Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Not resting in peace

Not resting in peace, what the heck does that mean? Not resting? Resting, but not peacefully? Insomnia, acid reflux, but for the dead? Or does the 'rest in peace' bit just get negated? In a post Christian world, we gotta know. Into the vacuum created by the suppression of Christianity, the vacant atheism of the elites has not seeped. The disgusting proletarians (with whom the Marxist divines do not rub shoulders) have spiritual beliefs; it is their opiate, for they are the masses. But while the Mass, the bible study, and the Sunday sermon are no more, still the seething masses embrace belief, and what they believe is pagan, not atheism.

The Daily Horoscope. If the atheists did such a good job of replacing superstition with reason, why is there popular consumption of such an uber-superstition as astrology? Something is bubbling out there amongst those beyond the myopia of the academics, hundred k pension bureaucrats, and little boy sex advocates. In the vacuum created by the suppression of Christianity, what has come?

There are indwelling spirits in the trees. A friend of mine, a Christian, was angry about this when she told me this is the stuff taught to her children. Spirits in the trees, eh? Later, we were walking, hiking, through the woods (she has a hundred acres, mostly bush), and the eldest child pointed out a gall on a tree that resembled a face. Kind of misshapen, with a droopy eye and a curled lip. The children have spotted a few more faces in the trees, and given them names and personalities, too. I nodded, making a mental note to remind my friend to abandon the United Church for one that has proper instruction in the Christian faith.

Who cares what I say. You should make your own study of the extent to which pagan beliefs have replaced Christian under the watch of our ability challenged activists. So few people have a crisp vision of Christianity, so when a murky bit of Wotan slips into the liturgy it is missed. Daily horoscopes are not that far removed from animal worship, and neither are close to any sort of scientific reason. The Polar bears are not going extinct, neither are they cuddly; but the crypto-pagans would have it so. It is only a short step to making sacrifice to them, and more than tax payer dollars will do.

Even my favorite whore has pagan beliefs. Is it not enough to even say that? Ontario used to be a place where to have a favorite whore was not something to talk about; even if it was more common than the Orange Lodge liked. The secret society in charge then ascribed to Christian morals, and even with the friction of hypocrisy, failed human desires, and political expediency, still pushed the program. Now we have a different secret society in charge: the Latter Day Bolsheviks. Given their advocacy for boy sex, chopping up babies in the womb, and serial adultery, their moral system is more a septic tank than broom and dust pan.

Who am I to stand in the way of progress? Am I not better to live in an Ontario where I can tie up my favorite whore and spank her? Her complaints are music to my ears; I like to watch her struggle. I eat chocolate as she, restrained, hisses at me like a snake. The new normal. Where are the boundaries, now a days? There are spirits in the trees. The sugar maple on my front yard is sacred to Odin; what sacrifice should I make to please the One Eyed One? Is that like letting my whore lick chocolate from my lips? I can buy, easily buy, a gag to keep her jaw open and her teeth from biting (flicking tongue only, please and thank you, whore) here in Toronto, Babylon on the Humber. How far is that removed from spilling blood on the ground, burnt offerings, and burning men in wicker frames? Have I been bought off? Are you being bought off? Did you ever know better? Are those doing the selling knowing what they sell? When you tease a whore with chocolate, they always bite; pagan beliefs have teeth, but we haven't got to the chocolate part yet. Trust me, I know.

My girlfriend is out of town, so I am having the whore over for mischief. I will tie her up, eat chocolate, beat her, and read Edgar Allan Poe aloud. The new Ontario. And nobody talks about not resting in peace.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

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