The far religious right continues to push for teaching of intelligent design in public schools. This, they believe, is more convincing than proven science. Michelle Bachmann, for one, recently called for such a public policy at the 2011 Republican Leadership Conference.

Inevitably, such demands for this archaic view are linked to the “beliefs of the founding fathers of America.” Conveniently, these politicians don’t seem to read any of the original texts and quotes by our founding fathers. And in doing so, put pure belief over humans’ most valuable possession: the ability to reason.

Here are some of the most influential founding fathers’ actual words on their views of religion. Reason for yourself:

Thomas Jefferson:

“History, I believe, furnishes no example of a priest-rid­den people maintainin­g a free civil government­. This marks the lowest grade of ignorance of which their civil as well as religious leaders will always avail themselves for their own purposes.”

Tip #1: Talk about the “value” of every meal you’ve had and the “value” of the meal you’re about to have. “Value” = the most meat possible for the least amount of money.

Tip #2: Comment on all the girls/women around you, especially those within ear shot. Be sure to include descriptive words like “fat” and “ass-ugly”. Proceed to guess who has fake boobs. Boobs are key here. In fact, only big boobs really matter, right?

Tip #3: Comment on the “value” of fake boobs. (see above definition of “value”. Hint: it only has one.)

Tip #4: When describing other restaurants you’ve been to, use only superlatives at the end of each description. i.e.: X Tacos has THE BEST and THE MOST VALUABLE tacos in ALL of NY.  It’s the only thing that will make the other bros listen to you.

Tip #5: If you’re at a sushi bar, only order “teriyaki” chicken because it’s the easiest to pronounce.

Tip #6: Fist bump after you order your “valuable” meal.

Tip #7: Rehash every sports play for ten minutes because everyone at the table has seen these plays 10-20 times in slow motion already. It makes for an easy conversation; the frame of reference is the widest in this area.

Tip #8: Yell “fuck yea bro” after everything you say for emphasis. Say this phrase twice after every mention of chocolate protein shakes. This reinforces the idea that you have plenty of testosterone.

Tip #9: Avoid big words at all costs! Use the 2-syllable rule: only two syllables per word, maximum. Big words will lose your audience and create a perception that you’re a “pussy”, aka, book reader.

Tip # 10: Be sure to use your loudest and deepest voice in saying all of the above. It’s important to verbally run over the conversations of others sitting around you.

Tip # 11: Repeat ad nauseum until you get a strong urge to watch sports center.

-AR

Dear CVS:

Consider new product placement, or at least the cats of New York.

It’s hard not to overhear conversations in your line, whose length leaves me perpetually lingering in the seasonal candy aisle. In the time it took to buy one pack of cigarettes, I heard three nearly identical exchanges.

Three elderly citizens (two women, one man) inquired after the whereabouts of your cat food. Same apathetic answer every time: “Second floor. Up the stairs.”

The elderly gentleman’s cane traveled nervously around his orthopedic shoes, while he assessed the escalator. The first lady on Medicaid stammered a plea to see if there was any cat food somehow on the first floor. And the final patron looked baffled and discouraged; she was, after all, propped up on a walker.

However, not one attempted the escalator; all three customers left without the Purina. And assuredly, at least three cats went hungry this evening. It wouldn’t be that difficult to make some room amongst all the Easter eggs for a few bags of Friskies on the first floor. Or, perhaps next to the prescription drug counter. Maybe, just maybe it’ll increase your revenue. But even if it doesn’t, the cats of New York will eat tonight.

Sincerely,

AR

In the spirit of solidarity with our Japanese brethren. – AR

Giant black ashes smeared across the foreheads of the chosen marks today as the beginning of yet another period of lent. Traditionally, lent offers the faithful a chance to give up a vice – conveniently only for the 40 days. After which, let the licentiousness continue! The Constitution allows for freedom of religious practice, and for that matter, even such flagrant displays of “humility” and “purity.” And it must be mentioned that the author has no desires to deny the constitutionality of such practices. However, given yet another slew of child molestation cases in Philadelphia combined with the hesitancy of the archdiocese and the Vatican to release the names of the offenders, the Vatican and sheep of the church expose themselves to ridicule.

Several days ago, the Philadelphia archdiocese dismissed 21 priests for sexual abuse of minors under their care. This, seen as the most widely sweeping action taken by the Catholic church, is a start. In fact, it is far better than rewarding past child molesting clerics with continued church service and lavish accommodations in Vatican City (see the case of Cardinal Law).

Setting an example to the “heathen” world as “a light upon a hill” has always been a favorite motto of church elders. Yet, so reticent is the archdiocese still to make public the names of their number accused of preying on innocent children. During this period of lent, the faithful members of the church should demand their elders give up the names of those even the godless would denounce. Only then, would the church rid itself of this pandemic and bring to justice those who would prey on children. Or at the very least, afford those prominently screaming their humility on their forehead less scorn. -AR

I NEED the four seasons. Not the hotel (well its pretty sweet too), but I’m talking a bone-chilling, merciless winter, with a gradual turn into a sunny, welcoming spring, followed by a scorching, sizzlin’ summah, and finally, my personal favorite, crisp and vibrantly colorful fall.  Why don’t people call it autumn anymore? It rolls off the tongue gently and will not be confused with face planting on a street or a collapse of some sort.  So, having lived in some seriously chilly climates like MOSCOW, BOSTON, and I’ll throw NYC in the mix even though the cold here isn’t that appalling or unbearable, I’ve always wondered what it was like to grow up in La La land or Meeyamii, where a “significant” drop in temperature merely means ordering a hot latte and pulling out a leather jacket/pants from your winter closet. As curious as I am what that is like, especially on a -25 degree weather in Moscow when I am draped in all things fur (still freezing) and the car won’t start, I still wouldn’t trade the four seasons for anything. Besides, how can I properly appreciate the arrival of SUMMAH, or even spring, without first cursing everyone and everything during the seemingly never-ending winter torture? I simply would not be able to. But the best season, in my personal opinion, is autumn.  Why? Because my birthday is in September . And so is Duke’s. OK, here are some reasons why autumn (in New York) is lovely:

1. The East/West village cafes that roll out the heating lamps, so that if you dress warmly you can still enjoy your meal outside and people watch

2. Fall foliage, and how after it rains, all the beautiful leaves stick to the the street and cover the townhouse stoops in Chelsea, like a mosaic

3. Two words: Central Park (bonus: walking through the park with someone you love)

4. Fashion Week, US Open, NY Marathon, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Columbus Day (parades)

5. The random, unexpected warm days in November

6. Searching for new FUR purchases (Brooklyn has some goodies), as well as gloves, hats, boots, ear muffs, what have you

7.  Hate to admit this, but the abundance of dogs dressed up in sweaters, jackets, capes is too cute

8. Discovering new coffee shops and getting acquainted with their soup selection

9. Stone Street Oyster Festival, San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy, Brooklyn Flea Market in Fort Greene, Hester Flea Market in LES

10. Going to Red Hook, Brooklyn for a little Ikea trip and the best key lime pie treat from Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pies. If you’re feeling patriotic, check out the gorgeous, full frontal view of Statue of Liberty

Bottom line: If you don’t already live here but plan are planning a trip, come visit in the fall. -LM

Acid rain falls on the old cement factory. Gently at first, yet it grows, pooling above the five by four sheet of glass. Yes, there is a leak, or two. Slight in one’s mind. Heavier in another’s. The buckets set under to catch the drops that collect on the hardwood planks, are really cooking pans. The author’s cooking pans in fact. Water to boil, water to soak, water from Tlaloc. Shuffle the pans from cabinet to floor to stove-top. Same tools, same process, new reflection. And yet the reflection brings change for only a time. A never-ending recycling. Build a construct. Tear it down. Sacrifice and cut out the old. Rebuild, and half-way through, you realize you see the framework from the first construct emerging. It came of its own volition. What would happen if there were no constructs? No urge to rebuild, leaving buildings in tact to bear the elements? Is it even possible? An erie light breaks through to illuminate the factory’s former self. Radiance, sustenance, fertility. But that damn dripping on steal threatens sleep. And still the tenants fear Tlaloc’s demands for sacrifice. What will be put on the alter this time?  -AR

-AR

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she’d returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he
pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha’s faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn’t understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn’t there (Awww…).

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers’ Parade was scheduled to appear. He’d just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn’t have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post  office had agreed to pick him up at three o’clock. He’d marked the package
“Fragile”, and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber
cushioning he’d thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and
happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She
would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he’d only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough
weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about
it though. After it was over he’d said he still respected her and, after all,
it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn’t love her, he
did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what
Bill could teach Waldo – but that seemed many years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen
door and into the kitchen. “Oh gawd, it’s absolutely maudlin outside.” “Ach, I
know what you mean, I feel all icky!” Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton
robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on
the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. “I’m supposed to be
taking these salt pills, but,” she wrinkled her nose, “they make me feel like
throwing up.” Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she’d
seen on television. “God, don’t even talk about that.” She got up from the
table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue
vitamins. “Want one? Supposed to be better than steak,” and then attempted to touch her knees. “I don’t think I’ll ever touch a daiquiri again.”

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the
telephone. “Maybe Bill’ll call,” she said to Sheila’s glance. Sheila nibbled on
a cuticle. “After last night, I thought maybe you’d be through with him.” “I
know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place.” She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. “The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn’t
really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know
what I mean.” She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over
her mouth. “I’ll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while,” here
she bent forward in a whisper, “I wanted to!” Now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang
the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mother’s small beige pocketbook in the den. “What do you
think it is?” Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. “I dunno.”

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the
muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down
the center of the carton. “Why don’t you look at the return address and see who it’s from?” Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the
vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. “Ah, god,
it’s from Waldo!” “That schmuck!” said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. ”Well, you might as well open it,” said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. “Ah sst,” said Marsha, groaning, “he must have nailed it shut.” They tugged on the flap again. “My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!” They pulled again. “You can’t get a grip.” They both stood still, breathing heavily.

“Why don’t you get a scissor,” said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but
all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter
in her hand. “This is the best I could find.” She was very out of breath.
“Here, you do it. I-I’m gonna die.” She sank into a large fluffy couch and
exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the
end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn’t enough
room. “God damn this thing!” she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,
“I got an idea.” “What?” said Marsha. “Just watch,” said Sheila, touching her
finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could
barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his
heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and
walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun. -L. Reed

-AR

The solitary indulgence of idly gazing at the busy life of New York was permissible in anyone traveling for pleasure, perhaps even advisable within limits; but for one who intended to remain…it was sheer ruination…                                   - Kafka

Thibaut Gayet "Pierre Restany"

-AR

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