Here we are, on Easter Monday, and birds sing, the sky is mostly clear of chemtrails, and all's well except for the fact that the most ferocious war on European soil since the '40s is taking place before our eyes. No small thing, and some of you doubtless have friends engaged in the conflict. Get home safe, guys. But what's the story?
I don't pretend to know, though it's curious that Western State agitprop's been lockstep in defending cokehead, actor clown Zelensky. And we have to ask, how many of our overlord$ were making ma$$ive amounts of cash out of this unfortunate eastern European country?
It seems the Ukraine, like some kind of casino where the bank always wins and you are the bank, was jackbot all the way. Regardless. Mariupol's about to fall after an extreme fight, and what next? Phase two of this ill-begotten war. As in Russia goes hard. Let's see how that pans out.
In the meanwhile, Russians With Attitude offer analysis:
They (Ukrainians believe they are) fighting an apocalyptic battle against the forces of evil who are trying to eradicate all of humanity. This is what they sincerely believe, but they also sincerely believe the Russians are not somehow serious about war and will not not fight the war like a war. It's super weird.
Super weird? A bit like the western left ascendancy defending literal Odin Valhalla Nazis on the Donbass front. OK, equivalent to Wagner? Next step, acceleration. Please bring this hideousness to an end.
Your Pal,
LSP
I know, man shall not live on bread alone. That in mind, we notoriously have bodies which need to be fed and the aerogel rubbish which passes for bread in our supermarkets, if you can even find it, doesn't cut the ticket. Problem? Solution. Make it yourself. Here's how.
Get a mixing bowl and add 3 1/4 cups all purpose flour, 2 teaspoons salt, 1/2 teaspoon active dry yeast, and 1 1/2 cups of warm water. Mix that beast around, stir it up, then cover the thing and rest it, covered, somewhere out of reach of animals. And here's the thing.
Let the dough rest and rise overnight++, ignore it, let it do its thing as though it were an errant teen. Then, somewhere before Vespers on Holy Saturday, remove the dough onto a floured surface and form it into a ball. Let it rest some more in a bowl on parchment paper as heavy metal heats up in the oven at 450*.
After the metal's hot, about 30 minutes, pull it out and transfer the dough to the pot, parchment paper and all, then cover the thing, put it back in the oven and kick back for 30 minutes. Maybe clean a gun or sharpen a kukri, not that any of you have such things. They were lost at sea. Whatever, your call, no rule.
After 30, uncover the metal and finish off the loaf for around 10 minutes. Result? Behold your delicious, life giving bread and fall upon that scoff, like a warrior.
LSP
The body of Jesus lays in the tomb, and all is still.
GRANT, O Lord, that as we are baptized into the death of thy blessed Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ, so by continual mortifying our corrupt affections we may be buried with him; and that through the grave, and gate of death, we may pass to our joyful resurrection; for his merits, who died, and was buried, and rose again for us, the same thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
God bless,
LSP
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.
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The Altars are stripped, consumatum est, it is finished, and TS Eliot writes:
The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
Here we are, it's Maundy Thursday and we're faced with two mandates, to "love one another as I have loved you," and "This is my body... this is my blood... do this..." With Christ washing his disciples' feet and then celebrating the first Mass on the night before he suffered.
The two might seem unrelated or even discordant, especially liturgically, but hold on, the one follows the other. Jesus washing his followers' feet is an act of humble love and where is this brought to a point, exemplified, played out to the full?
On the Cross. "He humbled himself taking the form of a servant and became obedient, even unto death on a cross," and again, "Greater love hath no man but to lay his life down for his friends." The foot washing, then, serves as a type or figure of the crucifixion.
And what is the Last Supper, the first Eucharist, but that same sacrifice made present for us under the forms of bread and wine? This is my body, this is my blood, given and shed for us upon the Cross to cleanse us from sin. So we find ourselves back at Jesus washing his disciples' feet.
In the face of such a gift, of God's unfathomable love for us given in sacrifice on Calvary, what can we do but love him back and in doing so keep his commandment to love one another as he loved us.
Watch and Pray,
LSP
The funeral went well, with cowboys and cowgirls from all over the country descending on Waco to pay their respects. Quite a thing. I told them a short story in the homily, which went something like this.
Bud didn't suffer fools gladly though he was always good to me, and sometimes in a tough way. A few years ago I was laid up in bed with a broken femur, thanks to a mad Arab, and called Bud on Saturday to see if he'd lined up a priest to cover the Mass on Sunday.
"No," he replied. "Why not?" I asked, "Because you're going to do it." Not wanting to seem like a wimp I rolled up to church on a walker the next day and said the Mass. S took a photo and made a meme; there I was at the Altar on a walker with him alongside. And the legend? "When an old cowboy bullies the priest into saying Mass with a broken leg." We laughed but he was right, got me moving again.
And that was Bud. What a good man. We had a lot of fun over the years, mostly at church, where we'd go back and forth, "I'm going riding after Mass," I'd tell him, "Huh. Don't fall off." Well, you can't take that lying down, "Don't worry, if things get tippy there's always the pommel thing." A moment of silence, "We call it a saddle horn."
Again, "Why don't you genuflect anymore?" I'd ask. "Because I don't have any kneecaps," straighteye stare, "Maybe you're just a dangerous Protestant." He was, you understand, a faithful High Churchman and a catholic Christian. To say nothing of an outstanding athlete and really good man.
But I won't bang on. Rest in peace, my friend, and thank you all for your prayers.
God bless,
LSP
It started off gently, with a soothing murmur of thunder and unassuming flashes of lightning. Yes, our Old Enemy the Weather was up to zhir old tricks again, pretending to be some kind of first year curate fresh out of Duke or some other lesser satan like Sewannee.
Then boom, the sky turned green, wind blasted out of the north driving sheets of rain before its onslaught as thunder crashed from heaven with all the elemental ferocity of MLRS on the Kharkov front. (What? Ed.)
In related news, 1000 marines wisely surrendered in a Ukrainian port, a French reporter claims the US is running the Ukrainian Foreign Legion, huh, and a church in Chicago is urging its congregation to "fast from whiteness" during Lent. What does that look like, Talcum X or Rachel Dolezal? Your call.
More seriously, please say a prayer for my rodeo friend who died on Saturday, he was a good man. His requiem's tomorrow, may he rest in peace and rise in glory.
LSP
"So how's the Army treating you today, son?" I asked insouciantly, "It's been a good day dad, an easy day, except for the 5 mile run." I thought about that, "Whaddya mean, that's not too far." Ahem, let's see you do it, so-called LSP. Well, that was back in the day, so. "Right, not that far but half the platoon dropped out. I didn't."
I thought about it for an instant, "They're all getting back from leave, right?" and got a warning answer in the affirmative, "I know, we're Signals but still, if it ever gets real there'll be a great culling." A great culling. Let's pray that doesn't happen, and I mean it. Speaking of which, perhaps you remember our latest recruitment drive. Here's a snapshot:
In other news, our troops don't have to wear kabuki theater masks anymore and rejoice in their newfound freedom, or so I'm told. Perhaps war in Europe is focusing the minds of our rainbow elite General Staff.
You can imagine. A Russian battle group, full of lessons from Ukraine, rolls over the rainbow border into Poland. Who will stop them? The Poles? Maybe, for a little while. The Germans? Hahahahahaha. The Dutch and the French? Snerk. No. What about England? Good call, but the Sceptered Isle doesn't even have an army, much less a navy. And on.
I say again, our elite rainbow oligarchy have been gambling on never, ever, having to fight a war again. Look how that's coming home to roost. Better cut your carbon footprint to net zero and open a trans bathroom. Pathetic.
Your Pal,
LSP
is this ISIS aesthetic stuff genuine ukrainian propaganda or is it russian propaganda to make ukrainians look bad? i genuinely cannot tell, does anyone know the source pic.twitter.com/QlsXh1Bzjg
— Russians With Attitude (@RWApodcast) April 10, 2022
Good question, RWA. In the meanwhile, this thing slugs itself out with ferocious intensity and Europe would like to fuel the fight in terms of arming the Ukraine. But here's the thing, Europe doesn't have any more guns to give. They have barely enough ammo to supply their own armies as it is, much less the degenerate Zelensky proxy.
So how will it all pan out? Who knows, but I'll go out on a limb and call maybe you shouldn't have gambled on never ever having to fight a war again. Yes, UK, I'm looking at you and while we're at it, maybe it's a good idea for an island to actually have a navy. Just a thought.
Kursk,
LSP
