene i norsk politikk består av antidemokratiske partier med totalitære ambisjoner. Rødts paralleller på høyresiden har dessuten en forkjærlighet for snasne uniformer og et anstrengt forhold til det jødiske folk.

Det er (heldigvis) ikke noe sammenlignbart parti med Rødt på norsk høyrefløy som dannede mennesker vil ta i med ildtang. Demokratene er muligens det nærmeste vi kommer, men de er en dårlig spøk, ikke et politisk parti.

Og i en annen og bedre verden, en verden der man hadde lært noe som helst av det som er skjedd når Rødts meningsfeller har hatt makt, hadde Rødt tilhørt det samme selskapet. Med det ene unntak at spøken ikke er morsom, bare smakløs.

"Bank bank!" Hvem der?

OK, da, så overdriver jeg litt med disse lovecraftianske presidentgreiene, da. Jeg skal snart slutte. Ja jøss.

*Tentakler i kors*

Nei Siv! Fy!!

Siv Jensen lot seg i går intervjue på en nyhetssending, iført et halvkort sort kjole med hvit kant rundt kraven. Jeg har ikke klart å oppspore billedbeviser, men det sier jeg deg bare Siv. Og jeg sier det høyt. Og tydelig: Du er ikke. Og da mener jeg IKKE. Du er absolutt ikke Maria von Trapp. Slutt med det tullet. Nå!

Er det deg, Nyarlathotep?

Fra Wikipedia: Nyarlathotep differs from the other [of Lovecraft's] beings in a number of ways. Most of them are exiled to stars, like Yog-Sothoth and Hastur, or sleeping and dreaming like Cthulhu. Nyarlathotep, however, is active and frequently walks the Earth in the guise of a human being, usually a tall, slim, joyous man. He has "a thousand" other forms, most of these reputed to be quite horrific and sanity-blasting. Most of the Outer Gods have their own cults serving them; Nyarlathotep seems to serve these cults and take care of their affairs in their absence.

Most of them use strange alien languages, while Nyarlathotep uses human languages and can be mistaken for a human being. Finally, most of them are all powerful yet purposeless, yet Nyarlathotep seems to be deliberately deceptive and manipulative, and even uses propaganda to achieve his goals. In this regard, he is probably the most human-like among them.

Nyarlathotep enacts the will of the Outer Gods, and is their messenger, heart and soul; he is also a servant of Azathoth, whose wishes he immediately fulfills. Unlike the other Outer Gods, causing madness is more important and enjoyable than death and destruction to Nyarlathotep. It is suggested by some that he will destroy the human race and possibly the earth as well.

(Takk til Per CJ for tipset. Jeg tror i det minste det var det han mente.)

Elefantastisk festlig

Jeg tror historien om amerikanske mediers behandling av John Edwards utroskap (de holdt kjeft) er tilstrekkelig kjent til at denne fungerer for et norsk publikum. Den gjorde i det minste morgenen min litt lystigere.

(Via The Constructive Curmudgeon.)

Onkel C

Siden jeg later til å ha en viss suksess med å viderebringe tentaklede morsomheter fra verdensveven ...

Demokrati, Palin og sure, sure Zmirak

Jeg anbefaler visst til stadighet John Zmiraks diatriber. Det er muligens fordi alternativet, når man som meg jevnlig leser Takimag, er å fordype seg i Pat Buchanans dypsindige åpenbaringer om, eh, demokrati og sånn. Og, vel, jeg liker ting med tentakler, men det kan overdrives.

Jeg anbefaler dog gjerne Zmirak igjen. Hans betraktninger rundt det amerikanske presidentvalget er egnet til å forsure selv den beste dag med frisk, odiøs latter. Les og le. Her følger hans liste over det positive innholdet i Sarah Palins tale:

- Support our troops.
- Defeatists, go home to Hanoi.
- I love my kids.
- My husband is a real man.
- Harry Truman was unqualified, too.
- I may be much hotter than your wife, but I can be just as scary.
- USA! USA! USA! USA!
- Small town good, big town bad.
- Power corrupts, so give some to me.
- Who needs beaches or seafood? Let’s drill for some oil, baby!
- The Iranians are holding our people hostage.
- The Russians are coming.
-Barak Obama blathers on and on about himself. I blather about my children.
- Obama is skinny, pale, and weak. He went to Harvard, for crying out loud.
- America doesn’t negotiate with foreigners.
- It isn’t just Republicans who can’t stand John McCain. Some Democrats hate him, too.
- Only veterans and torture victims can really be trusted.
- So let’s draft half the country, and send the rest to Gitmo.

Og for ordens skyld, før dere sender dette til noen med noen vittige kommentarer om hvor dum den amerikanske høyresiden er: Zmirak & co er en hel del til høyre for Palin, McCain, Bush og det sedvanlige republikanske kostebinderiet. Og han er mot krigen i Irak. Forvirret? Kan verden være vanskeligere enn Dagbladet hevder? Æææææææææææææh ... !!!!!

Nemlig!

Mullaen er vekk, leve Mullaen!

De slemme menneskene hos Enjoy Diary har vært slemme mot min lille, snille venn, Den gale mullaen. Så bloggen hans er for øyeblikket vekk. Som en sviske.

Han har, i det minste inntil videre, sluttet seg til det gode selskap på Blogspot. Den gale er å finne her.

Ïa! Ïa! Hastur Fthaghn!

Palin, Obama og virkeligheten

Via Bjørn Are, hender det jeg svinger innom The Constructive Curmudgeon, som karakteriserer seg selv som "Christian philosopher, professor, teacher, writer, preacher". Og over morgenkaffen fant jeg for følgende karakteristikk av Barack Obama, i en omtale av Sarah Palins landsmøtetale:

She was not afraid to unmask Barack Obama for what he is: a hyperreality. A hyperreality is an image that has no referent, like a cartoon or video game character. Yet, that hyperreality is taken to be the essence of reality, since people stop caring about truth and are content with impressions. No, she did not use that term from media criticism (and often used by Jean Baudrillard); but she told the truth about the man who wasn't there, the man who wrote two memiors, but has authored no significant legislation, the man who looks good, but has accomplished nothing of substance. He is the first hyperreal presidential candidate. Her comments about there being nothing left after you bring back the Styrofoam Greek columns said it all: the Styrofoam candidate.

Denne, fra Palins tale, er det beste stikket i siden til Obama jeg har sett så langt: "The presidency is not supposed to be a journey of personal discovery." (Den er til og med bedre enn P.J. O'Rourkes "For the first time in American history it's more important to be cute than white.")

Mark Steyn om Palin vs Obama:

First, Governor Palin is not merely [...] "all-American", but hyper-American. What other country in the developed world produces beauty queens who hunt caribou and serve up a terrific moose stew? As an immigrant, I'm not saying I came to the United States purely to meet chicks like that, but it was certainly high on my list of priorities. And for the gun-totin' Miss Wasilla then to go on to become Governor while having five kids makes it an even more uniquely American story. Next to her resume, a guy who's done nothing but serve in the phony-baloney job of "community organizer" and write multiple autobiographies looks like just another creepily self-absorbed lifelong member of the full-time political class that infests every advanced democracy.

Jeg blir mer og mer overbevist om at Obama er et hologram, mens Palin ... Vel, jeg er ikke enig med henne i ett og alt. Langt i fra. Men hun er i det minste av denne verden. Og jeg slutter meg til Steyn: "I kinda like the whole naughty librarian vibe."