Between FEMEN, climate change, and that ill-considered paintball showdown between Rocco Palmo and Bishop Coyne in the Sala Clementina, the last thing the Vatican needs to do is take any chances with any werewolves. You know there’s room in the papal apartments. They could put newspapers down on the floor if they’re worried about the marble. (I suggest L’Osservatore Romano, because please.)
These are a few of my favorite posts! And this is a picture of Maria von Trapp, for real, from her naturalization application:
I would not have put a frog in her chair. Not. At. All.
Here are some of my favorite posts from 2014. I’ve only included ones that appeared in full on Patheos, and not on the Register or anywhere else. Sorry there are so many. I guess we know who my greatest fan is. (Not Maria von Trapp.)
JANUARY began really rough, with the loss of our tenth child on New Year’s Day. We also put boxers on the dog, enjoyed the most flatulent version of Greensleeves ever, heard why abortionists love graphic abortion photos, and speculated aboutwhether or not Taylor Marshall is, in fact, the Walrus.
FEBRUARY Was full of classy dames, extremely useful progesterone cream, and some breastfeeding bullies, as well as reasons why good people can have a larf when there’s transgendered politicians or Russian olympics involved, and of course butt music from Hell,
MARCH brought three cisgendered bears, plague puppets that made God say “gevalt,” and an intensely divisive post about love and marriage, where I pointed out that God is faithful, but most of us are not marrying God.
Bonus: A word from Irene, who knows that Christ is not baloney.
APRIL was the cruelest month, mixing Let It Go,which was not tolerable, with polio, which apparently is. It turned out we still needed feminism and that I forgot how to shirt; we taught the kids how to Jew, and the mailman wondered what was the deal with us people.
MAY saw the advent of my long-desired hate sites, a survey of the educational squalor that is Fisherland, a few clarifications for parents who feel like they have failed but hard, and one slice of Christianity without so much adorable puppydog in it. And thefirst in the Catholic Artist of the Month series, with Timothy Jones.
Bonus: my mother on a motorcycle
In JUNE, I changed my tune, revealing that all my major muses are from Warner Brothers, that even fat fatties can have a nice time in a bathing suit, why we tell our girls they are pretty without fearing that this will cause their brains to fall out, andhow we spend our time when we are B.O.R.E.D.
JULY was full of summery things like Issues Guy the Sex Sponge, wifely obedience and how I stopped freaking out about it, a step-by-step guide on how to poop, a flap (ho ho) over foreskin idolatry, and another Catholic Artist of the Month, Matthew Good, and boy is he good.
OCTOBER brought us the third Catholic Artist of the Month, Neil Carlin, Mercola’sgroundbreaking move to literally blow smoke up your ass to cure Ebola, and adevastatingly adorable peek into Benny’s maternal impulses.
As NOVEMBER loomed, we wrestled with Persistent Systemic Weirdness, we examined the fruits of the Legion of Christ, we wondered what God could possibly mean by asking us to go get some butter, and Bad Mama had her say.
By Sul Art, via Wikimedia Commons
And finally DECEMBER came with a whimper and a bang, lugging fifty gift recommendations you should totally bookmark, a defense of saying “I have to go to Mass,” a refusal to defend “Mary Didja Know,” a solemnity full of feathers in my cap and black eyes, a wonderful Chickentime simply had, and of course what happened that time my husband’s grandfather went to a boozed-up Raymond Chandler for help.
And that was 2014.
Ever read a story a couple of times from a couple of different sources, and you still end up going, “But why did the president of Argentina adopt a Jewish boy to prevent him from becoming a werewolf who will eat unbaptized babies, grandfather, why?”
And then it comes to you: Argentina is the Florida of the world. Things happen there, and there doesn’t have to be a reason. It’s just Argentina, that’s all.
Heck, maybe they’re onto something. Here’s musical precedent:
This whole premise is sweaty.
The bill’s sponsor, state representative Keith Murphy of Bedford, describes the practice as unethical.
“To me there’s something fundamentally wrong about strapping a baby boy to a board and amputating perfectly healthy, normal tissue,” says Murphy.
Evaluation of current evidence indicates that the health benefits of newborn male circumcision outweigh the risks and that the procedure’s benefits justify access to this procedure for families who choose it, however, existing scientific evidence is not sufficient to recommend routine circumcision. Therefore, because the procedure is not essential to a child’s current well-being, we recommend that the decision to circumcise is one best made by parents in consultation with their pediatrician, taking into account what is in the best interests of the child, including medical, religious, cultural, and ethnic traditions.
Sanest thing I’ve heard all year. Give the parents lots of sound, medical information, and then let them make up their own minds when they’re deciding how to get their kids the best care for their circumstances.
Merry Christmas, everybody! I offered up Midnight Mass for all of you, especially for anyone who is lonely or grieving or in pain today. Thanks for another wonderful year of company.
Over at the Register today, nine artists have graciously shared their lovely Madonna and Child artwork with us. Here is just one, by 16-year-old painter Noyuri Umezaki:
Check out the rest here.
Fellow Patheosi and National Catholic Register blogger and all around Catholic pants expert Simcha Fisher and her rambunctious crew will be on the radio with me today at 6 PM Eastern talking about all things Christmassy (and maybe Hannukkahy too).
To listen to Catholic and Enjoying Live! on line go here at 6:00 PM EDT. The show is live, so feel free to call in at 1–866–333–6279 and you can chat. And if you want to hear archived shows interviewing such folk as Sherry Weddell, Brandon Vogt, Steven Greydanus, Tom McDonald, Dale Ahlquist, Tricia Bolle, Kevin O’Brien, and Elizabeth Stoker-Bruenig, go here.
I literally can not think of a literally better way you could spend an hour of your Christmas eve, and I mean that literally. Would love to chat if you want to call in!
After seventeen years, you think you have heard all the stories, but I heard a new one this evening. Not especially Christmas-y, but I know at least a few of you who will appreciate the hell out of this.
My husband’s grandfather was Steve Fisher, a pulp novelist and Hollywood screenwriter and producer. Back in the 40′s, he’s writing the screen adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s Lady in the Lake and finds himself stumped, trying to figure out certain aspects of how the mystery unfolded, and how the relationships worked.
So in desperation, he goes to Raymond Chandler’s door and knocked. Chandler opens the door, and clearly has at least half a snootful already. So TaTa Steve introduces himself and explains his dilemma, and asks for help.
Chandler says, “I got my check, I don’t give a shit.” Slams door. End scene.
Just thought you might like to know.