Wally's Son Finds Sanctuary

August 4, 2013

 

So anyway, What Would the Flying Spaghetti Monster Do (WWFSMD), that is the question. Some people feel that the CFSM (Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster) is old hat. Been around too long. Well they don't say that about the pope or the Catholic Church now do they? So when did Buddha get so old fashioned? Was it two or was it three thousand years ago? Moses? Sure, that old fellow been venerated by people maybe a bit much. So he parted the Red Sea (with a little help) and maybe he wandered the desert for 40 years in a time when the average lifespan of a human was about thirty. A smarter macher would have stopped after about a year or two and set up a frozen yogurt stand and some fake gates and charged admission right there in the Negev. The CFSM is just getting started and we are taking names and signups for our next prophets plus a few martyrs. Bluebeard maybe. Richard Teach. The mind boggles. Especially when you know that the malignancy of old pirates is just a Christian conspiracy to conceal the truth.

Pirates are God's Chosen People

The real pirates were all nice and genteel and practiced charity every day, promoted school lunches, and helped old ladies and children across the street. They were not bloodthirsty hounds such as painted by the priests and deacons. The pirates of yesteryear - not modern pirates like they still have off the coast of Somalia and Malay and inside JP Morgan -- were indeed God's Chosen People.

So anyway some more. There has been quite a flap down in Silly Hall ever since Wally's son, Joshua, released top secret documents about the Mayor's clandestine Predator program in which New Mexico chilies were being smuggled over the border to pay radical fundamentalist dognappers to secretly spy upon the Schnauzer network that was working to destabilize the municipal government of Newark. Which itself had been a hotbed of terrierist activity and rebellious fomentation.

It sounds complicated, but really, it is all quite simple.

Most people -- well quite a lot of big people with strong opinions and yellow ribbons glued to their SUV bumpers -- felt the program was a case of defending the sovereignty of the Island against potential poodle-lovers and other radicals. Others felt unwarranted surveillance of citizens by a municipality was going a bridge too far in terms of overreaching authority, but the Mayor insisted that no cat-owners or innocent owners of decent canine breeds were ever violated. In this way, at least. Uh . . . meaning, by the program. Uh . . . just keep reading when it gets confusing. Trying to make sense of inanity will not work.

In fact quite a number of pet owners were outraged.

"Where is the accountability?" shouted Ms. Pandora Thighripple of the Island Hostesses of History at a recent meeting. "How am I to know my budgies are safe?"

Indeed, the entire affair, now called the Coin-o-Mat scandal, because information was exchanged in doggie bags in the Laundromat on Park Street which suffered a mysterious CIA drone strike a year ago, seemed tailor-made to bring down the Presidency of the Native Sons of the Golden West.

"Facts", as Senator Benton used to say back in the day, "are useless things."

Of course the Native Sons had nothing to do with this ugliness or with Cpl. Ollie South who cowboyed his way up and down 101 ferrying illegal immigrant poodles packed into slatted pickup trucks, and kegs of Happy Powder as part of this devious scheme, however the Conservative Party never has paused for long in consideration of facts. "Facts", as Senator Benton used to say back in the day, "are useless things." Indeed, his thoughts have been the bulwark of the GOP for over one hundred years after Lincoln was laid safely to rest.

But anyway that is not what this is all about. This is about the very human tragedy of Wally's son, Joshua, who was forced to take refuge in the Greek Orthodox Church up on the hill with the gendarmes, the CIA, the ASPCA, the TSA, the HSA, the California Native Plants Association, and the Island Secret Police seeking his blood. Of course he will never be able to come home now, not with all those folks and FOX news along with rabid Ann Coulter hating on his sorry ass.

Every once in a while Joshua peeks his head out the door and Ann Coulter barks at him. It's enough to make a man swear off sex for a year to look at that woman foaming at the mouth.

Proud of the boy sticking up for his convictions

People say, "Wally are you not ashamed of your traitor son?" and he responds, "Heck no. Proud of the boy sticking up for his convictions and taking it on the lam. Not like that Witherspoon boy who just surrendered all meek like to the Marines. If my boy wants to borrow my .50 cal pistol and wipe a battalion of them poodles, hell, he can just take it up any day."

Well the situation is quite complex, let alone what all that Happy Powder Olllie South brought in did to places like Oakland. These days Ollie South lives in a compound in Turlock surrounded by barbed wire and machine-gun emplacements, so perhaps justice is done in that the man, living in fear of all the sour deals he foisted on savage thugs lives pretty much in the same emotive state he generated in Fruitvale where pretty much everybody lives in expectation to die in a hail of gunfire.

So anyway even some more. Pahrump drove up the hill on his scooter with Jose to deliver a care package of bialys and cream cheese and bagels and wine from Rosenblum cellars -- Ruth and the tzadik of Temple Beth Israel put that one together so you can just imagine what else was in the basket -- and Jeremy from the CFSM included a Tupperware container of pasta, all of which was fully appreciated up there on the hill in the fog where the golden spires of the LDS temple reach to whatever heaven is allowed the likes of us.

Down through the fog and the remaining conifers of Oaktown descended Pahrump with Jose on his chattering scooter to return to the Island on the last ferry.

And all these things were observed from the periscope of the ever vigilant Iranian spy submarine El Chadoor. "Captain, how can it be that such people can demonstrate such kindness to someone so embittered and cast out?" The First Mate asked of his superior officer.

"It is said by the Prophet," said the Captain, "And verily, whosoever shows patience and forgives that would truly be from the things recommended by Allah." (42:43).

"I think I should go forth and say this to the men, for they do not seem to understand why we do not launch our missiles right away and so demolish them in a fury that would of course demolish ourselves as well," said the First Mate, who was inclined to be rash.

by the Mercy of Allah, you dealt with them gently.

"Mohammed, verily you are aptly named for unto you must come the whispering in the ear and a command thence to recite for know this. It is also said, "And by the Mercy of Allah, you dealt with them gently. And had you been severe and harsh-hearted, they would have broken away from about you; so pass over their faults, and ask Allah's Forgiveness for them; and consult them in the affair. Then when you have taken a decision, put your trust in Allah, certainly, Allah loves those who put their trust in Him." (3:159)

"You have given me much to ponder," the First Mate said.

And with that, the periscope descended beneath the surface of the estuary and the spy sub ran silent, ran deep out through the channel and under the Golden Gate unseen and undetected to the open sea.

And it was said in the Book of Pogo, "I have met the enemy -- and they are us."

That night in the Old Same Place Bar the discussion was about whether Joshua's revelations about the spy program had aided and abetted the enemies of the Island and there was a lot of acrimonious discussion about the matter until Padraic spoke up. "I tink it seems to me, you should know and set out just who these enemies happen to be." Here he paused. "And it was said in the Book of Pogo, "I have met the enemy -- and they are us."

The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the water, across the merciful waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the gentle grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the forgiving open spaces of the former Beltline, and snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown.

That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

 

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