thewhitelily: (Default)
Ahoy, land lubbers, it be the time of year again to plunder the depths of ye booty chests for yer piratical dictionaries...

That's right, it be Talk Like a Pirate Day again!

But far from bein' a mere gimmick or excuse to twist yer vowels in a manner most unnatural, Talk Like a Pirate Day be the sole religious holiday each year for we who make our berth in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Full pirate regalia being the chosen raiment for those of us who remain faithful, the righteous wrath of the The Flying Spaghetti Monster, pasta be upon him, over the past centuries at the falling number of pirates worldwide makes itself known in that foul weather, water shortages, and accursed unnatural heat commonly known as Global Warming. Fairly warned be ye, says I!

So who's with me? Which one of ye yeller-bellied bilge rats will join the crew and campaign to get the creation story of the Flying Spaghetti monster taught in science classrooms and save the world by increasing the number of pirates? And eat pasta, which in addition to being delicious and nutritious, is the highest form o' worship we humble pirates can offer to our creator, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, pasta be upon him.

Tonight the galley on our bonny vessel be servin' up Lime and Chilli Prawn Linguini which, despite havin' no meatballs, I hope be an acceptably noodly offering ter him. It's hard to think of a more piratey dish, really: pasta, seafood, lime to ward off scurvy, and a test o' ye mettle, all in one tasty dish.

Aarrrr!
thewhitelily: (Default)
I went to a wedding yesterday.

Well, actually I didn’t, I just found this on my hard drive yesterday, which I’d written up months ago and never got around to posting. But in an attempt to stop myself from writing a long ranting response to [livejournal.com profile] lovecrafty’s post that manages to be part agreement, part denial, and part manifesto, I decided to seek it out and post it. So… instead, let’s imagine that I went to a wedding yesterday.

I’m not sure what my cousin, the bride, thought of my wedding, a couple of years ago, but I suspect it must have been something similar to what I thought of hers.

Do you really think that? Can you possibly, really think that?

I had a secular wedding. I cobbled together the twenty minute ceremony from bits and pieces I found on the Internet, then rewrote them, then my husband rewrote them, then I rewrote them, then he rewrote them again, until we had something that we both loved.

Since my husband and I are secular humanists, our ceremony, I suppose, was a humanist one. We vowed that although we would inevitably anger, burden, and hurt one another, doing so would never be our intent. We claimed that the fact that either of us could survive on our own made it all the more special that we were making a choice to be together. We promised to love one in many different ways, to make our lives together as friends, as companions, as lovers, as a family, and as husband and wife, and to hold on to that multi-stranded love through anything life could throw at us.

My cousin, clearly, believes something quite different. God is love. And since God is love, human beings are not love and cannot have any capacity to love. They are simply not capable of it! Instead, the most they can do is make themselves conduits to reflect God’s love to one another.

Enter The Rant )

My six-year-old niece obviously followed at least some of the sermon, because when my sister was putting her to bed, she asked, “So was God the first one to get married?”

She was told that no, God wasn’t married. (Yes, I realise a more technically correct answer may have been that God’s married to the church. But my sister’s not a Christian either, so I think she did rather well on the whole with the simpler answer.)

“Oh,” frowned my niece and, without missing a beat, “she must be terribly lonely up in heaven all by herself, then.”

Out of the mouths of babes…
thewhitelily: (Default)
I’ve never given blood before.

I gave blood for the first time yesterday, and as I lay on the bed in the air-conditioned caravan watching myself bleed down a clear tube, the blood a darker red than I’ve ever seen from a wound, I contemplated what I was doing.

Read more... )

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