Massacred Children

I hate it when people don't get how wrong child massacre is.

I'm trying to cope, but it's hard on my tender Zygote sized heart.

Maybe someday, when I'm born, I'll understand?

COULD'A TOLD YA,,,

When her candidate loses, a somber zygote MUST go shopping.
This? Well! Just HAD to have it.

Zygote feels like boasting when she recalls her certainty over Mr. Romney's biggest mistake. Being but a Little BigBaby, she is about to give in to that urge.

Mr. Romney chose Paul Ryan for his running mate instead of Condi Rice, or that Cuban guy from FL... uh, OhYeah.  Marco Rubio.  He could'a, but he didn't. Well, the day he announced Ryan, something churned in my TUM like a bad case of baby reflux.

He's done, I said to my weeish Zygote self.

Not like I have anything against Mr. Ryan (tho it's Jim & Ned Ryun who have made bigger, better principled waves), but...

... two thin slices of white Wonder Bread 

a winning Presidential Race do not make. 

My ELECTION DAY EARS are BURNING

"There is no worse tyranny than anarchy... It's the vacuum of power that creates the greatest tyranny."

- - - Chuck Colson

(AnarchyPersonified and devoted OBAMAphyte:
Erwin Chemerinsky, UC Irvine)

Baby AmZyg here. What's Up?

What I just heard Erwin Chemerinsky say made me fall off my Zygote chair. 

He's the "Founding Law School Dean" at the once sane and conservative UC Irvine. (POOR UCI.  No longer sane. No longer conservative!)

He was radio interviewed a few days ago on KPCC, I think,  

when he said that, faced with an unwanted pregnancy, women don't need to bother with the SCIENCE OF WHEN LIFE BEGINS. He insisted women could make up their own minds for themselves when life begins. . .

. . . that the question is a moral one, not a scientific one AND THAT MORALS VARY from one person to the next; that, when it came to questions of the "viability of an unborn child," what was alive and living for one woman could be unalive and unliving for another woman!

He said this. He really, actually said this.

!!!   ???   !!!   ???   !!!

I'll be sure and remember that, Mr. C, when it's my turn to start driving in sixteen years.  If my driver's ed instructor freaks out because I won't slow down for random stuff like stop signs and red lights, I'll just give him Mr. C's number at UC Irvine; tell him to COMPLAIN to Mr. C's law department if he has any problem with my moral choices.

"I can make up my own mind about moral issues, and I JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE, FOR ME, RED LIGHTS ARE FAIR OR CIVIL OR, REALLY, EVEN NECESSARY, SO I WON'T STOP FOR THEM.

That's my truth. I just FEEL it within.

That's what's TRUE FOR ME."

MY truth.

My very own PERSONAL truth.

How FUN.

And how cool?

Think of possibilities for my awesome future on planet Life.  Maybe I can kill people who offend me, because Mr. Chemerinsky said. That is, if my Mom's personal truth doesn't kill me first.

Oh, man.

Let the UC Irvine Wild Lawsuit Rumpus begin.

GOOD GUY: John Eastman, Chapman University.  

I liked the OTHER guy interviewed that day.  John Eastman at Chapman U School of Law.  A sane alternative.

[HeavyDeepLungful of en-utero SIGHingness.] 

If every Obama/Feinstein/Lowenthal voter knew how approaching collapse her world is, her opinions might veer slightly closer to reality than to Mr. Chemerinsky's You-Can-Have-It-All narcissism.

!I keep having to hold my breath for everything... 

@#$%^~!

 (Sorry. Whose ears are burning now?)

"I'm Diane Feinstein, and I Approved This..."

The incumbent Senator is a dinosaur. Somehow, she imagines she scores points with the electorate by proclaiming the tired old adage...

"... and I'll always support the right to choose."

Give me a break, Diane.

Do you think I don't know?

Do you think we zygote voters (too small to waddle into a voting booth, but not too small to use our very alive, very intelligent little brain waves), do you think we don't jump in with our own voice-over when we hear your radio or TV ads that tottle your election wares?  *


"...you'll always support our right..."


                "...you'll always support our right to..."

"...you'll always support our right to choose...

...to kill our own children."

We can finish that sentence for you, Ms. F. We're not stupid.

I wouldn't want to be born if I thought the electorate, 

who hear Diane Feinstein evoke 

the false "right" to kill 

an innocent human baby,

can't figure out

that what she's really selling is

wholesale cultural suicide. 

And the death of me and all my accidental brethren.

I think people are smarter than that.  

At least I HOPE so, 

anyway.

( * I know, you think the word should be "touting," but that's a grown up word, and the candidate conjures up more of a toddler image, like a wee one who follows after whomever's in charge, you see.)

Drill, Romney, Drill, 2012

IF I HEAR SOMEONE SAY "LET ME BE PERFECTLY CLEAR" one more time, why, I'm gonna grab the nearest shoe and hurl it...

Random X-O image, Orange County, CA 

Why anyone would sign up for a presidential campaign is a mystery of Zygotish proportions. People who survive a contest that is 10 parts WWF, 10 parts GEEK, and 80 parts beauty contest have earned my undying fascination and unmitigated disrespect.  So, today, in spite of my torpid spiral into depression over a property dispute with L.A. County, I keep pouring out prayer for some kind of conservative traction to find favor with the God of the universe in whom everything lives and moves and has its being ( - ness. beingness. Beingness?), and while He's at it, to find favor with the middle-of-the road California voter.

As I spun thru town today [ well of course this Zygote has a tricycle license, how else do you think she achieved the heights of her third grade educational prowess? ], slowly turning corners in an 18 year old clunker with KUSC softly blaring out rolled down tricycle windows, I pondered my own obscene contradiction in beingness: one minute, a profane, foul mouthed sinner, and the next, sputtering out prayers for public figures.

( well,

my ZYGOTE life dOEs depend on them... So, I was humbled that, lacking character myself, I cannot throw stones at the shallow dearth of candidates fronted by the Party of Pro-Life, the Republicans.)

Once a pro abortion governor, now a pro-life wannabe, candidate Romney's inconsistencies are far too complex for my tiny Zygote brain to wrap around.  But as I balleted my three wheeled smog boat past a weedy patch of meridian succulents, I had A Most Brilliant Idea for the Romney campaign to extricate itself from rumors that he has never filthied his fingernails. 

In the spirit of teaching those Dems just who it is that cares more than they, you get twelve Chevy truckloads of high school and college students wearing Cal-Trans Orange tee shirts with giant Republican Elephants on their backs so there's no mistaking just who these hard working, public welfare minded darlings are, and you flashmob all the littered weed patches and roadsides where frequent voters are known to congregate (and ballet their own Pious Priuses past), and let the world know that conservative SUPPORTERS ARE NOT AFRAID OF HARD WORK, NOT AFRAID OF WEEDS AND LITTER, NOT AFRAID TO SERVE HUMANITY IN SELFLESS, VOTE-GETTING FASHION, AND SURELY NOT AFRAID to reveal how obsessive-compulsive-thinking can translate into stooping over roadside weed patches and litter strewn vacant lots. 

When the errand running public sees these roving bands of neon shirted Republican servants rolling up sleeves for humanity, OH, what a dent could be made in vote totals for the overly suave, golf crazed, "perfectly clear" incumbent: Obama would finally be outed as the privileged country club primadonna that he is, and Romney, or whomever takes his place, would be seen as the slack jawed, muscular man of the people. Photo ops of Romney himself, drilling off the CA coast in hard hat and oil spattered gear would go far, but only if he can stanch the holes he's drilled in voter perceptions of the Republican Party with their smooth talking, snake-like double-dealing charm.

If only I had a megaphone and a tiny zygote stool to stand on. "are we CLear, are we CLEAR, ARE WE CL E A RR?"

I hope when I am born, I'm a girl.

I hope when I am born, they name me Condi Rice AmZyg. Or Ann Romney AmZyg. How's this:  "Condi RiAnn Romney Zygote."

In fact, all those Republican women made it look fun to be female. CONSERVATIVE and female.

I want to be born a conservative-hero AmericanFemale.

Could this really be happening? Could it finally be safe to be born in America?

Good thing I'm a zygote.  I can hold my breath for a really, really long time.

theWickedWitch Is... Still With Us

Helen Gurley Brown is dead.

And within the same week, news from Harvard that human DNA is the most useful, stable and efficient data storage cabinet??

I link these two events because Mrs. Brown and her ilk - - and there are untold millions of them since she started preaching to unfortunate women aROUND the wORLD that sex is best used as a recreational fun-toy - - they would have my tiny zygote bones relegated to the Trash Heap in order to preserve the sacred safe and legal right to...

{an abortion / kill one's offspring} <-- you fill in the blank

... whenever a female regrets her inevitable pregnancies. And, almost as dire, her minions dwell in unkempt homes with drips and spills and dirty everything, because feminism has banished the art of housekeeping and the old wonders of Home Economics Once Upon A Time taught in every public school in North America.

But NOW my tiny zygote bones are famous. I am officially declared, by the Hallowed Harvard scions of intellectual superiority, to be comprised of the tiniest, timeless, artful, fantasmagorical pixie dust they now call DNA DATA STORAGE, and I am now PROVEN to be everything Bernard Nathanson and Lennart Nilsson said I was.

And when I am grown up, I plan to get really good at housekeeping, and keeping my counters wiped off at least hourly.

I am the new gold standard.

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SILENT SCREAM EMBED from youtube.com

My embeds usually fail... I wonder why?

Embryologists, geneticists,  and intellectually honest medical practitioners will tell you that my zygote self contains EVERY PIECE OF GENETIC INFORMATION that my adult human form will ever possess.  I am completely like YOU, just smaller; a complete adult is mysteriously, fully encoded within my zygote self, jam-packed with EVERYTHING NEEDED to live, to grow,

 to BECOME, 

to mature and to thrive...

...It is ONLY because I am hidden and easily overpowered that the abortion lobby can have its way with me,

and Harvard geneticists can 'dis' me.

And Helen Gurley Brown can dismiss my bulgy eyes. Shallow people hate my bulgy eyes.

Exhibit X: German Actress DIANE KRUGER cites
 MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE as 
"worthless piece of paper,"  JULY 14, 2012, Wall Street Journal

That's why we won't wait for Cosmo to ring out the glorious news from Harvard. Helen Gurley Brown was a not my friend.

Via her "International Edition," the wicked witch of the west has watched her shallow little rag infect the minds of the fools worldwide. It is unsafe to be a zygote ANYWHERE.

Collateral damage? the Marriage Covenant.  This sacred social contract is now considered nothing more than a worthless piece of paper everywhere you go.  Thanks a lot, Ms. Brown.  I don't know why she wasn't tried for treason before she died.

Thanks to her and hers, our mortal enemies in far away places DESPISE US.

Because of you, Mrs. Brown,  I am in double jeopardy.  If I do happen to escape the womb alive, the chance my parent's will divorce is astronomically high. Mrs. Brown's feminism has thrown acid on the face of the Married State (nevermind that she called her own husband "King"), condemning single women to life below the poverty line as they drift from man to man.  All Mrs. Brown could think to do about that was make sure we're never born,  and then mythologize the origins of poverty:

she PRETENDs pennilessness comes from a male dominated workplace, and charges women everywhere to take over as captains of the corporate world.

OMg.

Thank you, Mrs. Brown. For NOTHING.

For every female corporate captain pacing her deck, silicon implanted chest Up & Out, V.S. girdle erotically tucked in,

there's a family who's children are raised by poorly paid hired help, enduring really sticky kitchen counters.

OH, My DEAR rich, foolish, cursed Mrs. Brown.
I pray your sudden transportation into the Thereafter has not been as shocking for you as it is for the 4,000 of us who are ushered out every single day in America by the

"safe and legal" knife of the rabid abortionist.

Amy Goldman Hates Me

Zygotes can hear everything people say, even when those people think no one is listening.  They forget that the bellybutton makes a handy ear trumpet. So, I'm privy to all this talk between people in Celebrate Recovery, touting the blessings of brokenness and the trials of transparency. I've learned enough to know that, when rich and powerful gardening women like Amy Goldman pour their millions over Planned Parenthood and then go on record saying they hate me, I'm OK with that. I can honestly say,

I forgive you.  You'll come around some other time.

But meanwhile, I hope she won't take offense that the gardeners around here have never heard of her. And they really DO do gardens around here.

Humble gardening.

They pour their "millions" over non-profits she's probably never heard of. But Planned Parenthood? OH my. Margaret Sanger really could've used her own CR sponsor.

Ms. Sager called me a weed once.  I'm afraid I like her far less than that Billy Graham chap.

Billy G.

Before I became a zygote, I was a church volunteer. As such, I thought I'd just gayly crusade against abortion and simply watch the enemies of the unborn fall at my feet, impressed by my good looks and stellar volunteer qualities.

Oops.

I well remember the day when, already weary in my battlefighting "want-to," I read that Billy Graham "won't touch" controversy at his crusades.  He felt that too many post abortive women would wince if he brought up the "A" word; that meddling in their decision to kill their unborn child would send them spiraling. That they would not respond to "the gospel" in a state of spiral.

Billy was wrong.  He probably thot the source of his reasoning was that phantom Spirit who tells people (me excepted) how to do stuff w/o blowing it; but I think it was really that BoogieMan Fear celebrities have (and pastors who think they are celebrities have); that fear of being not liked. That fear of risking criticism and losing the approval of your adoring fans.

I remember well my reaction to this news: spewing venom so vile that I cursed the name of Billy Graham in the presence of some churchy person who looked slightly shocked that anyone would question the Pope of protestants.

I was wrong, too.  I had not got it in my head yet that, even tho Popes are fallible, you don't trash people w/o risk to your own soul.  I'm sorry, Mr. Graham, sir.


Well, he's finally got it right:

"In a new prayer letter, Rev. Graham quotes his late wife Ruth as saying, 'If God doesn’t punish America, He’ll have to apologize to Sodom and Gomorrah.' 

In the years since Ruth made that remark... 'Millions of babies have been aborted and our nation seems largely unconcerned. 

Self-centered indulgence, pride and a lack of shame over sin are now emblems of the American lifestyle...' ”

It's ABOUT TIME. 

“The farther we get from God, the more the world spirals out of control...”

“...a terrible downward spiral of our nation’s moral standards and the idolatry of worshipping false gods such as technology and sex.”

Well, Billy. What did you expect? In a fallen world, 
"spiral" is just another setting on the Normal Dial. Spirals
are what make us human. Once we figure out that the only
sane Anti-Spiral is humility before God, people get healthy.
Then, healthy communities can finally take root. It takes
a spiral to make a village.

So, hopefully now he's learned: In these United States, successful
crusaders have to "call a spade a spade," or
NO ONE will know what you're talking about.
(Probl'y because seventy years of television 
addiction have left a heavy mark on the national conscience,
body and soul AND mind.) 

(Tell me again? Why do I WANT to be born?)

Since Blogger is busy being buggy, here's the article:

"Billy Graham's Strong Stand"
http://www.presidentialprayerteam.com/morality-in-america

(Quotes from Presidential Prayer Team's Jim Ray.

Ray is a writer, fundraiser and consultant 

in Nashville, TN.)

Make Believe

It seems to me, from this very small, very deeply removed zygote vantage point, far, far from the land of the upright, 

that humans are expert pretenders.

It's not just the costumed Halloween party-goer, the festooned Anime character at Comic-con; no, every grown up executive, every nerdish child and butt-crack wielding plumber share a deeply guarded secret: they play a Big Game of make-believe every single day.

Some props are obvious, like pop guns in little plastic holsters. Others take a more trained eye to uncover, like vintage Porsche 356's, horn rimmed glasses, or the dangled cigarette. All are calculated to produce a mis-impression to distract from a reality in which we are all trapped, where being a mere mortal is simply unacceptable.

Better to wear a statement.

Maybe one that says SuperMan lives here, or SuperWoman will save the day.  Even the plumber with his butt crack can be proud now that everyone sports his hallmark!  Whatever the preferred disguise, each one declares loudly that our eventual destiny is imminent! We will 'ARRIVE' soon, when

WHO we REALLY ARE will manifest magically thru the daily faithful wearing of the costume.

An ego universal, a necessary lie, altogether invented yet altogether expected and accepted.

No one wants to admit how every echelon, from kings right down to the homeless, reinvent themselves. Zygote used to sport a very smart looking pair of John Denver glasses, desperately expectant that guitar playing was my birthright, and fervently hoping that no one would catch me counting on my fingers.

Enter Dylan Klebold. Enter Eric Harris.

And Joker disguised as a Dark Knight named Holmes.

When I grow up, maybe I'll get to actually save a day, sport a cape, or do calculus in my head.  And if I can manage to defy the demons who tempt me to "impress my public" with notions that I have a public, I'll have arrived at adulthood without a single visit to the costume shop.

Along the way, may God give me the time and insight to put my arm around a Dylan, Eric or James,
with simple words (but esp non-words) to convey how much He loves them.  He loves all intensely, even the dispossessed in their full humanity or inhumanity; and died to save each from demonic fakery.

Only, will somebody please put their arm around me first?



Thankyou, A. Blackerby, for use of your blog images

The Scream

AmZyg knows the trauma of Artist Angst. Her art once produced a selfportrait of anguished proportions enough for even Munch to be impressed.  [just returned from a search for same, thinking to post it here after thirty years in mothballs, but i remember now:]

...wanting to put away demons forever, I cast it out on garbage day. But the demons stayed.


.well. a few remain. anyway. [paintings? or demons?] .both.

Edvard Munch, explaining his (now $119,000,000) work, The Scream, expressed pain at his sister’s habitations in an insane asylum, and how, when passing it on the street, one could hear

“an 

infinite scream 

passing through nature.”

I know that scream. 

My sickened heart takes it in every day since we learned a hospital for people trapped in their bodies was moving into the house next door. My backyard, my livingroom, my kitchen and dining room, now resonate with God's forsaken.

Sounds of a verdict none can escape.

To Leon Black. Your collections, your remote days and sequestered nights, your $1,000 dollar fastfood breakfasts and $100,000 slow food dinners can never erase the pervasive, everywhere screaming indictment. Your fortune may guarantee freedom from proximity to my neighbors' scream,

but,

Life comes for us all.  

We both have our interest in numbing alcohol.

Escorting my in-law's dog out of my car, looked down; saw this.

.
God abides all time
.
So
.
Why are we still here
?

TOWNHALL.COM image

Being but an unborn 'gote, I hesitate to offer advice unbidden. What do I know, I'm invisible?

But I've seen my sacred zygote intentions for this day degrade to a defeated bluster in ever frightening degrees since I started this grudge-holding blog, and my newly grown up zygote zealots went off to forge wilder, drunker holidays among themselves and their ilk.  One of that offspring  (get your head around that: this zygote has children?)  delivered a redwhiteandblue pie on her way out to see her fireworks.

Comforted, I ate it all by Friday.

Like the Grinch reflecting on Christmas in WHooville, I believe Sacred Fourths do not come in packages, boxes or bow pies...

Yes, listen my AmZyg's, and you shall hear: A Proper Fourth of July comes from traipsing ever down the hall to where stands The Greatest Bookshelf on the manse, containing the Greatest Books in all the Land, 

Now,

grab you off a few choice selections, then sit you down with invested members of your tribe for a brief-yet-holy peruse...

I said "INVESTED..."  

...Chocolate works.

Now, each one will pick a title, read a line or two, or a paragraph or three.

Next, discuss. Be a Miner. Mine this pile of gold for treasures; comb this symphony of wisdom for heartstrings to tug. Passions to pander. A quote to quoth. That one from the 1840's or 50's by John Quincy Adams works pretty well. You know, the one about the U.S. Constitution being the indisoluable link in the spread of the Gospel around the world;

yes, THAT one

(esp. nice when life is lived with zygote eyes shut tight against the maddening reality that it's not 1850 anymore, child porn is legal, ADULT porn is more legal, prayer's been banished from public schools, teacher's are fired for having a Bible on their shelf, and women get tattoos more often than drunken sailors.

DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES. YOU'LL RUIN EVERYTHING).

Then you explain to the Master of Ceremonies that your guests must participate in "acts of solemn remembrance" before they get their pie. (VERY, very important detail. Bribery is KEY.)

Now, watch the music start to play. . .

Ug. I opened my eyes. Back to reality.

(Peering out the belly-button, I see leftover cheesecake everywhere... and my favourite red dishtowel, still clean because I just found it. Oh, sorrows, I forgot to get out my red HOLYday FOURTH OF JULY dishtowel?

I forgot everything. 

The books. The solemn acts. 

We didn't even watch fireworks. 

Hubbo set up his internet TV to see Capitol Fourth 

before padding off to bed [i did dishes until 2AM]. )

I have lost touch with my inner patriot; my yearned for rebel with a cause.

By next year, will The Son have healed my grudge drained soul?

...I doubt it.

Rogue Robe: ROBERTS!

What skeleton did Obama unearth in his closet?

Why Fight When You Can Just Pout?

I thought the uprights were talking about moving into their own place.  They took a hike around a settlement where houses were selling cheap. But Oh My, weren't they beautiful?  And icky next door neighbors nowhere to be found.

Then they started fighting.

It turns out Mr. Upright just wanted to rent a cottage "for a year."

  Mrs. U just fell apart.

And that's about how May went. And now it's

gone.

And I am happy they've mostly forgotten the beautiful retreat on the mountain that could've been theirs.  But isn't.

Because of     la y  -  o f   f    fears.

Annual PILE Inventory

Getting nowhere,
Don't know why, tho.

Every pile has space
To grow;  OH

SO BIG that it's hard to see
Where projects end

And I begin:

PRIORITY:  FIRST
ITEM:  FAV FLAVOR PILE
(savor now, pay later flavor)
LOCATION: kitchen, dining room, living room, den, backyard

SECOND THING.
Proofread, bar

THIRD THING.
Bills, kitchen

FOURTH THING.
Needle-in-haystack, dining room

FIFTH THING.
Correspondence, dining room

SIXTH.
Event planning, livingroom

SEVENTH.
Current events and Constitutional studies, le bain

EIGHTH.
Scripture studies, bedroom

NINTH.
Non-Profit scrutiny, bedroom

TENTH.
Backlog, nightstand

ELEVENTH.
Plant science/American history, den

TWELFTH.
Daily mail sort and shred, kitchen

THIRTEENTH.
Move /stay /rent /sell,  den

FOURTEENTH. Art enterprise, enclosed patio

LAST WORD.
Commentary on art enterprise, enclosed patio