A summary of Anglican Branch Theory in ecumenism

ANGLICAN
Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and Anglicans are all branches of the True Church.

ROMAN CATHOLIC and ORTHODOX (in unison)
No, you're not.

ORTHODOX
And neither is he.

Migrants vs. idiots in Germany

A brilliant link (in German). For the non-Kraut speakers out there, the NPD, a far-right neo-Nazi party, sent a form letter to German politicians of non-German ethnic background. In it, they explained the Latin origin of the word "migrant" (and rudely addressing the recipients as such, instead of by name, claiming along the way that the Roman Empire fell because of too many migrants) and invited them to migrate out of Germany.

In response, a German politician of Turkish background replied by paraphrasing the letter, explaining the Greek origin of the word "idiot", reminding the writer that the Greeks invented democracy precisely so that idiots like the writer would never take power — and in a postscript noted that the German text of the original letter was full of punctuation and grammatical errors, which the respondent was kind enough to correct.

Nevermind that those "migrants" who destroyed the Roman Empire in the West were, uh, Germans.

I blame Obama for this parenting fail

I just tried threatening my son with NATO air strikes and a UN no-fly zone if he doesn't study. He seemed unimpressed. I blame Obama for wrecking NATO's and the UN's credibility.

"Morning has broken" gets a new verse

Recently I had to plan and lead an English Morning Prayer service for a friend who got married Saturday. He wanted a quiet, meditative service, which is right up my alley, because that's how I like them anyway. (I like to go to the Benedictine monastery in my neighborhood for just that reason.) So it had lots of psalmody in plainchant - what most would refer to as "Gregorian" - which had the added benefit of me being able to lead everyone in singing easily and not having to rehearse hymns, since we would have no organist. That said, given that most attending wouldn't know hymns anyway, not being churchgoers, psalmody is quick to grasp and learn. Even so I was sure they'd want to hear at least one hymn, and it would have to be one they would readily know and that I could lead singing. So as a send-off, the closing hymn was "Morning has broken".

Thing is, I don't much like hearing it anymore, having heard it a few times too many, but I couldn't think of anything else. So out of frustration, I came up with my own version, to wit:

My wind has broken
Raised my leg highly
Foul stench has spoken
Face is a smiley
Smell of beans flowin',
Onions and broccoli,
Intestines twisting,
sing out all day.

The Infinite Monkey and his cohort on vacation

Presumably from the filming of the original "Planet of the Apes", but priceless nonetheless.

Vote Pope John XXIV!

As you no doubt have heard by now, the B-16 Bomber is heading to the hangar, which naturally opens the question of who will succeed him. I wish to throw my mitre into the ring, even though I don't actually have a mitre, or even a clerical collar, for that matter. No worries, Pope John XIX was in fact also a layman at the time of his election to the Papacy, and happens to share my name, so I take that as a good omen. So I'd be Pope John XXIV, give or take a few antipopes.

Vote me for Pope! The one in Rome, not one of those other ones. I promise incense in every thurible and baptism for all!

How to win the lottery

My girlfriend says I'm such a smart creative guy, why can't I choose the right lottery numbers? So I choose ½, π, √-1, 911, e, and Planck's constant. I plan to sue the lottery authority for discrimination against non-whole numbers not between 0 and 50, too. Numerist bastards.

The solution to the Middle East crisis is so obvious

By the power invested in me by myself, I hereby claim the whole of the land known as Israel/Palestine, and order the current inhabitants to leave the country. I'm deporting them all to Newark, New Jersey.

There, I just solved the whole Middle Eastern crisis at a stroke of my brain.

Apocalyptic shopping

I really hope there's no apocalypse on the 21st of December 2012. I mean, then I'll have done my Christmas shopping for nothing.

Except I always do it on the 23rd anyway. Ah well, carry on.

Though I wish I could live to see 21 December 2112, just so I could listed to Rush's 2112 on 21.12.2112. Or, as a friend suggested, beat myself with a copy of "Atlas Shrugged" until I think it's 21.12.2112. Reading it might make me catatonic enough to achieve that, too.

You better watch out, Santa's not what he seems

You better watch out,
you better not cry,
you better not pout,
I'm tellin' you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He's makin' his list,
checkin' it twice,
gonna find out who's naughty and nice,
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He knows when you've been sleeping,
he knows when you're awake,
he knows when you've been bad or good,
so be good for goodness' sake!
Oh, you better watch out,
you better not cry,
you better not pout,
I'm tellin' you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town!

In other words, Santa is a Stasi agent vigilantly observing all children through his network of spies ("parents"). He does, after all, wear red. Commie bastard.

Announcing Millard Fillmore Day, Nov. 5th. Now go get drunk and blow stuff up.

I think we Americans should take a cue from the Limeys and have a holiday to celebrate a forgotten and irrelevant historical figure by getting drunk and blowing stuff up. I suggest turning the Fifth of November into Millard Fillmore Day in the US, with lots of drinking, explosives and NASCAR.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
Let's party for old historical bunk.
With Fillmore our President we shall not be hesitant
To blow up stuff and get drunk.

Bonus for years in which the US election lands on Nov. 5th.

ZZ Top's Binders of Women

To be sung to the tune of "Planet of Women", with apologies to ZZ Top:

What can Romney do, he's a nervous wreck.
Needs chicks everywhere, better go and check – check it out!
He can't hire no women from a hole in the ground
They all got his head spinning round and around.
Binders of women, oh yeah.
The binders of women, oh yeah.
It's driving him insane!

He starts by asking for a little bit of sheet.
Then they're on his case and they're in the streets.
He can't find them himself without his lobby,
not easy to find, just needs some warm bodies.
Binders of women, oh yeah.
The binders of women, oh yeah.
It's driving him insane!

If you have the binders, drop him a line today
or untie his tongue, it's wrapped 'round his face
I think he sprained his brain 'cause it won't unwind.
Every day it's man against broad in the
Binders of women, oh yeah.
The binders of women, oh yeah.
It's driving him insane!
It's driving him insane!

Charlemagne's gay capital?

The thought occurred to me – Charlemagne's capital is today called Aachen in German (and is in Germany), but is called Aix-la-Chapelle in French, and the French like to claim old Chuck for themselves.

What I want to know is how the Frogs got from "Aaaaaaachen" to "Aix-la-Chapelle". I mean, Aaaaaaachen sounds like something old Chuck Da Great would have said in a bad mood as he was about to "convert" hordes of Saxons in the name of a loving God at the point of a sword, but "Aix-la-Chapelle" sounds totally, outrageously gay and not at all like the name of the capital of a really butch conqueror of half of Europe. I mean, call it "La Cage aux Folles" while you're at it, why don't you.

Just a random thought about European history. Never mind me.

The Incredibles' Edna Mode reads the Bible?

Sunday last week, we took the kids to church at St. George's Anglican Church in Berlin. While the services are in English, many members are German, and during the reading of the Epistle, my 8-year-old son whispered to me that the woman reading sounded exactly like "that woman who makes the costumes in The Incredibles".

I had a really hard time keeping a straight face, because it was true.

Google’s new logo leaked

Infinite Monkey Exclusive: Google’s new logo was leaked. Might cause some confusion with another new logo recently released.

That does it, I'm retiring

That does it. The site freizeitparkherne.de is so incredibly glorious that there is no way I shall ever be able to top it. (Though its designer should probably be topped.) I'm officially retiring from web design until someone does a better one.

Feel free to post others here to get me back in business.

I like my π with whipped cream, thankee

Billy-Bob was real proud of his son, who was the first in the family to go to school. One day Billy-Bob wanted to impress the neighbors with how smart his son was, and aksed him what he learned that day. The boy said, "πr²".

Billy-Bob got real mad and took him out for a whippin' and said, "Pie are ROUND, cornbread are square!"

The Barchetta prophecy

You know the Rush song "Red Barchetta"? Of course you do. And if you don't, I hereby proclaim you to be a philistine and order you to buy "Moving Pictures", the greatest album of like forever, and burn several Lady Gaga CDs as an offering to Geddy Lee. By that I mean really burn with lighter fluid, not burn them onto a physical CD. Then again Lady Gaga probably never sells CDs anymore anyway, just MP3s, so, er, burn your hard drive containing the Lady Gaga MP3s. And if you just buy an MP3 of "Red Barchetta" and not the whole album, I will personally hunt you down and...well, do something you really really wouldn't like but for which you couldn't press charges. But I digress.

The song is a kind of sci-fi geek's ballad, telling the story of a guy in some unspecified future where cars are banned who visits his uncle to race an (illegal) red barchetta (that being a type of Italian sports car for those not aware). He is soon hunted down by the cops for doing so. I always knew it was based on a sci-fi story, but could never remember which one, then stumbled across a site which has the linked story at the end of this post.

The reason I link it: OK, it says it takes place in 1982 – which is about as (sadly) hilarious as "Blade Runner" with its flying cars and deep-space colonies taking place in 2019 – but the story is otherwise eerily prescient, especially considering it was written in 1973. I quote:

The valley roads were no longer used very much: the small farms were all owned by doctors and the roads were somewhat narrow for the MSVs (Modern Safety Vehicles). (Note: Or, as we say today, SUVs.)

The safety crusade had been well done at first. The few harebrained schemes were quickly ruled out and a sense of rationality developed. But in the late Seventies (Note: or maybe late Nineties...), with no major wars, cancer cured and social welfare straightened out, the politicians needed a new cause and once again they turned toward the automobile. The regulations concerning safety became tougher. Cars became larger, heavier, less efficient. They consumed gasoline so voraciously that the United States had had to become a major ally with the Arabian countries. The new cars were hard to stop or maneuver quickly, but they would save your life (usually) in a 50-mph crash.

[...U]nforeseen complications had arisen. People became accustomed to cars which went undamaged in 10-mph collisions. [...] But the damages and injuries actually decreased, so the government was happy, the insurance industry was happy and most of the car owners were happy. Most of the car owners – the owners of the non-MSV cars – were kept busy dodging the less careful MSV drivers, and the result of this mismatch left very few of the older cars in existence. If they weren't crushed between two 6000-pound sleds on the highway they were quietly priced into the junkyard by the insurance peddlers...

That, my friends, is downright spooky, especially for 1973 in the midst of the OPEC oil shocks and the Cold War – allies of the Arab nations in exchange for oil? Naw, it'll never happen. And trade MSV for SUV and whaddya got? Ford Exhibitions driven by soccer moms with iPhones plastered to their ears, driving 'till they tip over then blaming Firestone, ¡olé!

You can read the (fairly short) story, A Nice Morning Drive by Richard S. Foster (along with the story of how Rush was inspired by it to write "Red Barchetta") at the Rush fan resource site 2112.net. And tell them I sent you.

My uncle has a country place / that no one knows about / He says it used to be a farm / Before the Motor Law...

XP: Where Windows and Christ intersect, or why I hate technical support

For those of you of a more technical bent who get drafted into tech support, here is another amusing moment for you. For those of you who aren't so technical, I shall explain the head-to-desk aspect of this story by explaining it again in more common terms.

Behold, Mate O' Mine (which abbreviates to MOM and thus has an Oedipan aspect that is vaguely disturbing) is trying to get her corporate laptop to work on my WLAN so she can try telecommuting for the first time. Said laptop is a rather old Dell burdened with XP Professional and an Intel WLAN card. I figure this can't be hard, right? So I tell her the WLAN's name and password and figure that's that.

But no, Bill G never made anything easy that he could have made mind-bendingly difficult. After all, XP also means Chi Rho, a symbol for Jesus Christ, which fits because I always call His name a lot when using it. Anyway, naturally XP (the system, not the Redeemer) promptly began to opaquely and obstinately insist it couldn't use my wireless network. I finally realized that it hadn't asked her for the network password like any reasonable human being would expect (then again Microsoft engineers are not normally known for being both reasonable and human beings simultaneously, hence they write it to suit other such creatures). Instead, it asked for the wireless router's number from the back of the router itself, not the password. So I grumbled, went to the router and read it off to her, figuring that that should settle it. Happily, the little WLAN icon in the taskbar lit up green. Problem solved.

But no, she then called to me to say that Internet Exploder insisted the computer was not in fact online. I checked the WLAN from my Macbook Pro, worked fine. Checked to see if the Macbook could see the Dell XP laptop. No problem. Checked to see if the Dell could see the router. Yup, no problem. Obviously a problem with the Dell's network settings, probably DNS.

So I go digging, and quickly discover that the XP system is so locked down that I can only aimlessly poke around hoping Bill G will give me a little hint, but nay, 'tis not for mere mortals without admin access. I try everything I can think of, but the little bugger won't load a website outside the WLAN – it would load pages from my router's web server and from the Macbook, but as soon as it had to venture out into the big bad Internet, it would quail in fear and poot little bits of data into its pants while refusing to say (or unable to say out of sheer terror) just WTF the problem was.

Then the love of my life pipes up and says she maybe needs to activate the VPN they told her about.

And there was much heading-to-desking.

For you see, dear non-versed in the technical plane, this is equivalent to her calling to me to say the car doesn't work at all, so I go out to look at the engine (and find the hood welded shut), feel around with my fingers along the fuel line and exhaust and such, getting myself all worked up and frustrated and annoyed, and then she says from the cockpit that maybe she should turn this key thingy the car dealer gave her.

The night before Christmas (in Hannover)

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Hannover,
Not an ex-pat was stirring, nor any Ausländer.
The stockings were hung by the flat door with care.
Pointless, because St. Nick was already there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
with bilingual names of presents in their heads.
And us in our jammies, lying down in our beds,
had just settled down from shopping 'til dead.

When out in the courtyard there arose such a clatter,
I jumped out of bed to see what was the matter.
Must be some drunks, I thought with some dread,
but I hope it is St. Nick instead.

The moon was obscured by rain clouds – no snow.
'Twas all rainy and icky. White Christmas, no show.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a guy in a St. Nick suit, and he was headed here.

Dressed all in red, from his head to his foot,
I knew in a flash that St. Nick had come to it.
But where are the reindeer, I thought to myself,
where's Dasher and Donner, or Rudolf himself?

He strolled his way towards me, his bag in his hand,
bulging with stuff, many presents so grand.
He saw I was watching, and he gave me a wink
and walked right up to me. Didn't know what to think.

And then, in a twinkling, he opened his mouth,
and out came a question, of that there was no doubt.
But it was in German, and my German is weak,
so I stood there dumb, unable to speak.

I asked, "Are you St. Nick?" and he gave me a look
and shook his head slowly, and said as I shook,
"Nein, war am Sechsten", he replied in his German.
"Ich bin der Weihnachtsmann!" Which I had failed to determine.

Then he repeated his previous query,
this time in English, since my German is weary.
"Does Family Müller live here in this house?"
"No," I said, "number seven, next door." So he turned to go out.

"Wrong number," he said with a sheepish small grin,
"I'm new here in Hannover, 'til now in Berlin."
"I'm new here too!" I replied with a smile,
"Come meet us at Mezzo! H4ES, worth your while!"

A very merry (or happy for you Limeys) Christmas to all!