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Note that not only is friend elephant launching the monitor into the stratosphere, he she appears to be thoroughly enjoying himself herself doing it.  The lizard? Probably not so much.

Years ago I remember watching some nature special on PBS featuring a herd of elephants coming into a watering hole.  One of them begins to step on a turtle loitering about the place, apparently realizes what he’s doing, and moves his foot away, whereupon James Earl Jones intones, “How about that?”

Evidently that elephant knew it was on film.

UPDATE: Here’s a little more of the story.  The elephant’s name is Madhuri, and apparently she’s quite the pro at the lizard toss.

Following up on my post yesterday about Mother Carey’s chickens, how about some poetry about Mother Carey herself?

Mother Carey (As Told Me By The Bo’sun)

Mother Carey? She’s the mother o’ the witches
‘N’ all
sort o’ rips;
She’s a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is,
She’s a sight too fond of ships;
She lives upon an iceberg to the norred,
‘N’ her man he’s Davy Jones,
‘N’ she combs the weeds upon her forred
With pore drowned sailors’ bones.

She’s the mother o’ the wrecks, ‘n’ the mother
Of all big winds as blows;
She’s up to some deviltry or other
When it storms, or sleets, or snows;
The noise of the wind’s her screamin’,
‘I’m arter a plump, young, fine,
Brass-buttoned, beefy-ribbed young seam’n
So as me ‘n’ my mate kin dine.’

She’s a hungry old rip ‘n’ a cruel
For sailor-men like we,
She’s give a many mariners the gruel
‘N’ a long sleep under sea;
She’s the blood o’ many a crew upon her
‘N’ the bones of many a wreck,
‘N’ she’s barnacles a-growin’ on her
‘N’ shark’s teeth round her neck.

I ain’t never had no schoolin’
Nor read no books like you,
But I knows ‘t ain’t healthy to be foolin’
With that there gristly two;
You’re young, you thinks, ‘n’ you’re lairy,
But if you’re to make old bones,
Steer clear, I says, o’ Mother Carey,
‘N’ that there Davy Jones.

John Masefield


Sorry, but although I find many aspects of France and the French admirable, I simply cannot count her political evolutions among them.

UPDATE: Gerald Warner puts it better.  A sample:

There are two countries called France. One is the sluttish Republic—“Marianne”—the other is the timeless, civilised doyen of Christendom, the nation of Clovis and St Louis, of the Valois and Bourbon kings, the Catholic and monarchic civilisation that fell with Charles X in 1830 but still defiantly survives in many enclaves. That pulse will beat quietly today while the heirs of the sans-culottes strut their stuff, proclaiming French nationalism under the figurehead of a Hungarian president and his Italian wife.

Read the rest, as they like to say.

A glass of wine with Christine.

Damian Thompson this morning:

I thought this was a spoof at first, but it seems not: a General Synod working party is exploring whether the Church of England’s male bishops can join religious orders previously reserved for women. In other words, become Anglican nuns.

As usual, the Synod’s topsy-turvy ecclesiology is a mystery to me, but I gather that the idea is that bishops would be entitled to take vows in orders of nuns so that they can provide special episcopal oversight to the sisters. It’s a typically ingenious Anglican response to the forthcoming ordination of women bishops. “There will be jokes about bishops in wimples, but having bishop-nuns would introduce a degree of mutual cooperation that could make the introduction of women bishops much smoother,” says my Synod source.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, I learn the identity of the bishop who is rumoured to have volunteered to take nun’s vows: the Rt Rev Nick Baines, Bishop of Croydon, often spoken of as a successor to Rowan Williams as Archbishop of Canterbury. Says my informant: “Nick is a big fan of Sister Act, and we knew he was keen to ‘get ahead,’ as it were, so he was the obvious person to ask. And apparently he was delighted, because he’s all about challenging gender stereotypes.”

As a matter of fact, and assuming Damian isn’t pulling our legs here, this is simply the absurdum to which Anglican clerical progressivism would logically, what, reductiet.  (And you bet we’ll make those jokes about bishops in wimples.)


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July 2010