Henry VIII of England was a big man, in the physical sense that is, as while not many remember him as an intellectual giant, the big ranga dude was far from stupid. Sure, he didn't have a great track record in his personal relationships, but even with his well documented matrimonial excesses, his first marriage lasted twenty four years, and in terms of Tudor times, his first wife, Katharine of Aragon, was a bit of a cougar, being older, widowed and more "experienced" than young Hal.
After all, she'd been married to his older brother, Arthur, whose existence was dooming Hal to a life in the church. Imagine that. Arthur conveniently died, without having consummated his marriage to the Spanish princess, leaving Hal free to score a wife and her dowry and a kingdom. Catharine was well loved, both as Princess of Wales and later as Queen, known by her contemporaries as a remarkable woman, who advocated education for women, and was lauded by luminaries such as Shakespeare.
We'll cover Henry's excesses quickly, he divorced Catharine, forming the church of England in the process, married the intriguing Anne Boleyn, about whom I could talk for hours, and then beheaded her, married Jane Seymour, a mousy little woman who died after childbirth complications, married Anne of Cleves, declared her gross and annulled his union with her (serves him right for marrying before the first date) which probably suited her fine as she's rumoured to have preferred the company of her own kind, if you get my drift. Catharine Howard (cousin of Anne Boleyn) was a silly little tramp and lost her head for it, Katharine Parr, didn't want to marry Henry, but, whats a girl to do?, and she did out live him. So did Anne of Cleves. Catharine of Aragon died of breast cancer, nine years before Henry, who fell into a very dark mood when he heard of her passing.
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I just love how a row of asterices breaks up a text
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Bet you didn't know our Hal obsessions with male heir was because he thought his line would produce the messiah, now, did you?
Fast forward to the present time, or whatever time we're in. We have Prince William getting married, a direct descendant of Henry VII, through Henry VIII's sister, Margaret, but even though Wills is second in line to the throne, some think his lovely Tudor blood has been corrupted by his fathers German/Greek mix, so entering stage left, we have young Prince Harry, the party loving, swastika wearing ranga, carrying the name that could lead him to be King Henry IX. The last two Henrys' weren't born to the throne either.
If the rumors concerning the legitimacy of Prince Harry are true, and I'm not saying they are, but he got that red hair from somewhere,and anyway, I'm bored, so let me have my flights of fancy, then he has more royal, uncorrupted English royal that is, blood than other person in direct line to the throne. That was good enough for Henry VII.
Now lets get out the graphite motorcycle helmet that works much better than a tin foil hat at blocking the nasty powers that be, and their mind reading whatevers (you knew it had to turn crackpot soon, and I didn't disappoint), and lets very quietly mention that young, handsome Prince William is number one contender for the antichrist. Theres even a picture of him holding a sheep or goat or some other cloven hoofed critter if you're the type of person who demands conclusive and irrefutable proof. And his birthday, summer solstice? Spooky!
We all know that in every biblical apocalyptic scenario, the anitchrist gets his ass kicked by the messiah. I don't know about you, but Id much prefer it the entire apocalypse was downgraded to a right royal family feud, albeit of biblical proportions. So, I'm offering a prediction for you. Lay your bets on Prince Harry for next monarch, because, lets face it, the Brits have been ruled by bastards before, and it simply wouldn't be Brittish to put the antichrist on the throne of England.
So dead birds and floods aside, what really maters is that I got to reuse the dodgy thumbnail of Wills with the satanic hand sign.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Wrestlers provide better medical care than the hospital.
As I sit here, with my left foot elevated and iced, due to it's third grade sprain, which is about as bad as sprains go, I can't help but reminisce about yesterday afternoons foray in the public health system. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd generally presume, and hope, that six or so years in medical school, or however much training they do, would result in, oh, I don't know, maybe some sort of ability to treat things like illness or injury. Yeah, crackpot idea.
Backstage, I presented my co-workers with my ankle. I was seen to and treated immediately. Within minutes, my foot was iced, elevated and I was having a medicinal beer. I was assisted in every possible way. Wrestlers, not paramedics, not medically trained in any way. Wrestling is physical, some of my co workers work, or have worked, as personal trainers, and they know what to do.
Now let's look at the hospital. I hopped to triage, which was empty. Ten minutes later the staff returned, and it was another ten before it was seen. Triage dude thought it could be broken, so they get me a wheel chair, tell me to do the red tape shuffle at the clerical window, and then goof to xray. Sounds fine.
Until Miss Admin says to sit down and wait, she's busy. Hello? Sit down? I'm in a wheelchair with a technicolour foot. Here's a tip, looking at people provides invaluable information. Just saying. Fifteen minutes tick by. She finally takes the details and we're off to xray to wait somewhere else. A change, it's as good as a holiday.
They tell me the radiographer is busy. Radiographer. Singular. They only have one? No wonder they're all wearing badges that proclaim, "staffed to budget, not patient care". Such a reassuring position. We wait. And wait. The beer has worn off, I don't have it iced. The wait goes on. 4.28 pm, the world turns to pain as my foot swells even more and the throbbing intensifies as the wonderful sense of disconnection previously protecting me disappears.
They eventually x Ray it. Then its back to emergency to continue waiting. Just after six they give me pain killers and ice it. Hours after arrival, I finally received the same level of basic care I got backstage. It's all the administration. Gets in the way of the treating people part.
Side note. While I waited, someone walked to the shop for panadeine. Those painkillers got to me before the hospitals did. My advice is, when injured, look for the big burly dude without a neck, he doesn't have to deal with red tape, or get senior approval before applying icepacks.
Backstage, I presented my co-workers with my ankle. I was seen to and treated immediately. Within minutes, my foot was iced, elevated and I was having a medicinal beer. I was assisted in every possible way. Wrestlers, not paramedics, not medically trained in any way. Wrestling is physical, some of my co workers work, or have worked, as personal trainers, and they know what to do.
Now let's look at the hospital. I hopped to triage, which was empty. Ten minutes later the staff returned, and it was another ten before it was seen. Triage dude thought it could be broken, so they get me a wheel chair, tell me to do the red tape shuffle at the clerical window, and then goof to xray. Sounds fine.
Until Miss Admin says to sit down and wait, she's busy. Hello? Sit down? I'm in a wheelchair with a technicolour foot. Here's a tip, looking at people provides invaluable information. Just saying. Fifteen minutes tick by. She finally takes the details and we're off to xray to wait somewhere else. A change, it's as good as a holiday.
They tell me the radiographer is busy. Radiographer. Singular. They only have one? No wonder they're all wearing badges that proclaim, "staffed to budget, not patient care". Such a reassuring position. We wait. And wait. The beer has worn off, I don't have it iced. The wait goes on. 4.28 pm, the world turns to pain as my foot swells even more and the throbbing intensifies as the wonderful sense of disconnection previously protecting me disappears.
They eventually x Ray it. Then its back to emergency to continue waiting. Just after six they give me pain killers and ice it. Hours after arrival, I finally received the same level of basic care I got backstage. It's all the administration. Gets in the way of the treating people part.
Side note. While I waited, someone walked to the shop for panadeine. Those painkillers got to me before the hospitals did. My advice is, when injured, look for the big burly dude without a neck, he doesn't have to deal with red tape, or get senior approval before applying icepacks.
Meathead, aka I Stuffed Up!
It happens. You step inside the ring, and you can and, all too often do, get hurt. We know that, and we accept the risk every time we don our tights, or hot pants, if that's your preference. When injuries occur, we take an almost perverse, and certainly contrary, pride in it. Our battle scars, testament to our membership in the exclusive Cult of Meathead. Although I have no qualms in saying that injuries usually occur doing some sort of wrestling move, but not today, and not for me.
The day dawned with the now usual grey sky and drizzle, which boded well for my Mercedes as it had developed a tendency to overheat, plus a light rain makes the squeaks less audible. We were all ready and were among the first to arrive at Mounties. I chatted and shared a cigarette with Tennille, hung about backstage with the old timer commentary team, in the obligatory old timer dressing room, I warmed up, under Skulls supervision, and by the way, he was rather impressed with my ability perform push ups. Proper ones. Not that on your knees girly stuff. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, I looked great, and I was singing, to the tune of Willie Nelsons "on the road again", my own, slightly reworked version.
In then ring again
Just can't wait to get in the ring again
Smacking chicks that I may never smack again
And I can't wait to get in the ring again.
Yeah, I was having a great time. And then it was our match. Wayne Pickford and Poison Ivy vs Antonio De'Ath and Niki Nitro. The entrance is great and we're all feeling good, the guys start and we're off to what should be a textbook mixed tag, until we hit the tag. I go into the first spot, and as I step off waynes stomach (don't ask, somethings you don't need to know) and put my left foot down, my ankle rolls under me. I felt a snapping pain, white hot and I cursed the rings padding. High density foam, boys, not as spongy and sounds better. In my opinion, the ring is too soft. I wanna know when I hit the floor.
I roll under the bottom rope, back into my corner, telling Wayne that I've just stuffed up my ankle. Across the ring, I seek out my counterparts eyes,and through time honured tradition of mime, I communicate the problem to her. The crowd has quitened a little, so I turn and shout unpleasantries at them, often containing the term peasant, which I only mention cos it's pretty unpleasant.
We're tagged in, and we stuff about and then get back out, giving the boys a turn. Wayne asks if I can do it, and I was sure as shit going to finish what I started. We took it home, Niki got the pin on Pickford, De'Ath laid me out with his trademark move. And I was free to hobble back stage. I got through the curtains and started hopping, sat down and took my boot off, there was already a swollen band across it.
Back to dressing room, having asked some of the guys to get some ice (Dan Damage, champion!) and then went through the laborious process of removing a spandex crop top, lace body stocking, sloggi stockings, cos I only like to give the illusion of being half naked, and hot pants, to get my jeans back on. Niki, no longer Nitro, but co worker, helps me get my jeans on. Skull hands me a beer, I sit on the steps and consume it quickly. Somehow, after the show, I hobble out, with the help my son, Texas, and no shoes to the awaiting car.
Hours later, doped the eyeballs, I'm feeling ok. I did my time at the E.R, and broke free of their clutches to return to the comforts of home and pizza. And I learnt something. Never underestimate the power of beer.
It's a sprain. I'm working on either being fine by next weeks show, or able to convincingly pretend I'm fine. That's the thing with the Cult of Meathead, and I'm unlikely to be deprogrammed. I'm a wrestler. We take our lumps, we take our bumps, and we pull together when it matters. We're Meatheads, and proud of it.
The day dawned with the now usual grey sky and drizzle, which boded well for my Mercedes as it had developed a tendency to overheat, plus a light rain makes the squeaks less audible. We were all ready and were among the first to arrive at Mounties. I chatted and shared a cigarette with Tennille, hung about backstage with the old timer commentary team, in the obligatory old timer dressing room, I warmed up, under Skulls supervision, and by the way, he was rather impressed with my ability perform push ups. Proper ones. Not that on your knees girly stuff. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, I looked great, and I was singing, to the tune of Willie Nelsons "on the road again", my own, slightly reworked version.
In then ring again
Just can't wait to get in the ring again
Smacking chicks that I may never smack again
And I can't wait to get in the ring again.
Yeah, I was having a great time. And then it was our match. Wayne Pickford and Poison Ivy vs Antonio De'Ath and Niki Nitro. The entrance is great and we're all feeling good, the guys start and we're off to what should be a textbook mixed tag, until we hit the tag. I go into the first spot, and as I step off waynes stomach (don't ask, somethings you don't need to know) and put my left foot down, my ankle rolls under me. I felt a snapping pain, white hot and I cursed the rings padding. High density foam, boys, not as spongy and sounds better. In my opinion, the ring is too soft. I wanna know when I hit the floor.
I roll under the bottom rope, back into my corner, telling Wayne that I've just stuffed up my ankle. Across the ring, I seek out my counterparts eyes,and through time honured tradition of mime, I communicate the problem to her. The crowd has quitened a little, so I turn and shout unpleasantries at them, often containing the term peasant, which I only mention cos it's pretty unpleasant.
We're tagged in, and we stuff about and then get back out, giving the boys a turn. Wayne asks if I can do it, and I was sure as shit going to finish what I started. We took it home, Niki got the pin on Pickford, De'Ath laid me out with his trademark move. And I was free to hobble back stage. I got through the curtains and started hopping, sat down and took my boot off, there was already a swollen band across it.
Back to dressing room, having asked some of the guys to get some ice (Dan Damage, champion!) and then went through the laborious process of removing a spandex crop top, lace body stocking, sloggi stockings, cos I only like to give the illusion of being half naked, and hot pants, to get my jeans back on. Niki, no longer Nitro, but co worker, helps me get my jeans on. Skull hands me a beer, I sit on the steps and consume it quickly. Somehow, after the show, I hobble out, with the help my son, Texas, and no shoes to the awaiting car.
Hours later, doped the eyeballs, I'm feeling ok. I did my time at the E.R, and broke free of their clutches to return to the comforts of home and pizza. And I learnt something. Never underestimate the power of beer.
It's a sprain. I'm working on either being fine by next weeks show, or able to convincingly pretend I'm fine. That's the thing with the Cult of Meathead, and I'm unlikely to be deprogrammed. I'm a wrestler. We take our lumps, we take our bumps, and we pull together when it matters. We're Meatheads, and proud of it.
Monday, January 10, 2011
No Shit, Sherlock!
And without further ado, this has nothing at all to do with Sherlock Holmes, but as I never said it would, that shouldn't be a problem. This also has nothing to do with Bilbo Baggins, Heathcliff and Cathy, that George Smiley guy from the le Carre spy novels, Julian Assange or any other fictional characters. And you won't find mention of genuine documented people, living or otherwise, so this won't be about Princess Mary, Barack Obama, Lady Gaga, Isaac Newton or Harry Potters' buddy Rupert.
It certainly won't be about me, mostly because I'm spectacularly dull. I'd love to be exciting, but I'm not. I could probably make up some wild adventures that end with spectacular stories, culminating in great sex on top of large piles of money while my children no longer need supervision, or food for that matter, but you'd know I was lying, so we won't go there.
This isn't about restructuring our drug laws, even though those laws could do with a shake, and it's not about the health or education systems. It's got nothing to do with Oprah or finding your bliss, and as sure as the pope frowns on multiple orgasms, it's ain't related to her book club.
It's not even about you, so if you're the narcissistic type, heads up, nows the time to stop reading. You know why? You really want to know what it's about? I'll tell you, but only to reward your persistence. It's about tin foil hats.
They don't work. They may, in some cases, actually amplify signals. So, like, while I applaud your fashion forward stance and fully stand by your right to wear tinfoil millinery to any social occasion as you see fit, its not going to save you from the daleks.
Tinfoil hats- because everyone who disagrees is mentally ill.
It certainly won't be about me, mostly because I'm spectacularly dull. I'd love to be exciting, but I'm not. I could probably make up some wild adventures that end with spectacular stories, culminating in great sex on top of large piles of money while my children no longer need supervision, or food for that matter, but you'd know I was lying, so we won't go there.
This isn't about restructuring our drug laws, even though those laws could do with a shake, and it's not about the health or education systems. It's got nothing to do with Oprah or finding your bliss, and as sure as the pope frowns on multiple orgasms, it's ain't related to her book club.
It's not even about you, so if you're the narcissistic type, heads up, nows the time to stop reading. You know why? You really want to know what it's about? I'll tell you, but only to reward your persistence. It's about tin foil hats.
They don't work. They may, in some cases, actually amplify signals. So, like, while I applaud your fashion forward stance and fully stand by your right to wear tinfoil millinery to any social occasion as you see fit, its not going to save you from the daleks.
Tinfoil hats- because everyone who disagrees is mentally ill.
And The Skies Poured Sorrow.
Queensland. Beautiful one minute, perfect the next? At the moment I'm pretty certain that both the locals and tourists (now, that would have been one crap holiday) would agree that if litigation were to arise regarding false advertising, Queensland wouldn't have a leg to stand on.
The footage is harrowing. Images of cars carried away in a sea of brown water, the faces of passengers being delivered to an unknown fate, one minute a figure on the news, lost the next. Words, spoken by politicians, describing Queensland's darkest hour, sound hollow and cliched as news of those trapped filter through. The numbers of dead and missing rise. 8 dead, 72 missing. A child care centre with ten kids trapped, undoubtedly petrified and wishing for the comfort of their mothers arms. Children still trapped in schools, victims of the sheer speed at which the wall of water came through.
The news choppers fly over head, capturing images of people on rooftops, but unable to offer any help, as has been the case in so many other disasters. 9-11, Hurricane Katrina, the Indonesian tsunami and now, the Great Northern Deluge.
The rain started in October, and it's barely paused. I was there in mid October, flew up during a gap in the showers, on one of the days when the rain was replaced by a buffeting wind, leading pretty young girls on my flight to think they'd plummet to the ground in a fiery inferno. They were wrong, the disaster was still a way off, but it was almost as if they could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.
I have family in Queensland, a niece, a nephew, a sister, a brother, in laws, and then there's my Peacock Family. Those beautifully plumed people are why I went there. And they're why I'm glued to the screen, picturing them on those roof tops. I'd never even met them, and these wonderful people flew me from Sydney to Brisbane, to celebrate my amazing and fabulous peacock sister/fiance's birthday.
A face I knew from Facebook greeted me like a long-lost brother, a friend of my Peacock Family drove us to Peacock Manor, nestled between Ipswich and Brisbane. I arrived and fell in love with the whole family. And now that family is in harms way. Every time I see images of people sitting, drenched, on rooftops, I imagine my Peacocks, clinging to safety, the father hanging on protectively and valiantly to those he and I both love, the child confused and uncertain, and my beloved peacock sister/fiancee, worrying for her child and her family, and lets face it, her stability and way of life.
Its an uncertain time for Brisbane, as the water approaches with all its power and fury. My Peacock family is just one of the families at risk, and when we watch those people and see everything they own being carried away by the water, remember they're someones special people. Everyone is someones special family. At the moment they're newsworthy, but when we've forgotten those forlorn rooftop figures, those lives will still need rebuilding.
Lost in the deluge are countless snapshots of happy moments, frozen pieces of time from people's lives. Favourite shirts, comfortable, well loved shoes, beloved toys, and pillow's people cant sleep without. All small things, but gone, and the sum total of these losses is immeasurable.
And it's not over. The waters haven't hit Brisbane yet, but they will. And they'll continue their terrible onslaught until nature bores of her game. Think of all those many families in the path of the Deluge in the coming days, and send hope their way. Think of my Peacock family, roads already cut off in various places around them, and for so many, nowhere to go even if they could get out. I'm sure you have a Peacock family up there, too, you do if there's anyone special to you in the flood zone.
Nikhaylah, Richard and Boots, I wish I was there with you. My heart is there. And I really do love you.
The news choppers fly over head, capturing images of people on rooftops, but unable to offer any help, as has been the case in so many other disasters. 9-11, Hurricane Katrina, the Indonesian tsunami and now, the Great Northern Deluge.
The rain started in October, and it's barely paused. I was there in mid October, flew up during a gap in the showers, on one of the days when the rain was replaced by a buffeting wind, leading pretty young girls on my flight to think they'd plummet to the ground in a fiery inferno. They were wrong, the disaster was still a way off, but it was almost as if they could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.
I have family in Queensland, a niece, a nephew, a sister, a brother, in laws, and then there's my Peacock Family. Those beautifully plumed people are why I went there. And they're why I'm glued to the screen, picturing them on those roof tops. I'd never even met them, and these wonderful people flew me from Sydney to Brisbane, to celebrate my amazing and fabulous peacock sister/fiance's birthday.
 |
| My Peacock Family. |
Its an uncertain time for Brisbane, as the water approaches with all its power and fury. My Peacock family is just one of the families at risk, and when we watch those people and see everything they own being carried away by the water, remember they're someones special people. Everyone is someones special family. At the moment they're newsworthy, but when we've forgotten those forlorn rooftop figures, those lives will still need rebuilding.
Lost in the deluge are countless snapshots of happy moments, frozen pieces of time from people's lives. Favourite shirts, comfortable, well loved shoes, beloved toys, and pillow's people cant sleep without. All small things, but gone, and the sum total of these losses is immeasurable.
And it's not over. The waters haven't hit Brisbane yet, but they will. And they'll continue their terrible onslaught until nature bores of her game. Think of all those many families in the path of the Deluge in the coming days, and send hope their way. Think of my Peacock family, roads already cut off in various places around them, and for so many, nowhere to go even if they could get out. I'm sure you have a Peacock family up there, too, you do if there's anyone special to you in the flood zone.
Nikhaylah, Richard and Boots, I wish I was there with you. My heart is there. And I really do love you.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Chupacabras Mystery Revealed!
The mysterious chupacabras of South America has finally leapt out of the pages of crypotozoology, where it has long been feared by Mexican farmers trying to protect their herds of the chupacabras favorite snack, sheep and goats, hence the literal translation of "goat-sucker". Whilst the chupacabras has long to be rumoured to be a figment of the imagination of uneducated, superstitious locals, researchers have discovered that it is, in fact, a hairless thylacine.
DNA tests conducted by Professor Gesine Leah du Robert, of Gulled U, Dumfriesshire, have shocked doubters by conclusively proving that the legendary creature is a remnant population of the long thought to be extinct Australian Marsupial wolf, or thylacine (dog-headed pouched one).
The identification of the chupacabras as a hairless thylacine will no doubt prove to be controversial, but thylacines have been positively identified in other animal attacks many times, and surprisingly, in places other than Australia. The last recognised populations lived in Tasmania, Australia and were thought to have become extinct during the 1930s. Despite this, the Australian Rare Fauna Research Association has reported 3,800 sightings of the so-called Tasmanian Tiger (neither Tasmanian, nor tiger, but a marsupial dog.) on mainland Australia since 1936.
The thylacine is carnivorous, and is known to prefer the soft, internal organs of it's prey. Though not often mentioned by researchers, it's well known that thylacines are blood drinkers. Phantom thylacines have been historically located in many places, with one of the better examples being the Great Dog of Ennerdale, which terrorised the area of Cumberland, United Kingdom, in 1810, embarking on a killing spree that left left up to 400 sheep dead in 6 months. The great cur dog was hunted down and killed by dogs belonging to the local farmers. It's corpse was preserved for many years, until the condition deteriorated so much that the curator decided to dispose of it.
Whilst researchers have often explained away corpses said to be of the chupacabras by claiming that they really Mexican Hairless Dogs known as Xolo, they may have been closer to the truth than they realised. The xolo is a native to Mexico, having begun its path to domestication approximately 3000 years ago, and is among the closest relatives to the thylacine, or to be more accurate it could be said that the xolo is the great, great grandchild of the chupacabras. Experts and enthusiasts are declaring the recent DNA findings a vindication of their quest to establish that the thylacine is not extinct. Xolo
Professor Roberts recently held a press conference in Edinburgh to announce these findings and commented, "The most resistance to the incontrovertible DNA results, that proved the carcass of the so-called "Chupacabras" is a thylacine came from Australia, where they appear very hostile to the idea that marsupials developed and flourished in places other than Australia. More important than any idea of misplaced national pride is the continued survival of this species.". Roberts added that she hopes measures will be taken to prevent the needless slaughter of these unique creatures.
DNA tests conducted by Professor Gesine Leah du Robert, of Gulled U, Dumfriesshire, have shocked doubters by conclusively proving that the legendary creature is a remnant population of the long thought to be extinct Australian Marsupial wolf, or thylacine (dog-headed pouched one).
The identification of the chupacabras as a hairless thylacine will no doubt prove to be controversial, but thylacines have been positively identified in other animal attacks many times, and surprisingly, in places other than Australia. The last recognised populations lived in Tasmania, Australia and were thought to have become extinct during the 1930s. Despite this, the Australian Rare Fauna Research Association has reported 3,800 sightings of the so-called Tasmanian Tiger (neither Tasmanian, nor tiger, but a marsupial dog.) on mainland Australia since 1936.
The thylacine is carnivorous, and is known to prefer the soft, internal organs of it's prey. Though not often mentioned by researchers, it's well known that thylacines are blood drinkers. Phantom thylacines have been historically located in many places, with one of the better examples being the Great Dog of Ennerdale, which terrorised the area of Cumberland, United Kingdom, in 1810, embarking on a killing spree that left left up to 400 sheep dead in 6 months. The great cur dog was hunted down and killed by dogs belonging to the local farmers. It's corpse was preserved for many years, until the condition deteriorated so much that the curator decided to dispose of it.
Whilst researchers have often explained away corpses said to be of the chupacabras by claiming that they really Mexican Hairless Dogs known as Xolo, they may have been closer to the truth than they realised. The xolo is a native to Mexico, having begun its path to domestication approximately 3000 years ago, and is among the closest relatives to the thylacine, or to be more accurate it could be said that the xolo is the great, great grandchild of the chupacabras. Experts and enthusiasts are declaring the recent DNA findings a vindication of their quest to establish that the thylacine is not extinct.Professor Roberts recently held a press conference in Edinburgh to announce these findings and commented, "The most resistance to the incontrovertible DNA results, that proved the carcass of the so-called "Chupacabras" is a thylacine came from Australia, where they appear very hostile to the idea that marsupials developed and flourished in places other than Australia. More important than any idea of misplaced national pride is the continued survival of this species.". Roberts added that she hopes measures will be taken to prevent the needless slaughter of these unique creatures. Ummm, What's with all the satanic handsigns? You're not in Slayer, or are you?
Once upon a time, there lived a heavy metal bimbo. She dressed like an extra in an Alice Cooper filmclip and never slept on weekends, but despite her many and varied excesses, she never made satanic hand signs like the ones prominent world leaders and celebrities appear to have grown so remarkably fond of. Not because she was afraid of the gates of hell opening and carrying her off to the underworld, but simply because its not that comfortable, and kind of hard to do by accident.
So why are they all doing it? Really, I'm curious, and I cant come up with a good answer. Those who prefer milliners who work exclusively with tin foil will tell you it's because they're in league with Satan. Skeptics, the mortal enemy of crackpots and tin-foil-hatters everywhere, don't believe Satan exists, and therefore would probably tell you that Obama Barrack is simply having a bit of a laugh. And maybe he listens to the occasional Metallica CD , which is his right, but it's bound to lose him some votes. Which, if you follow closely, is about to nicely segue into my next point, which goes a little something like this.
I'm not the one who got myself voted into the leadership of a religion, political party or entire country, but I have to ask this. Is it politically a clever thing to do? You see, I was under the impression that politicians want people to vote for them. As many as possible. Even the ones that don't agree with their policies. That sign of the devil thing is going to lose you some votes. My parents wouldn't have voted for someone doing what could be interpreted as more than their bit for the apocalypse.
The current Pope and the last god knows how many U.S Presidents have all been contenders for the historically highly coveted role of antichrist, which most people would find offensive, but no, these dudes are so hip they just smile and flash the devil horns. Go figure. Way to reassure the masses, Prince William.
So- what's that about? A bit of research and you'll find some christians who find it offensive, for that reason alone, I dont think I want my world leaders doing this. It seems I keep finding myself defending people's right to spiritual beliefs, however nutty I may find them to be, and as some people, for whatever reason, belive that the power structures of the world are in league with the devil and the hand signal is PROOF!, I'd rather like to know why the hell you all keep doing it? It's not "cool" anymore, not even the eighties revival can account for every disturbing trend, you know....Or maybe they're paving the way for their post-celebrity careers, and are busy drumming up future tin foil hat sales.
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