Sunday, October 28, 2007

Randomly generated random blahging

Don’t know if you caught this last week, WH Press Secretary Dana Perino let some greenhouse gases escape from her little blonde head to bloviate about the supposed health benefits of global warming:
Sure. In some cases, there are -- look, this is an issue where I'm sure lots of people would love to ridicule me when I say this, but it is true that many people die from cold-related deaths every winter. And there are studies that say that climate change in certain areas of the world would help those individuals. There are also concerns that it would increase tropical diseases and that's -- again, I'm not an expert in that, I'm going to let Julie Gerberding testify in regards to that, but there are many studies about this that you can look into.

Um, “love to ridicule” seems a bit much; the airhead invites ridicule. If she was my daughter I’d be heartbroken with embarrassment.

As chunks of ice the size of the state of Florida, break off from the Arctic ice-sheet, the rightard’s gainsaying of Global Warming sounds more and more like the Chewbacca Defense. Speaking of which, I was more inclined to go out and chase fairies and unicorns than believe the Rockies would be anything more than soundly swept by the Sox.

It's almost time to harvest fallen leaves to feed the dump, orange and black bags piled high in a stinking maw.

And so, brothers and sisters, we, you, I (and hopefully, them), breathe, breathe, think and invite the faeries and unicorns sit in and chant an excerpt of a Samhain ritual, Invocation to the Guardian of the Gate and Sage:
You are the echo we hear at the forest deep,
And the warmth of the sun upon our face.
You are the ageless sound of the oceans roar
And the power that is felt in the wild place.
You are the wheat that rustles low on the breeze
And the spark that ignites the hearth fire.
You are the passion and the power and the ecstasy
That is reached at the end of desire.
You are the squirrel who plays games in the treetops
And the young stag who runs wild and free.
You are the clatter of hooves on the old gravel road
And the strength of the old oak tree.
You are the wrinkles of the old crippled man
and in the child, young and strong.
You are in the joy of union of love
In the passionate kiss, slow and long.
You are the lover, my father, and the Ancient One.
Take my hand and teach me the dance,
Of the change of the seasons and the eye of the storm
of fertility, of death, love and romance,
We remember always as your children to be merry
To hear the music, both dark and light
We hold sacred your realm and all it contains
As we dance to your tune in the night.

...and there's always next season, it's a young team; expect us at Coors Field when the warm comes back.

Until then, there's Wolf Creek a mere half hour away, where next season always means "just more fun".

1 comment:

avalonstarling said...

If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a born-again Pagan. Either that, or you're poking fun at my religion. Of course, having been over a week without my "fix", I would beg you to poke away.