Luther at the Movies

I've heard of writer's block, but to go to such extremes merely to produce grist for the rhetorical mill is obscene! Where are the authorities?

This truly is poorly executed prose! (Ach! I couldn't resist! So kill me! No—wait a minute...)

On 34th Street and Herald Square in Manhattan! Yes, my Lutherans! The attempt to thwart me has been derailed! I have found fresh digs in a hotel in the center of New York City!

Unfortunately I have to share the one room with a stable of malodorous hyenas! Hey, Agricola, they have this new invention in the 21st century—IT'S CALLED SOAP!

Calvinus! Stop hoarding the candy from the mini-bar! The war is over, you know, they will resupply us! And why don't you try smiling every week or so—YOU MIGHT LIKE IT, YOU HUMORLESS KNOTHEAD!

Brenz, stop sucking up to everyone! No, WE CAN'T ALL JUST GET ALONG!

JONAS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHUT YOUR YAP FOR FIVE SECONDS, I'M TRYING TO CONCENTRATE!

Do you see what I must put up with here, my Lutherans? I have been permitted to stay in this space/time continuum solely on the condition that I replay the Colloquy of Marburg and bring unity to the evangelical cause.

KILL ME NOW!

The angelic messenger that was sent to explain the new terms of my "stay" insisted that I succeed in 2006 where I failed in 1529. I asked why Calvinus was here—he did not attend the original meeting, presumably because he was feeling all oogie or some such nonsense. I was told he was too important to be left out of the proceedings this time around. "TOO IMPORTANT?! I WILL TELL YOU WHO IS IMPORTANT!" I bellowed, and with a short snort this little cherubic being blew me across Midtown Manhattan, right through the window of a Victoria's Secret! There I was, draped with women's unmentionables about my bulbous person!

"But what about my movies? All I wanted to do was set the world of contemporary cinema right. Now I have to make nice with heretics, idiots, degenerates, and freaks. And those are just the Switzerlanders..."

I was promised I could continue to review cinema on the side. Or as the angel put it: "pursue your nonsense as time permits."

Unfortunately, I will not be able to blog as often as I had wished, as I have only one computer and must share with a roomful of nincompoops. To make matters worse, I'm supposed to teach them how to use the infernal thing! I can barely boot or shoe or sock the thing up! So I asked my former miserable, detestable, ignoble assistant to spare a few precious hours to help us out here. HE OWES ME! So he has agreed to pull himself away from his fancy Fifth Ave. office to lend a hand. (He should still be beaten every day for six weeks and then buried head first in concrete, with his legs splayed so I can get better radio reception!)

That is all I have to report for now, my Lutherans. And yes—I will publish a complete list of the 95 Greatest Movies of All Time, even if I have to kill everyone in a 50-mile radius to do it! (Although why I would have to escapes me at the moment...)

And yes, I will report on such summer dreck as Superman and Lady in the Water—perhaps even Miami Vice!

And a special thanks to Katie and Mollie and Herr Kerner and Twice Burned and jdgssf (Ach! What kind of a moniker is that?! Sounds like me when I've had too much brew and sausage!) and Runaway Nun and all those who commented either publicly or privately to me or to my stupendously self-absorbed assistant about what a colossal mistake it was to throw me to the dogs!

YOU CAN'T KEEP A GOOD LUTHERAN DOWN!

Can you believe it, my Lutherans! My miserable, execrable, deceitful, detestable, contemptible assistant is now blogging on someone else's website! When he should be here, helping me to save America from itself, he is out committing blogger adultery!

And, as if that were not bad enough, he has plagiarized me! Yes! He has stolen my ideas—EVEN MY VERY WORDS!—for his own blog entry! Have you ever heard of such an outrage!? I haven't been this angry since I ran out of lager at the Wartburg and had to settle for Dr. Pepper!

Wait—it gets worse! He's thrown me out! Out! On the street! Like an old mattress! Granted, he has given me a new MacPro laptop with Bluetooth and wireless Internet connection, not to mention 1 GB of RAM and a nifty USB flash drive, as a "consolation"—but I HAVE NOWHERE TO GO! I'm wandering the streets like a homeless nincompoop!

Out of the goodness of my heart I came back from the dead only to find my Germany a souless brothel and my church a vapid nightmare! I could endure all of it—but to wind up a blogger without a website, THAT is the ultimate indignity!

Where am I to go...excuse me...excuse me, do you know—NO I DO NOT WANT TO BUY A BAG OF PEANUT M&Ms! I don't care if you're trying to raise money for school—don't be an idiot, you idiot! The school is only using you! They have no intention of giving you a diploma! They'll take your cash and throw you out into the street! Why? Because you have the IQ of a Post-it Note! It's written all over that ludicrous face of yours! If you had even half a wit you'd drop out of school now and get a license to sell licenses! GET AWAY FROM ME!

Excuse me, yes—you. Might I ask—no, I do not want to buy a DVD of Pirates of the Caribbean 2—that movie hasn't even opened yet! Thief! Pirate! Police!

I will lose my mind...excuse me, sir—excuse me—Calvinus? Johannes Calvinus? Is it you? What...what are you doing here? What? You've been thrown out too! And so has Bucer! What about that jackanapes Zwingli? Even him! So...HAVE YOU SEEN THE ERRORS OF YOUR WAYS? All right...all right...so...where you guys hangin' out? Uh huh...uh huh...uhhh, room for one more? Yes...excellent...so, tell me, Johannes—may I call you Johannes? How is death treating you? Uh huh, uh huh...nice hat...

So Garrison Keillor, whose voice sounds like Death on Prozac, has written the screenplay to the film adaptation of his long-running radio program, A Prairie Home Companion. Although Mr. Keillor describes himself as a bleeding-heart liberal, and this alone makes many wish he’d bleed liberally, from the heart or elsewhere, his program is a throwback to a more innocent time, which is all to the good, and he is not shy about his Christian faith, even though he now attends an Episcopal Church, which as we know is as good as worshipping at a Saks Fifth Avenue.

Robert Altman is behind his ever-probing, ever-gliding camera, capturing the sights, sounds, and overlapping whining and moaning of the Prairie cast as they come to terms with what is their last performance. You see, an evil Texas businessman has purchased the Fitzgerald Theater, from which they broadcast, and he intends to turn it into a parking lot. Big business has done in the little theatre troupe. (Your gasp of outrage here.)

Ahem … has none of these jackanapes considered the possibility of RENTING OUT ANOTHER THEATER?

But that scenario would not have wafted the stench of death that pervades the show—and the film. Though there is nothing stinky about Virginia Madsen, a literal angel who comes to bring comfort to the soon-to-be-grieving cast.

Speaking of that cast, they are, for the most part, much fun to watch. Kevin Kline is playfully, albeit obviously, clumsy as Guy Noir, who narrates the film (although if you expect him to play an active part in some kind of "plot," you will be sorely disappointed). Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin play aging-none-too-gracefully sisters who sing Gospel and faux-country hokum and tell sad stories about their long-gone mom. (I had forgotten what a truly beautiful voice Ms. Streep possesses.)

Lindsay Lohan plays Streep’s suicide-obsessed daughter. She is a trite two-dimensional thing, and when she finally gets to sing, an ad-libbed version of Frankie and Johnny, you realize how feeble so many of these celebrated newcomers are.

Tommy Lee Jones comes to the party late, as the realpolitik businessman who wishes he could have gotten the last performance on film, even though he has no intention of changing his mind about demolishing the place. And Garrison Keillor is … Garrison Keillor. He is like many of the intentionally bad jokes, double-entendres, and fake foul-ups that are the mainstay of Prairie: You either giggle or you don’t. I giggled.

Is there a message? Other than that guardian angels exist, death comes for us all, slow and bumbling is preferable to fast and efficient, and “good people” can be just plain awful, no. But this is a trifle. And for trifles, even those sentiments are a mouthful.

So A Prairie Home Companion may be just the thing for a sleepy Saturday afternoon. But this is not for small children. Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly play singing cowboys who push the limits of acceptable family entertainment with risqué humor. I could have done without them. But then again, I can do without a lot of things …

A new report being much blogged about this weekend focuses on the disturbing fact that men do not attend church services in the same numbers as women do and, more provocatively, that this is primarily a Christian phenomenon. Men predominate in Eastern religions and among Mohammedans. (Eastern Orthodoxy is one exception among Christian traditions. Perhaps it is all the beards.)

How can this be? Christianity is the champion oppressor of women and primary obstacle to their full equality and freedom! In the 21st century, women should be fleeing Christian churches to join Wicca covens and psychic friends’ circles. Men should be embracing the last stronghold of patriarchal hegemony and fighting to their last nicotine-tinged gasp to maintain the hierarchical structures that support it! Ach! Where did Murrow get his data?!

In any event, my Lutherans, I have a solution to the dilemma. The following guidelines, if implemented forthwith and with great vigor, will bring men streaming through church doors, chewing on bulletins, knocking over lecterns, bathing in baptismal fonts, wearing offering plates as hats, stuffing hymnal racks with old copies of The Daily Racing Form, and throwing small children through choir screens—AS GOD INTENDED!

1. Feats of strength. I suggest, as a temporary measure, that between the sermon and the Offertory a strength contest be provided for whomever wishes to participate. This will be a men’s-only event! If you see any East German women getting out of the pews, browbeat them with Brooke Shields’ brows! Pastors will challenge men in the church to lift barbells, swing kettle bells, and berate dumbbells. The winner will be allowed to make loud grunting noises during the Collect the following Sunday.

2. Ambulatory services. Men will be allowed to carry the infirm, the lame, the halt, the distracted, the demented, and the otherwise disoriented to the altar rail for Holy Communion. These men—or “ambulators”—will master the fireman’s carry, the single-shoulder carry, the three-quarter facelock bulldog, and the inverted neck breaker. It would be advisable for churches to have their insurance premiums paid in a timely fashion.

3. Discipleship. Too often the sermon is focused on love, compassion, mercy, and sissy-Mary “values.” From now on, I want sermons that focus on what it means to be a true disciple! I want to hear about sacrifice for one’s family, suffering in the face of a godless world, flesh-and-blood battles with Satan, knee replacements, rotator-cuff surgeries, searing pain between lumbar L1 and sacral S2, ungrateful children, and the Kansas City Royals.

4. Vocations. I want an emphasis placed on the spiritual riches to be found in one’s calling. Whether you argue cases before the Supreme Court or sell “D” batteries on the “R” train, whether you preach the Word or repair grommets on bowling shoes, whether you fight in the Armed Forces or just sit around all day whining about Vista being delayed till '07—you are an essential part of God’s plan to bring judgment on the world! And there will be much screaming, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, I assure you, men! So perhaps a second career in dentistry might be something worth looking into…

5. Essential Reading. For the month of June I want a series of midweek lectures based on such titles as When You’ve Got to Go, Where to Go to the Bathroom in Washington, D.C., and I Am Escobar's Prostate.

POST SCRIPTUM YET OFF-TOPIC: Stay tuned till tomorrow, when I, Doktor Martin Luther, will review A Prairie Home Companion—WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!

The Passion of the Christ is officially the most controversial film of all time. So says Entertainment Weekly in its June 16 issue, which hits newsstands on Monday. Read all about it here.

My usual opinion of film reviewers is that they are idiots who could not cobble together enough college credits for a degree in English literature due to dyslexia or sheer stupidity. (And NO, I do not equate the two, so please—no letters.)

As the saying goes, Those who can’t, teach. Those who can’t teach, teach gym. And those who can’t teach gym get a degree in cinema studies.

In case you were wondering, The Passion beat out A Clockwork Orange (No. 2), JFK (5), The Da Vinci Dreck (13), and such other masterworks as Fahrenheit 911 and Deep Throat. (Both feature big mouths, but the former also features a big belly to go with it.)

My miserable, contemptible amanuensis reviewed The Passion for an Evangelical website back when the film first came out. While I agree in substance with his assessment of the picture, I believe he overstates the case against the crucifix, which in my opinion—WHICH IS ALL THAT MATTERS—can be an aid in remembering the price of our redemption. I believe my assistant had at that time in his spiritual development drunk too deeply from the Reformed well and developed a serious case of gaseous emissions. Thanks to my selfless assistance, however, and several sharp blows to the base of the skull, he has matured and is now sound in Lutheran doctrine.

Nevertheless, I have decided, OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF MY HEART, to reprint the review.

The Humiliation of the Christ
By "Ignatz Stupidface"

"For the triumph of images makes acknowledgment of the incarnation impossible [because a] hidden God is not god precisely because he is hidden." — Jacques Ellul, The Humiliation of the Word

In 787, the seventh ecumenical council declared it permissible for Christians to make — and venerate — images of Jesus Christ and the saints. This should have put an end to the controversy over whether such images violated the second commandment (Ex. 20:4) and provoked the credulous to idolatry. It did not. The reformers of the sixteenth century revived the iconoclastic cause, arguing that not only was an image of Christ deceptive — as it failed to communicate both of his natures, human and divine — but it also led the masses into all kinds of superstitions and detracted from the worship due solely to God. Roman Catholics countered that veneration was different from worship. Worship belonged to God alone, but the Incarnation made veneration of grace-gifted matter not only permissible but desirable.

This brings us to the movie of the hour: Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. It is a film of powerful, almost overwhelming images. Some, like Roger Ebert, have called it the most violent movie they have ever seen (I would disagree -- that cinematic abortion Scarface, starring Al Pacino, tops it). Evangelicals for the most part have embraced the film, calling it a masterpiece and seeing in it an evangelistic tool. I disagree again. The Passion of the Christ is a moving series of indelible images, but it fails utterly in its intentions. If Gibson wanted his audience to love Jesus for the love he showed us, I, for one, already a believer, was left numb by the cinematic pyrotechnics and manipulation, and left the theater wondering about the sadomasochistic God who saw this spectacle as a solution to anything.

An argument can be made for depicting the crucifixion in graphic detail because Jesus came not just to die but to suffer the curse of the law. "Cursed be everyone who hangs on a tree" (Gal. 3:13). He could have died with a single blow from a Roman soldier, or a push off a cliff by a Sanhedrin member. For that matter, he could have lived a long, prosperous life and died of old age surrounded by his disciples, like Siddhartha Gautama; after all, dead is dead. But, as the Passover lamb, he had to shed his blood as the ultimate sin offering because "the life of every creature is its blood (Lev. 17:14). And only the life blood of God can bring an end to all sacrifices and confer eternal life to dying creatures. Moreover, Jesus had to shed blood at the hands of both his own people and the gentiles. In short: The world had to do him in and consider it their glory, thereby demonstrating humankind's spiritual blindness.

But what about Jesus' glory? It may not have been Gibson's intention to concentrate on Jesus' deity, as Christians understand it, as opposed to what he suffered in his humanity. Perhaps the idea is that Jesus' glory is in his condescension. But who is Jesus that he should — could — condescend to save us by being murdered? The glory of Christ's suffering is not the pain endured (although extraordinary) but who was enduring it. The eternal Word of God hangs from the cross, nullified, crucified, humiliated — and objectified. The Word becomes an object, an image to be gawked at — and therefore is condemned by God: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The cross is the place of Jesus' abandonment, and to gawk at his suffering is to become another culpable bystander in a perplexing game of church and state power games.

The only image God permits his people is the written Word. "The gift of God's Writing in material form suits the human desire to have an image of God. God knows our need to see, which is why he sends Moses down the mountain with these [the stone tables bearing the Ten Commandments] visible images of his will," writes Jacques Ellul in The Humiliation of the Word. The Incarnation changes nothing in that regard. When his disciples looked at Jesus they could not see God: "No man has ever seen God" (1 John 4:12). "Only say the word, and my servant will be healed," the Roman centurion says to Jesus, not "Only allow my servant to look at you, and my servant will be healed." We are saved by the Word made flesh, not by the suffering of the flesh. This cannot be captured in a painting, a crucifix, or on film, as hard as Gibson tries to pack theology into Jesus' last twelve hours through flashbacks to his ministry.

"The use of a crucifix as an aid to prayer has encouraged people to equate devotion with brooding over Christ's sufferings; it has made them morbid about the spiritual value of physical pain, and it has kept them from knowledge of the risen Saviour." So wrote J.I. Packer, an elder statesman of evangelical/Reformed Christianity, in his book Knowing God. In 2 Kings 18:4, we read of how Hezekiah consigned to the fire the bronze serpent snaked around a pole that Moses had used an instrument of the people's healing — a prototype of the cross — because "the people of Israel had burned incense to it." The means had become an end, and that is idolatry in a nutshell. In bringing The Passion to the big screen, Mel Gibson, against his best intentions — and unquestionable artistry — has created for the world a cinematic crucifix and made the death of Christ just another big-film spectacle, replete with horror-movie special effects (was I the only one who immediately thought of The Terminator when James Caviezel is shown in profile in the last twelve seconds of the film?).

I stared in awe and squirmed in discomfort, but in the end this film did not embolden my faith. It only made me rethink — biblically — the whole bloody business. "The World — carnal individuals — can know only what it sees. One must see in order to accept," writes Ellul. "And this Spirit [of God] is one of the invisible things. ... Thus the world cannot receive this Spirit, because it confuses what is visible with truth."

If you want to know the love of God for you, then "Tolle lege," as the children sang to St. Augustine. "Pick up and read."

Yes, I know, it is 666. But we have discussed this already—the world cannot end because it has already ended. History is kaput. This dimension of existence is merely a little divine mopping up. Get a grip!

But—will Satan be unloosed in extraordinary fashion to do incalculable harm to the souls of unbelievers, confounding, deceiving, and deluding the lost and gullible, making short shrift of all not covered by the Blood of the Lamb, and casting a veil of darkness, lies, perfidy, false doctrine, fallacious reasoning, duplicitous and mendacious ooginess, and other unspeaking evils over the eye of their hearts?

Nahhh.

Something far worse is afoot: The complete first season of
F Troop is released on DVD today! Talk about Hell!

Since returning to this dimension of existence I have learned to play chess. I must say in all due modesty that I stink! Yes—Luther does not excel at something! I readily admit it! I still can’t remember how the horsey goes!

And so I am fascinated by great chess minds, such as the legendary Jose Capablanca, Boris Spassky, Bobby “I’m One Cable Short of an Elevator” Fischer, Anatoly Karpov, and the one and only Garry Kasparov, commonly viewed as the greatest chess player of all time.

My miserable assistant had lying around the apartment—AND WILL YOU PLEASE GET SOME SUPERIOR ART FOR THESE WALLS! IF I HAVE TO LOOK AT ANY MORE EDWARD HOPPER, I WILL RIP MY CLAVICLES FROM MY SHOULDERS AND USE THEM AS A VISE ON MY OWN HEAD!—a DVD from a 2005 documentary entitled Game Over: Kasparov and the Machine. It chronicles the two tournaments World Chess Champion Kasparov played against IBM’s Big Blue, the greatest computer chess program ever invented.

This was not the first time man played machine for chess glory. From 1770 to 1825, the Turk (no I am not going off on one of my diatribes, so calm yourself!), a wooden, turbaned proto-robot, toured Europe, defeating human opponents left and right, including the great Napoleon himself. That is, until it was learned that there was a human being stuffed into the cabinet on which the Turk sat.

In 1996, Kasparov played a modern Turk, but in this scenario, man defeated machine. Kasparov even dismissed his “opponent” as just that—nothing more than a stupid machine. So IBM went back to the motherboard for a rematch one year later. This time, the corporation engaged the services of Joel Benjamin, a grandmaster who previously had played Kasparov to a draw.

Game Over is primarily about this rematch—what it meant for Kasparov, chess, and the world of the mind. Big Blue this time consisted of two human-size cabinets, which no one was allowed near. Despite the aggregate IQ of the IBM chess development team, Kasparov won Game 1 of the rematch without breaking a sweat. It looked like IBM was going to be humiliated once again—but more important, the unique problem-solving capacities of the human brain would be vindicated once again. No machine would ever be built that could “think” like a human being.

Then came Game 2. Kasparov started strong, then suddenly, according to the champion’s description after the fact, Big Blue started playing differently, not like a machine at all. Kasparov was so flabbergasted by this sudden shift in strategy that he resigned—even though most observers believed he could have played BB to a draw.

Three more games, three more draws. Then the pivotal Game 6. The chess world held its breath—until Kasparov resigned, and IBM’s stock jumped 15%.

Kasparov had begun to suspect that something was not right about this arrangement after Game 2. After all, he had been cheated out of victory before. In 1984, during the bad old days of the bad old Soviet Union, when it looked like the young genius was going to defeat Soviet chess champion Anatoly Karpov, the tournament was brought to an abrupt end for no good reason. Kasparov went on to defeat him anyway, becoming the youngest World Chess Champion to that date. So dirty tricks are not unknown in chess. Then again, when it comes to paranoia, this too is not unknown. Bobby “A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Lose” Fischer set the standard for paranoia during his famous matches with Boris Spassky, requesting that the chairs they sat on be search for bugging devices.

So was IBM cheating? Was there more to Big Blue than superior programming? Or did the company's Pentagon-like secrecy about the machine, and apparent violation of pre-tournament agreements, succeed in damaging Kasparov’s confidence to the point where he became convinced he could not win? Was it psychological warfare—or genuine deceit? And what constitutes a fair game between a man and a machine? After all, no man can fly like a plane or outrace a Ferrari. Should one be able to outthink a machine that can calculate 200 million possible chess positions per second and consult every move made by every chess champion in every chess tournament in all of recorded history? Perhaps this does not signal man’s defeat but merely his hubris.

Then again, it was human beings who built the machine in the first place. And so the cycle begins again.

The final image of the film is quite telling—a human being stands beside one of the two Big Blue cabinets. The filmmakers want to leave no doubt that BB was large enough to incorporate a grown man. But is that fair? Is this just a bit of anti-corporate propaganda? Or did no one want to concede that the human mind could, after all, be bested when it came to strategizing and the subtle, nuanced, flexible thinking it requires?

And what about you, my dear readers? Are your enemies real? Or are you merely paranoid? I believe your enemies are real. Consider how awful you truly are, and the great rewards to be reaped from humiliating you, and it is incontrovertible that they are out to get you.

Then again, maybe I’m just saying that to frighten you—to drive you into a state of anxiety so severe, you become paralyzed, unable to function, and a prime candidate for conversion.

To conclude, even if you don’t give a she-wolf’s teat for chess, Game Over proves to be a compelling tale of either multinational corporate hijinx or the limits of human intellectual achievement. The choice is yours. Or maybe not. Maybe you never had a choice to begin with. I wrote a book about that.

Amen.

POSTSCRIPTUM: If you like Game Over, you will like …

• Searching for Bobby Fischer—the true story of a young chess prodigy who learns there are some things more important than winning. Like smashing your opponent’s face into the board so hard that he becomes impaled upon a bishop—like that’s never happened before!
• Chess Fever—a silent b/w short by the great Russian director Pudovkin. What does a country look like when everyone is absorbed in one activity only? It looks like Pittsburgh—and just as ripe for totalitarian domination!
• The Chess Players—a delightful and often forgotten classic by Indian director Satyajit Ray. What is apparently an amusing tale of two layabouts who do nothing but play chess all day is really an allegory about India’s complacent concession of its independence to the wily British.
• The Luzhin Defense—based on a novel by Vladimir Nabokov, it reminds us of how thin the line is between great genius and total madness. Who should know better than Luther?

THAT WAS A JOKE, YOU JACKANAPES! ... Where ... where is my Yoo-Hoo? Where—WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY YOO—Oh ... there it is ...

I would like to suggest that where congregations are forced to suffer children’s church that they signal its conclusion with the following song:

“Goodbye, get out, we won’t see you again!
You’re rude, you’re crude, you’re a sniveling brood,
Your presence puts us in a pestilent mood!
Goodbye! Get out! So long!

“You’re here? Oh dear! I thought you’d long departed
Your parents are dead, their blood’s like lead,
Their livers are now the color of bread!
Goodbye! Get out! So long!

“They’re gone! Hooray! The cretins are locked away!
Peace now reigns, their odor wanes,
I can say so long to all my pains!
Goodbye! Stay out! Get lost!

“They’re back! Ach! Dread! I wish we all were dead!
Can we fix some brakes and cause some wrecks?
Wait—take that millstone from around my neck!
I’m gone! Goodbye! So long!”

(With apologies to Paul Gerhardt and Joan Jett)

I have been handed a letter from a Mr. JWK in Anaheim, California: “Dear Mr. Luther, I was wondering if you have seen Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. If not, why not? Do you intend to see it? If you have seen it, why haven’t you reviewed it yet? If you do intend to review it, assuming you have already seen it, what do you think of it? If you have thoughts on it, and you intend to review it, having already seen it—”

OH SHUT UP, YOU IDIOT! Why do they even allow you near an envelope! Tell the nurses you are to remain in heavy restraints at all times! Why can't I ever get letters from people who are not wards of the state!

I have not seen An Inconvenient Truth nor do I intend to see it, because it perpetuates a great lie, that the world did not already end February 18, 1546. During my original lifetime, the signs of the Last Day were everywhere: The Antichrist sat in Rome deceiving simple believers and evading child support, the Turk threatened Austria (the Turk in question, one Mr. Etci Mehmed, was actually quite pleasant once you got to know him, though he tended to cheat at Parcheesi), and the peasants were revolting, as peasants tend to be. So certain was I that the end of history was nigh that I stopped making payments on my ox cart and refused to pay taxes on the small income I generated ghostwriting abusive correspondence.

Then, on February 18, 1546, all grew black, and the Lord appeared and took me to Him.

And so the hysteria over global warming and the fear mongering of so-called environmentalists is so much propagandistic claptrap. How can a decaying ozone layer, melting ice caps, and dying species threaten the survival of mankind when I’M TELLING YOU THAT THE WORLD ENDED ON FEBRUARY 18, 1546! READ A NEWSPAPER! LOOK IT UP!

In order to put the lie to this supposed threat to humanity, I am calling on all Lutherans to help me expose the Al Gores of this world as agents of a satanic delusion. (I am excepting, of course, his penchant for Apple computers, which figure prominently throughout the film and on whose board Mr. Gore sits. Not that I am implying ANY CONNECTION. In fact, I use my wretched assistant's delightful but hopelessly outdated Motorola'd iMac to post my blogs ... NOW can I get a freebie MacBook Pro, Herr Jobs?)

As I was declaiming ... I want all my Lutherans to demonstrate that they have pierced the veil of this nonexistent modern history by defying all prescriptions for environmentally correct living!

Stop recycling now! I want you to go into your kitchens and mix plastics, metal, glass, paper, food scraps, bones, dead pets, radioactive waste, tufts of hair, D batteries, biological weapons, Christmas trees, aluminum foil, teeming paint cans, Oldsmobile carburetors, and digital photos of family vacations into one giant bio-undegradeable plastic bag and leave it by the curb. If you live on a farm, dump it on the porch of the nearest post office. If you live on the beach, bury it under two feet of sand. If you live in the wilderness, wandering aimlessly, asking why, why, why, then GET A JOB, YOU SLOTHFUL INCOMPETENT APE, SO YOU CAN BEGIN GENERATING DEBRIS LIKE THE REST OF US!

I want you to buy a bigger car. I want you to buy a car so big, you need to move to Mongolia just to park it. I want you to buy a car so big that the exhaust will create permanent midnight whenever you stop for a light. I want you to buy a car so big it qualifies as a multiverse.

I want you to start spraying everything with 409, herbicides, and underarm deodorant. Your home, your car, your children, your lunch—I want you to spray flowers, neighbors, zoo animals. I want hydrofluorocarbons so readily detectable on your person that you set off metal detectors in airports. I want you so chemically reeking that the ebola virus would die just from the thought of you.

Never turn anything off. Lights, TVs, air conditioners, electric heaters, radios, microwaves, computers, stereos, heart monitors, treadmills, printing presses, fax machines, underground generators, cotton gins, radar, satellites, electric trains, photocopiers, Cleveland, and hair dryers should run incessantly so that constant blackouts will call for the immediate construction of nuclear power plants even in playgrounds.

I want entire cities built out of styrofoam and polyester! And no, Orlando, Florida, does not count!

After two or three generations of such civil disobedience, we will have proved beyond shadow of doubt that the end is not near—it’s rubbish!