Farewell Falwell: Falwell buys the farm.

It doesn't get a whole lot better than this.

I've been waiting for nigh on a decade for this fucker to bite the dust. I prayed in vain to our Glorious God, hoping he would take pity on me and the rest of "the family" and give us a fighting chance.

On Tuesday, May 15th my prayers were answered and Falwell kicked the bucket!!!

The world is split between celebration en masse, a la Stonewall Riots, and mourning like Superman just died. On the whole he pissed off enough minorities that the line to dance on his grave will be longer than the lines of people waiting for the next Harry Potter book.

Any man who supports Aparthied and criticizes the efforts of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr deserves to be roasted by the living as well as those dead he joins in hell. I suppose my overwhelmingly Liberal true colors are shining through and may piss off a few people but I know that I'm not alone in my celebratory mood. I found particular comfort in the words "Ladies and gentlemen, Evil has left the building. " posted by an individual identified only as "rufus" on the Gawker forums.

Yes, it's tasteless. What can we say? We're giddy!!!

I'm throwing a huge drunken, gay, interracial, pagan, orgy in honor of Herr Falwell.

Happy Beltane, it's a little late but we'll take it.

Overactive Imagination

I could explain to you exactly what I’m doing, but that would be boring so instead I’m going to lie and say that I’ve become a fabulous secret agent, and have not been lazy but rather executing high stakes operations.

So far I’ve busted a sticky-toffee pudding smuggling unit out of Botswana; a terrorist organization dedicated to undoing the world by having really, really white people try (and fail at) dancing to hip-hop; and an evil mastermind who has been slowly building support for his world takeover by bribing the people of the world with “preferred customer” cards at supermarkets when really it just makes the prices normal rather than extravagant.

My last mission I posed as a ceiling tile in order to collect evidence on a terrorist cell of secretaries dedicated to putting the world into a mass coma by replacing all regular coffee with decaf. But not before I was captured by the enemy and tortured in an effort to get me to tell them about the agency I work for, and their whereabouts. I endured countless hours of off key singing and was forced to watch tapes of the Eagles/Cowboys playoff game. Still, I remained strong.

I managed to escape from prison with a cunning plan involving a paper clip, a banana, a zebra, two mimes, a blimp, the entire collection of Blackadder, a copy of Great Expectations and my trusty albuterol inhaler. But I won't bore you with the details.

After managing to convince the giant moth to fly me to America I returned to ************** (location must not be named for security purposes) and had a bagel; then I met with my superiors and looked over our newest weapon. It was absolutely brilliant, the best yet I’ve no doubt, regular wheat bagel with some high quality butter and strawberry cream cheese, it really hit the spot, especially with that smoothie... the weapon was fine too.

Why haven’t you known about this you ask? I’ve cleverly disguised my secret goings about as sleep and anti-social tendencies. I am sharing this information with you now so that if you don’t see me for a while, you’ll know why.

But more about my intensely interesting life later, right now I have to return to my undercover work as a student infiltrator.

So far I’ve managed to learn that language experts are trying to create mass hysteria by making the rules for colon use even more confusing. So far, no one seems to care.

The Powdered House

Littleone has been hiding a secret from the world. One secret for each scar she bears. This secret she bears on the inside; it is her hiding place. She has built a safe house entirely from white powder. Rent is expensive but she is willing to pay if it means she can hide. She has lived in this powdered house for months, only peeks her head out to check the weather conditions of her life in reality. What she doesn’t see is the cracks in the foundations. This house could crumble and crush her. But she feels that then she would die happy.

She shows me this hiding place, only a picture, a corner, a whisper that it exists, and I ask her to trust me. I make promises to bring her out of this house, if only for one day. I invite her into my world, she doesn’t come. I open the door for her, she is welcome whenever she likes. I promise her that she is protected by the fiercest love, safe from harm. She nods and promises never to visit the powdered house again, promises to stay away. I am wary as she will crave that solace, her body will turn on itself to feel that safety, that happiness. I ask myself to trust her.

There is only one person I might turn to with a problem like this. Madame Butterfly has served as the wings to support the others that have come before Littleone, living in their own worlds. She has served as my wings. I trust Madame Butterfly.

I confess to Madame Butterfly about everything, the powdered house, the danger for Littleone, how broken and bruised Littleone is. Madame Butterfly sighs with sorrow that any should have to bear these weights, especially one as amazing as Littleone. We make a pact to save Littleone from her crumbling powdered house.

Littleone is panicked, frantic and afraid of the reality that is crushing her. I promise secrecy and safety, I hide her inside myself.

I lie, I hate that I lie but I have no choice. I cannot carry this weight on my back alone, and she lost emotional mobility months ago, numbed herself into a stupor to keep from letting the razor blade rotate ninety degrees. Down the street, not across the road: directions to the final kingdom. I look her in the eye and I lie. I ask her to wait.

Madame Butterfly is doing what she does best. She mingles and gratefully accepts compliments and criticisms. I approach her from behind setting my hand on her shoulder. She turns never breaking eye contact. I whisper to her, my lips close enough to her ear that I can feel her warmth. I whisper that Littleone is beginning to buckle; she can’t bear it any more. Madame Butterfly follows. This is when we find Littleone outside.

It is pouring rain, and the Littleone is perched on a concrete picnic table crying. These are not crocodile tears with heaving sobs but rather shaking rattling drops of fear, shame, pain, memory: barely noticeable with the swollen clouds weeping down on the world. She hugs her knees as if trying to disappear into a singularity. I cannot bring myself to touch her, comfort her: it is not my right. I have broken her confidence.

Madame Butterfly alights next to Littleone; they are the same size. The water is pelting now. The sky is sobbing. Littleone can only shake; her breath rattling her body. Madame Butterfly wraps her arms around Littleone providing comfort and love. Littleone has never known the love of a mother, only the harsh criticism. The harsh words that have eaten away at Littleone’s soul have no place with Madame Butterfly.

I try to justify what I have done. I try to explain what it is I intended. My words fall away like the water rolling down our faces. I hang my head as Littleone begins to sob. A voice like quiet thunder speaks.

Madame Butterfly is holding Littleone, speaking words of tenderness and caring. She is gentle like the breeze when a butterfly beats its wings. She breathes life into Littleone, shows her life on solid ground without pain. Littleone is confused and scared, waiting for the blow to undercut words of kindness. Madame Butterfly holds fast as Littleone rails against this love; when Littleone is exhausted she rests and Madame Butterfly is still holding fast. Littleone shows a flash of understanding, a flicker of hope in the back of her mind where part of her has hidden scared and crying for years.

Madame Butterfly speaks softly asking Littleone not to give up. She asks Littleone to hold fast to what is left of life. She asks Littleone to keep breathing. Then Madame Butterfly does something I have never seen, she cries. Her voice breaks almost imperceptibly. With the rain washing us the tears are almost invisible. But they are all there. Madame Butterfly opens the door she keeps locked tight, just enough for Littleone to catch a glimpse of the beauty life can hold. For a moment, Littleone hides safely. For a moment, all that has been done is undone. For a moment, Littleone realizes what it is to live.

Littleone clings to that moment. It is her safe house now.

Patron Saint of Innocence

For Melissa

How is it you’re so strong when you’re his only hope??

It follows, that neither of us could understand why it happens. If I raise my hand high enough, I should be able to touch the sky, and catch a star for this crying child in my arms.

Why he got burned I don't know; she would have sold her soul for those hands to have been hers. Her baby's crying in her arms, scared and unsure why it hurts so bad.

The strength of a mother figure, this is her without boundaries, this is her when she knows the world is betting against him, and she's his only hope. This is her when her baby has no where else to turn.

How must it feel to know that your joy in life is limited so?

That he will never feel so many of life's greatest pleasures, he will never fall in love, and he will never hold his own children.

Here is happiness in a boy, patron saint of Goldfish snack crackers and Disney DVDs, 5 years old and still learning to walk, talk, move. Not like me and you.

And yet, more beautiful, because he loves people the only way he knows how. He can't judge you or me; he can't second guess us for failing.

This beautiful tragic baby in her arms. Angelic in his sleep, he can't hear her tears as they run down her cheeks.

Give them both hope, Take mine and give it to them, as I find my hope in him.