August 8, 2004 by s.z.

Our Oracle Cartoon This week's Hal Lindsey Oracle Cartoon (where religion and politics mix, and silliness results) is entitled Double Minded Man.  It features Frank Gorshin as Bele, from that Star Trek ep about the aliens who were half black and half white, and their hatred for their fellows who were half white and half black.  (However, Gorshin has thicker, fuller hair in the cartoon than he did on Star Trek, probably because the Prime Directive forbade guest stars from having better hair than Shatner.)  Gorshin is wearing both white and black tie, and he has his arms raised and extended, presumably to hug Captain Kirk for teaching us the prejudice is wrong.  His white side says, "On one hand I believe life begins at conception ..."  His black half says, "... on the other hand,  I believe a mother has the right to murder her unborn child." Surrounding him is a Bible verse: "A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." Analysis: Not only does artist John Rule pay homage to classic Star Trek, but also to another seminal sci-fi series from the sixties: The Prisoner.  Specifically the ep called "The Schizoid Man."  (The plan was to make Number 6 into a double minded man, which goes against the scriptures, and so was doomed to failure, as even Rover should have known.)  This cartoon is also about the the theater, as represented by the traditional Greek "Comedy Tragedy" mask, which "also depicts the two sides of Dionysus, as well as the two effects of wine: joyous, Bacchic revelry, and a dark, sorrowful harvest.” It could possibly also have something to do with Batman's foe Two Face saying that it's okay for women to murder their living zygote children by failing to implant these innocents in their uterine linings.  It's hard to say.  Maybe you can do better. [More stuff later, including the Jen Shroder and Doug Giles, after I've had some sleep.] 5:16:20 AM

'M' is for the Many Things We haven't covered Meghan Cox Gudon's "Fever Swamp" columns for a bit, mostly because TBogg does such a good job with them that there is little more to say.  And also because we're lazy.  But we've repented of our slothful ways, and so bring you the latest installment: Yes, as you can see from the above Rockwell illustration, this week the Gurdonettes (Ramada, Rapunzel, RaffiAnn, and Rafe Manwich) excitedly ride the bus that will take them to summer camp.  Ed Geinn, who has the seat in front of Rafe Manwich, will be their arts and crafts instructor.  And although the other kids will laugh at Rapunzel and the enormous bubble-like growth on her face, everybody will have many growing experiences and will learn many valuable lessons.  But most importantly, Meghan will be able to sleep off her hangovers in peace for a few weeks. Well, actually the kids aren't going to camp -- Meghan is driving the offspring to a cabin in Maine so that the husband can sleep of HIS hangovers in peace for a few weeks.  (See TBogg's post entitled National Reviews @#$ Summer Vacation for an illuminating discussion of what lessons the kids actually learn.) And since once again I couldn't think of anything to add to his masterful work, I have merely condensed, Readers' Digest or Campbell's Soup style,  Meghan's column for your 60-second reading pleasure: “Bye Daddy!" Four small pairs of hands wave at my husband.  Half an hour later, in the seedy outskirts of northeast Washington, a deep voice shouts, "Okay!"  Remote and anonymous strip.  Seven muscular men.  It is consequently lively with the sound of self-administered slaps.  I hear my own voice yelling, "@#$"  I fan my throat like a silent-movie heroine freshly untied from the railroad tracks. We part with many sheepish waves and smiles. Poor fellows. Two days later the car crunches down the unpaved road to the tiny cottage we have rented for the past two summers.  Everyone piles out shrieking. The prospect of us being hunted down and sucked dry by giant mosquitoes swarming out of overfilled culverts is — how can one put it? — unappetizing. The workings of village-scale economics, with town meetings and local levies and whatnot, produced "The Fever Swamp.  "Will I get a point for mud?" I hope you found that helpful.  Or at least good food that makes a nice lunch with a sandwich. And speaking of America's Worst Mother™ (a tradework of TBogg Motherboards Inc.), our friend Stan updates us on the continuing adventures of Canada's Most Mediocre Mother, Gail Lethbridge (AKA Slacker Mom): In Sum: Gail still hasn't been able to afford names for her kids, but seems to have moved out of the trailer park (at lerast I don't think trailers have garrets or back stairs - at least one Gail could afford wouldn't have them), although she has not left behind her tp trash friends (4 year olds with piercings, indeed). Anyway, Gail's main message is that  her 8 year old daughter is able to out-think her and that Gail has no way to comfort an injured child than to bribe her to stop crying.  Here's the whole disturbing tale: And Stan indeed sent the whole column, a dark, twisted piece involving a 42-year-old midget, body piercing, and American teens with breast implants.  However, it may be too graphic for younger readers so I am only providing selected highlights: READER, I'm in that dark and smoky tunnel of parenthood again. This time it's Thing 1, the 42-year-old midget. OK, biologically she's seven going on eight, but she was born with a 42-year-old mind and when she wants something, she knows how to get it. [...] Remember the cats I told you about a few weeks ago? Her idea, not mine. And you know the saying, dogs have owners, cats have servants. Well, that's me, cat servant. This time it isn't cats she wants. It's pierced ears. Well, at least "Thing 1" didn't pierce the cat's ears.  Or worse.  That's what I would recommend the very disturbing Things 1 and 2 do the Michael Myer cat. One day as I toiled in my garret trying to produce a certain newspaper column, she came in with my earring box and began inserting them in my pierced ears. "Aren't they gorgeous on you, Mommy," she said of one pair. "And these ones would be so cute when you and Daddy go out tomorrow night." Remember how RaffiAnn tried to give Meghan "princess makeup" made from a bucket of beach sand?  It seems that these kids know that their mummies just are cutting it, looks-wise, and so they desperately try to doll up their mothers (using the natural elements on hand), in an effort to keep their fathers from running off to Mexico with their secretaries or that Denny's waitress they've been flirting with all month. Then, fate steps in with the unexpected twist. Thing 1 takes a tumble down the back steps. She scrapes herself, draws blood and winds up with a robin egg-sized bump on her head. She's crying, obviously in pain. I try to comfort her but her cries drown out my soothing words. I'm desperate to make the pain go away so in a weak moment I say it. "Maybe we'll get your ears pierced." The crying stops on a dime and the eyes needle me. Meghan's kids too are always having accidents that result in bleeding and brain damage.  And like Gail, Meghan tells them whatever it takes to stop the blubbering.  However, in Meghan's case, the tear stopping promises are just lies -- it said so on the NRO homepage.  (Hey, Rafe Manwhich, your mother is NOT going to buy all the houses on your street so you kiddies can live with mummy and daddy forever.  Ask her yourself if you don't believe me.)  However, Gail actually let her seven-year-old get holes in her ears as a reward for falling down the stairs.  So, who is the worse mother?  That's for the Bad Mother Olympics to determine. 4:19:12 AM