(Via Deus Ex Malcontent.)
(Via Deus Ex Malcontent.)
“For there are eunuchs, that were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are eunuchs, that were made eunuchs by men: and there are eunuchs, that made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.” – Matthew 19:12
(Image via Jesus Is Love.)
A letter from T. S. Elliot to George Orwell, July 13, 1944:
And after all, your pigs are far more intelligent than the other animals, and therefore the best qualified to run the farm — in fact, there couldn’t have been an Animal Farm without them: so that what was needed (someone might argue), was not more communism but more public-spirited pigs.
Found at Daring Fireball
A Boston University researcher has identified one of the major causes of childhood asthma: dead cockroaches. His research methodology is almost as nasty as the findings: go to the public housing projects in Detroit with a vacuum cleaner and collect data.
“We collected house dust — big dust bunnies — added water, let them mix overnight, and spun the junk out of them, until we had extract,” said Dr. Remick.
The extract was filled with proteins from Blattella germanica — the common cockroach — whose exoskeletons and droppings become airborne after death.
Looks ok to eat?
Full story at Bread and Honey
GQ talks about the battle over James Brown’s estate in a new article. But some of the best stuff is the stories people tell about JB. From long time girlfriend Gloria Daniel:
One night in the summer of 2001, after he’d slathered her in Vaseline (“He liked you all greased up,” she says. “Like a porkchop”) and wore her out trying to come, he gave up and left the room, and Gloria dozed off. When she woke up, Mr. Brown was standing at the foot of the bed in a full-length mink coat over his bare chest, a black cowboy hat, and silk pajama pants with one leg tucked into a cowboy boot and the other hanging out. He had a shotgun over his shoulder and a white stripe of Noxzema under each eye. “I’m an Indian tonight, baby,” he announced. “C’mon, let’s let ’em have it.” Then he dumped a pickle jar of change on the floor, told her to get a machete, and went out to the garage. He took the Rolls, drove ten miles to Augusta, weaving all over the road, clipping mailboxes, smoking more dope, and screaming about being an Indian. Gloria kept thinking she should flag down a cop, say she’d been kidnapped.
Hard to top that, but there are a few other bits that at least match it. Definitely the unvarnished view of the man. Worth a read if you love JB’s antics.