The Three Most Hated People Groups in America
09.27.06 (6:16 pm) [edit]Take a wild guess at the three most hated groups of people in America.... no really, take a guess.
Ok, got your guess? Here's the answers: 1) serial killers 2) pedifiles 3) evangelical Christians.
The first two were "duh"s but the third one sent me for a loop. I am part of the third most hated people group? ME?! I better watch my back.
I'd like to know exactly what it is that I've done to make people apparently not enjoy my presence. Not even me personally, but evangelical Christians as a whole.
Perhaps it all goes back to the Bible. "If you find the godless world is hating you, remember it goes its start hating me. If you lived on the world's terms, the world would love you as one of its own. But since I picked you to live on God's terms and no longer on the world's terms, the world is going to hate you."-- John 15:18, The Message.
I know people hate it when scripture is quoted at them, but I'm seeing some major similarities here. Coincidence?A Legend Passes
09.22.06 (9:00 pm) [edit]Early this morning the town legend was hit by a train and killed.
This funny man has provided countless hometown inside jokes and befriended most of the student population here.
Terry, rest in peace.
Minors and Social Websites
09.22.06 (11:07 am) [edit]I was just listening to NPR on my way home from class and heard something interesting. It seems there is talk in Congress currently of restricting access of minors to social websites like MySpace, Xanga, Facebook, etc. in order to protect children from pedofiles. Ideas for impletmenting such restrictions vary widely from requiring parental permission via a credit card check to not allowing anyone under 18 to use social websites at all.
For you, is this an issue? What are your ideas on implementation?
Odd Art
09.19.06 (7:19 pm) [edit]There is a photograph of a pair of elk mating in the main corridor of the science and math school at HSU.
Just thought I'd point that out for the ironic humor.
Just a quickie update.
09.18.06 (3:03 pm) [edit]Today must have been campus wide dress down day. Nearly every person I passed today was wearing a t-shirt and a baggy pair of basketball shorts. The ONE day I try to look presentable is the day my more comfortable clothes would have looked normal! I missed the memo. Of coures there were the few sorority girls roaming around wearing their matching t-shirts, jeans, and badges but I obviously didn't fit there either. I plain missed the memo. Grr!
It's getting colder here. Didn't have to get in the water at my Aquacise class today due to freezing water, so we went on a neighborhood walk instead. Beautiful day-- low 70s, clear blue sky. Makes me excited because I know fall is on its way and winter follows soon after that. I don't like the winter weather, but I LOVE Christmas! Yeah!
I fear I'm coming down with something. I've just felt funky for the past week or so. Not bad, just not quite right either. I've been hearing much the same thing from my fellow students as well. I hope it's not mono or some early flu. I hope it's nothing at all but the excitement of the fresh semester wearing off into the droll of the everyday routine.
Just a quickie update.
Repast for the Hounds (Installment the last of "The Most Dangerous Game")
09.17.06 (2:44 pm) [edit]He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.
He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Zaroff was still on his feet. But Ivan was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.
Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again.
"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .
When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.
General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game--so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner liqueur. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the light.
A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.
"Rainsford!" screamed the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"
"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."
The general sucked in his breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."
Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Zaroff."
The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .
He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.
This has been "Repast for the Hounds" installment the last of "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell.
Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.
At Bay (Installment 14 of "The Most Dangerous Game")
09.07.06 (5:32 pm) [edit]At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.
Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.
The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack in leash.
They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.
This has been "At Bay" installment fourteen of "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell.
If you would like to view previous entries, please use the drop menu below.
Burmese Tiger Pit (Installment 13 of "The Most Dangerous Game")
09.04.06 (5:24 pm) [edit]Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.
He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, foot by foot. Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand.
"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."
This has been "Burmese Tiger Pit" installment thirteen of "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell.
If you would like to view previous entries, please use the drop menu below.
Malay Man-Catcher (Installment 12 of "The Most Dangerous Game")
09.03.06 (8:07 pm) [edit]"I will not lose my nerve. I will not."
He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.
The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.
Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General Zaroff. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.
"Rainsford," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."
When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.
Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.
His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.
This has been "Malay Man-Catcher" installment twelve of "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell.
If you would like to view previous entries use the drop menu below.
The Scarlet "C"
09.03.06 (1:55 am) [edit]I've been thinking a lot about this girl I knew briefly in high school lately. C I'll call her and she sat in front of me in biology class freshman year. I knew her best friend, M, who sat next to me, so I quickly became aquainted with C. Through the year, I'd like to think we became "close aquaintances" I suppose you could say. We never hung out or anything, but I enjoyed her company in class and hope she reciprocated. She reminded me a lot of myself at the time-- seriously dedicated to Christ and sport.
After the class ended I rarely saw C, except in passing and occasionally heard this or that about her. She was a rising basketball star, so most of what I heard about her referred to her star performances.
Except one day I heard C was pregnant. It was junior year in high school I believe, in the fall when I first heard. The gossip went that she had lost her virginity and her childhood in one fatal swoop that summer. I never saw C again at school. She disappeared and no one said anymore of her.
Sometime in January, the day before class resumed from Christmas break, I saw C at Wal-Mart. She was indeed pregnant, like the gossip said, and carried an armload of various milk products toward her parents' basket. When I first saw her I thought to myself, "Tsk, tsk. What a wasted life. She had so much going for her. Why did she up and do that to herself?" Then she spotted me across the aisle. Her loaded arms flew up to hide her face, revealing more of her pertruding stomach. As she inched toward the basket hoping I hadn't seen her, I watched in curiosity. When C emptied her arms, she stole a look in my direction, and met my gaze with a look I will never forget. Her eyes begged me not to approach her with any kind of self-righteous lecture, and to not tell a soul I had seen her. At that moment I understood why repentant sinners need love from their fellows more than lectures on Bible code of conduct. I stood amazed and brokenhearted that C thought I would deal her such a blow in a place as public as Wal-Mart. Upon further self-examination, I determind, that she was right; if I had not seen her pleading eyes I may well have marched up to her with my head held high and in a condecending manner asked how "it" was. I gave her a small smile which I pray to this day explained that I understood her plight and would abide by her wishes. C seemed to understand because she visibly relaxed the tension in her shoulders and returned a sad smile to me.
I don't know why I've been thinking about her lately. I suppose I'm still praying that I got my message across in my smile. I'd also really like to thank her for teaching me that lesson, which has not only benefitted me, but every sinner I've ever come in contact with who has worn their sin like a scarlet brand. Thanks C.
