In the New House

(To the tune of "At the Gala" from the My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic episode "The Best Night Ever")



I can't believe we're finally here!
With all that we've imagined, this house is going to be the Best House Ever!

In the new house!
(In the new house!)

In the new house,
There's a backyard
Where the kids can play.
They can run and
scream their lungs out in the new house!
(In the new house.)

When they're being
Too rambunctious,
Just shove them out the door.
Take a seat and pour a bottle
Of the finest beer!

(Lock the door, close the blinds
And soothe yourself with liquor
In the new house!)

In the new house (it's amazing),
In the bathroom (really awesome),
Sinks each for you and me (oh what joy).
No more bumping (oh thank goodness)
Of our elbows (our poor elbows),
Oh what luxury (decadence)!
And we'll be much better spouses,
With our separate sinks!

(No more cleaning stubble from around my sink because
You will have your very own to use in the new house.
In the new house!)

In the new house
I can fire up
The grill and make a feast!
We'll make hamburgers and chicken on the barbie!
(In the new house.)

No more bloody
HOAs
And their commie rules.
We can cook how damn we please
When we're in the new house!

(Burn your house to the ground with a leaky propane tank.
It's your house, so who cares.
Do what you damn please
In the new house.)

We're so thrilled that
We'll be walking
Distance from our church and school now.
Daily Mass and adoration,
It's a cause for celebration.
Walking that much every day
I'm going to lose so much weight.
Be so holy and so healthy right here in the new house!

(Walk the kids just down the block
To drop them off at school.
Or make them go on their own
And sleep right in till noon!
In the new house.)

One place we won't have to walk,
And this I say with glee,
Is out the door and down the block and then across the street
Just to get the mail. That was a pain, I'm sure you will agree.
Mostly junk mail
And some bills for
Me at the big new house!

(Mailbox is right on the wall near the front door
In the new house.)

In the new house (in the new house)
In the dining (in the dining)
Room is where we'll eat (where we'll eat).
Never have I lived in a house with such a thing (what a thing).
It is going to be so special
To have a room just to eat (this will be the best house ever)!

(Into the new house we must go
We're ready now, we're all aglow
Into the new house, let's go in and own the best house ever.
Into the new house, form a line
It is about f***ing time!)

(Into the new house)
Big backyard
(Into the new house)
Two-sink bathroom
(Into the new house)
Barbecue
(Walk to church)
But not to get mail.

To drink!
Two sinks!
To grill!
To walk!
Or not!
To dine!

Into the new house
Into the new house
And we'll have the best house ever!
In the new house!


(Also don't miss the "At the Gala" parody "The Convention".

Marvel's Agent Mary Sue

In Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, it is said that drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is similar in effect to having your brains smashed in by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.

Watching Marvel's Agent Carter was like having your brains smashed in by a large gold brick inscribed with the words "PATRIARCHAL OPPRESSION! WHITE MALE PRIVILEGE!"

I really wish it were different. I really wanted this series to be good. But alas and alack.

My first warning was upon reading the series synopsis: "It’s 1946, and peace has dealt Peggy Carter a serious blow as she finds herself marginalized when the men return home from fighting abroad."

Uh-oh. "Marginalized" is a leftist buzzword, I thought. But perhaps it's just a quirk of word choice, I thought. Or perhaps that will be a minor point in character development. Hopefully, it won't be that bad.

It was not that bad. It was a hundred times worse.

The marginalization was not just a character development point. It was not even a theme. Instead, Marxist-feminist gender theory was the premise, point, and purpose of the entire show. It was not a comic book TV show about secret agents fighting bad guys. It was actually thinly-veiled agitprop about the evils of The Patriarchy™. In this way, the show violates the cardinal rule of the storyteller: art serves the muse, not the agenda.

Perhaps you think I'm exaggerating. I really wish I was. But upon reflection and discussion, I become more and more convinced that the show creators did not just include Marxist-feminist themes because it was their world view, but they deliberately and specifically made numerous plot, story, character, and dialog choices to browbeat the audience into accepting the Marxist-feminist narrative, from the first scene of the first hour to the last scene of the second. Come along with me and I will explain all.

Announcement Time!

*crickets crickets crickets*

*Humming*

*crickets crickets crickets*

P.U. P.U. Chiu, La guard dog roberta!

*crickets crickets crickets*

Dios Equis del lobo a wet straw cord era.

*crickets crickets crickets*

Angel loos and virgen—um—so intransitive con claw vay.

*crickets crickets crickets*

Cray otter all my cider-rum, a termite looks credenza—um.

*crickets crickets crickets*

Sorry, had a tune stuck in my head.

*crickets crickets crickets*

You probably won't regret it!™

Dermatologists

Back to School

I remember my first day of Kindergarten. Mom had to carry me into the classroom, and I didn't want her to leave. I probably cried. I remember she only convinced me to stay because Maggie Sullivan was also there, so I knew at least one person.

That's what I was thinking of when I was holding Damien, while all the students lined up for morning prayers. He wouldn't let me put him down. He was only OK with me putting him down because he has a little friend—a boy from one of the Latin Mass families is also in his class.

It's hard to let your firstborn go. I assume it'll be like this all the way up to college. It's also hard to trust anyone with him. But his Kindergarten teacher is a mom from St. Michael's homeschool group, whom we knew way back in the day. We've known our pastor since he was a seminarian. And the school rector used to work closely with mom at Sts. Peter and Paul. I'm still not sure they're worthy of caring for my little boy five days of the week, but this is as close as we'll ever fine.

Oh, plus his school has Mass for the students once a week, and Benediction and Adoration every Friday. Damien told us that the teacher's aide (the lower grades all have two teachers per class!) "took him to keep Jesus company." Which means I will work to the day I die to be able to afford this school, if for no other reason than the spirituality. I may not be able to go to daily Mass and weekly adoration anymore, but maybe he can pray for me instead.

He's had trouble the first couple weeks. All the fears I had about whether or not he was mature enough for school were not completely unfounded. He's only barely five—the second youngest in his class, his Latin Mass friend being six days younger (July 31st was the cut-off date for birthdays to get into Kindergarten). The usual stuff: he doesn't follow directions well (surprise!), he cries sometimes in unfamiliar circumstances, he takes forever in the bathroom (and plays instead of using the potty). In otherwords, he's just Damien.

We managed to cure him of the excitement of school by the second day. Monday, he woke up, excited. "I get to go to school‽" Tuesday, was a different story. "No, I already did that." Yep, and you get to do it for thirteen more years, kid.

But every day, when I pick him up, it's the same thing. "Did you have fun at school today?" "Yeah!" followed by ramblings of all the things he did. It's sometimes hard to figure out what a five year old's been up to all day, just from his description of events. Things like, he didn't get gummy bears but the other boys and girls did, he played on the park, he wrote his name. He always comes home with dirty knees and sand in his shoes, so he must be having some fun. For someone who's always known exactly where his child is and what he's doing, this is perhaps the hardest part. Simply not knowing what he's doing all day.

But I guess we have to let go and say goodbye sometime. Even if it's only for a few hours a day.

Spot the Difference

Can you spot the difference between these two boxes of oatmeal?

The one on the left tastes like apples and cinnamon, and the one on the right tastes like oatmeal-textured vomit.

No? How about from the back?

Still no? I'll help you out.

That's right, they arbitrarily reduced the sugar by a quarter without telling anyone. No, this isn't the low-sugar version (which has 6g of sugar). They just, y'know, started putting less sugar in it. Because. So now, instead of Market Pantry Apples and Cinnamon Oatmeal, they're selling Market Pantry Oatmeal-textured Vomit. Just 'cause.

The Butt Adventures of my Phone

So, a little while ago, my phone decided to go on a little butt adventure. Or my butt went on a phone adventure. Either way, the phone activated and unlocked in my pocket, while I was walking back to work from Mass, and had a gay old time with my butt. It was even courteous enough to take screenshots along the way, so I could find out what it was up to.

The first thing my butt did was try to access my Google wallet, probably to try and empty my bank account. Fortunately, it didn't know my pin (even though you can find it here), but I haven't trusted my butt since.

Next, it went into my contacts, and gave the Murloc a call. The Murloc didn't answer, so my butt left a voicemail, but didn't say anything.

After that, it loaded up Facebook and browsed around a bit. It liked one of Sara Harold's status updates.

To be fair, it was a pretty funny status update.

It also responded to an invite to attend a swing dance event that a friend was hosting. Apparently my buttl likes to swing dance.

Then things started to get a little weird.

My butt started researching homosexuality.

And shopping for books about homosexuality on Amazon.

I'm... really not sure what to make of this. Why is my butt so interested in sodomy? I don't think I really care to know.

It was about this time that I arrived back at work and pulled out my phone to turn off the pedometer, only to realize something was off. I quickly arrested control of the phone from my butt, and put an end to its shenanigans. I'm shudder to think what more it would have done had I let its adventure go on.