Lick my purity balls

Father-Daughter Purity Balls:

Here's a testimonial from Generations of Light magazine:


"How can you measure the value of your eleven year old looking up into your eyes (as you clumsily learn the fox-trot together) with innocent, uncontainable joy, saying, 'Daddy, I'm so excited!' wrote Wesley Tullis in a letter describing his grateful participation. 'I have been involved with the Father-Daughter Ball for two years with my daughters, Sarah and Anna. It is impossible to convey what I have seen in their sweet spirits, their delicate, forming souls, as their daddy takes them out for their first, big dance. Their whole being absorbs my loving attention, resulting in a radiant sense of self-worth and identity. Think of it from their perspective: My daddy thinks I'm beautiful in my own unique way. My daddy is treating me with respect and honor. My daddy has taken time to be silly, and even made a fool of himself, learning how to dance. My daddy really loves me!"


I can understand why the little girls would want to do this. It's a chance to dress up and spend time with their father. If it were for another purpose, it might be sweet. But this is what that little girl is reading to her father from that card:


I pledge to remain sexually pure...until the day I give myself as a wedding gift to my husband. ... I know that God requires this of me.. that he loves me. and that he will reward me for my faithfulness.


And this is what Daddy says in turn:


I, (daughter’s name)’s father, choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide and pray over my daughter and as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come.

Gross.

My old apartment in Iowa City after last night's tornado

I lived upstairs.

tagged

I got "tagged" by Ethan . I'm supposed to list six weird things about myself. Hmmmmm, let's see.

1. I was raised in a hindu cult in a small town in Iowa. The town, Fairfield, was divided into rus (short for guru) and townies. I was a ru. This is a pretty picture of the courthouse in Fairfield:


2. I am incredibly lazy about certain things. e.g., DVDs. Netflix was waaay too much work for me. Putting the DVDs into the little envelopes and then mailing them was such a pain in the ass I finally had to pay my roommate $20.00 to cancel my Netflix account for me and return the last 3 DVDs I had from them. Getting DVDs back to a Blockbuster on time was also way too much work for me, so I had to stop renting DVDs. Now I walk four blocks to Amoeba Records and buy DVDs when I want to watch a movie. It is cheaper than the late fees I get from rental places, and I don't have to deal with the Netflix envelopes that tormented me so.

3. I enjoy putting stockings over my head and posing with my shotgun. I have affectionately named my gun "the emergency exit."

4. When I was in law school I worked as a prosecutor. I convicted people of horrible crimes such as public intox and possession of drug paraphernalia. I will go to hell for a few years for that period of my life.

5. I am a text messaging monster. I recently found great joy in texting "the snarling face of the teufelhund, the devil dog," to everyone (other than business associates) in my cell phone. I got a lot of texts that night. I divided up my friends into either robots or humans on the basis of their responses to my text. A "what?" or a "wtf?" or "wha?" put the person into the robot category. Responses that were as perplexing and/or as bizarre as my teufelhund text put the person into the authentic human category. That is just the tip of the iceberg of my texting weirdness.

6. I am weird when drunk. For example: one night my roommate came home and caught me pounding on the floor, yelling at the downstairs neighbors. I was yelling "why?! why are you punishing me?!" When I saw that my roommate was back I showed him my blood sock. I don't remember any of this, and I don't understand.

Anyway, I think "eccentric" might be an ok label for me. I'm supposed to tag six other people, but i don't know very many blogger types, so this strand of the tag game ends here.

"Accusations of chicken-hoarding are an insult to white invidiousness everywhere"

Matt Taibbi went back to New Orleans, but this time left Sean Penn and his dingy behind. What he found was (surprise) not pretty :

I had meetings with black activists and storm victims in which agencies like FEMA and the Red Cross were described as being involved in a sweeping conspiracy to turn the Katrina disaster area into a sort of secret Club Med resort for white people, complete with shuffleboard, back rubs and fancy dinners. "Bags of chicken," says Ruby Campbell, an East Biloxi native. "They was giving out bags of chicken in the white neighborhoods."
. . .

It struck me suddenly that being an effete, overeducated, basketball-playing New Yorker who read Soul on Ice six times in college did not require me to endorse any of this paranoid bullshit. The next hurricane, I knew, could touch ground in my bedroom and nobody from the government is going to give me anything, much less a bag of fucking chicken.
. . .

My own feeling is that accusations of chicken-hoarding are an insult to white invidiousness everywhere. Institutional racism has always aimed a lot higher than chicken. And the Katrina reconstruction effort has been one of the all-time masterpieces of bloodless institutional racism, a resounding tribute to America's unparalleled ability to fuck the poor under pressure.
. . .

"Latino workers are being invited to New Orleans and the South without the proper conditions to protect them," Cintra says.
Forget bags of chicken. This is the kind of thing that made white people famous around the world -- charging the government sixty-five bucks an hour for labor, then hiring illegals to do the same work for free.

The Katrina story is just the same old story of all Earth's history, only in concentrated form. Big fish eating little fish. Little fish eating smaller fish. And the smallest fish being told they have to build plank houses on fucking stilts. And wait to be eaten.

The story here will probably end with East Biloxi slowly disappearing against a steady advance of condo developments and curio shops; sometime around 2010, the last black resident, a poor grandmother...will finally sell after her property-tax bill, reflecting a new assessment, shoots past her annual Social Security disbursement.

By then, Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour will be running for president, and his Gulf Coast will be a showpiece microcosm of an ideal America -- plenty of condo space, casinos on every block, no abortions and no darkies. Thank you, Hurricane Katrina!

i don't waste enough time on the computer

i this this is just what i needed!

test ripping

soooooo