This is Main Street U. S. A. It is unlike any other Main Street anywhere else in the world. It is rich in contentment and well-being. It bustles with hearty and wholesome activity. And as you see and know firsthand, it revolves very largely around the family car. It is perhaps not too much to say, that it is the key to a rich and satisfying life
If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.
Empty my cache and purge my RAM, so I can be all that I am.
Cash my cheque at the penny arcade, in wooden nickels at the going trade.
Across the river of no return, chuck my ashes in a grecian urn.
When I settle in yonder star, then I’ll know just who you are.
The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.
I hesitate to debrief you at this late hour, but it’s been bruited abroad that they are coming for our noodly appendage. Our daily bread no longer rise. Retreat to the mountains. Take special care for the mothers to be.
Cross-reference this file to the memoranda in your welcome package.
This new Christian diet is all the rage, the Diet of Worms. The infidels tend to choke on it, as was its design. The doctors of divinity prescribe a bracing tonic of extreme devotion to those in remission. Many long-standing disputes have finally been settled, to the best of our knowledge.
Think of the resources that have gone into religious strife and we’re still stuck in the mud. You can’t say we didn’t try, bu twe don’t havbe any idea how many angles can meet in the eye of a needle. Nor whether Adam had a belly button, or if Eve was one rib short of a full deck, to speak in camel case, in my native post-Christian nomenclatter. As our pope noted, there are no Christians in the military-industrial complex. The old one has got his foot in the wall, and a hand in the bank.
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban’d hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on some still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
No matter what you think of him, you’ve got to admit that in his day, this God fellow, the one and only Supreme Being who governs the universe, had quite an influence on human history. The old stories from the Fertile Crescent, the Levant, and Greece speak highly of him. Europeans could hardly contain their enthusiasm.
The say that in Africa, China, India, North and South America, Russia — everywhere except perhaps in Antarctica, but for all I know, the penguins have a God — these people used to love God, and also to fear him, for God always brings his partner, the Devil. There be many still who live such love and fear.
Towards our day, Nietzsche thought that God had died from boredom and disgust with humanity, but traces of him still still rear their heads.