Easter Sunday in the nation that boasts it is under God and puts In God We Trust on its money

    Ok, younguns-

    This is Easter Sunday, the day the Gospels say Jesus rose from the dead, and Christians say saved them from their sins even though he died 2,000 years before they were born.

    In America, Donald Trump is promoting his own special red, white and blue version of the King James Bible to make himself more money, even though he behaves like a heathen, does not attend church, and seldom, if ever, reads the Bible, and Jesus was crucified in the Gospels for chasing Jewish money changers out of a temple.    

    In America, Donald Trump claims God sent him to save America from the liberals and the liberals are persecuting him the way Jesus was persecuted in the Gospels, yet every criminal and civil lawsuit against Trump was initiated because of something he did.

    In the King James Bible:

Matthew 5:25

Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.

    In America, MAGAs worship Trump as their savior, even though in The King James Bible:

John 8:31-32
So Jesus said to the Jews who had believed him, “If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Matthew 6:9-13
After this manner therefore pray ye: 
Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. 

 

    In America, most Republicans attend church and back the most prominent heathen in America.

    In America, the religious right, especially, flout their religion in public, even though in the King James Bible:

Matthew 6, KJV 1-8

Take heed that ye do not make your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven. Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth: That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.  And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.

    Since before I was born in 1942, “In God we trust" was on all of America’s money, and since I was born, it has looked to me that most Americans trust money far more than they trust God.

    In the King James Bible:

Matthew 6:24
No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 

    When I was a boy, the U.S. Congress put “under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance to boast America was better than godless communist Soviet Union and Red China.

    America has taunted and tempted God to show America what it actually is, which is crystal clear to the rest of the world, but not to most Americans.

   This was posted in Reddit’s r/politics forum last night. I leave for you to open the link and read the article and comments that ignore what is hidden in plain view.

MAGA’s Ugly, Hateful Response to Bridge Horror Is About to Get Worse

https://newrepublic.com/article/180286/magas-ugly-hateful-response-bridge-horror-get-worse

    I’m not a MAGA, Republican or Democrat. I am an American.

    According to news reports I read online and saw on TV, the loaded to the gills 300 meters long Dali was escorted from the dock by 2 tugboats, which returned to the dock, as is the custom today. 

    As the Dali approached the bridge, it lost power. It’s massive weight and 8 knots (9 mph) speed insured the outcome.

    I think it’s darn weird that the Dali lost power when it did.

    That bridge is named after Francis Scott Key, the author of "The Star Spangled Banner", who wrote it about a battle between America and England in that harbor during the War of 1812.

    If I was a domestic or foreign terrorist trying to make a statement, the Francis Scott Key Bridge was an excellent target.

    Given how many false flag operations the American government has run to get into wars, and how many times I have seen American presidents lie, and how many times have doubted President Biden tells Americans the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help him God, I cannot ass-u-me the Dali was not sabotaged by President Biden's government for political reasons.

    Given how many times I have seen lies come out of Donal Trump and MAGAs and prominent Republicans in Congress and in the private sector, and out of FOX news talking heads, I cannot ass-u-me the Dali was not sabotaged by the American right for political reasons.

    Nor can I ass-u-me the Dali was not sabotaged by an Islamic faction, Russia, Red China, North Korea.

   Nor can I ass-u-me and angel of the Lord did not turn off the power in the Dali, to try to wake up all Americans. 

    Would Americans and their political leaders, priests and state and national governments ever figure that one out?

   In the King James Bible

Matthew 7:15-20
Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. 

 

Mark 13:31-37

Heaven and earth shall pass away: but my words shall not pass away.
But of that day and that hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father.
Take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is.
For the Son of Man is as a man taking a far journey, who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work, and commanded the porter to watch.
Watch ye therefore: for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in the morning:
Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping.
And what I say unto you I say unto all, Watch. 

 

Revelation 3:3  
Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast, and repent. If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will come on thee as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come upon thee.

sloanbashinsky@yahoo.com

the dispensable church beatings will continue until morale improves

Mary Poppins

    Okay, younguns, it's time to talk about hurt feelings, closely related to political correctness, a terminal spiritual disease addressed by something I think the U.S. Military dreamed up.

    Once in a blue moon, I stumble online across something so precious that I want the whole wide world to know about it. 

Free Radio Rulo

By Free Radio Rulo

Backwoods, vegetarian, off grid, eco-socialist, Big Jim operates a pirate radio station and publishes a newsletter from an old Wonder Bread Truck in rural Rulo, Nebraska.

    Big Jim’s March 30, 2024 domestic status quo tail yankings split my sides laughing. Here are excerpts and a link to the whole thing.

https://freeradiorulo.substack.com/p/news-from-rulo-1c9

Good news, folks! The corrupt city council struck a deal with the nice folks from 'The Universal Church of Dudo,' and they are going to allow them to build their new international headquarters right here in Rulo! Just so happens that my good buddy Gary and my wife are now members of the Universal Church Of Dudo! Im really happy they could find meaning in the faith, and connect with the community. Gary is donating his entire salvage yard’s back lot for the worship center to be constructed, and my wife has already become a level 3 Dudo ambassador! She and Gary are even going on a two-week mission trip to Dubai together! I really think these people are good, wholesome, normal folks, and everything was just a big misunderstanding! I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to these kind-hearted people of faith, and reiterate, even though I'm a staunch agnostic, I do believe in others' right to religious freedom. I promise you all that 'News From Rulo' will always remain a safe space for all in the community, and I will no longer be so skeptical of others' beliefs. 

Jim

Coming 2025!

The New Universal Church of Dudo International Headquarters Rulo, NE

 

How much can you donate today? 

Yoga Guru Jerry Lee Jenson has agreed to incorporate the juice bar and connecting Yoga Studio with the new worship facility!  

 

Can we put you down for $500?

Thanks

Goings on about town

Last weekend, I was talking to my good buddy, Ted, down at the Ye Ole Time Saloon. He had just gotten back from a weekend trip to Las Vegas! Now, Ted was telling me, one night, he was just sitting alone at a random slot machine, feeding it quarters, enjoying the casino ambience, and sipping on a Jack and Coke, when someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey cutie, you looking for a good time, big boy?”

Ted turned around, and, goddamn it, there stood our old buddy Herbie from high school. Herbie was freaking shirtless, ripped, six pack with only a bowtie. No one had heard from him in years, and he never showed up at any of the reunions. 

Herbie was always a gifted gamer; he often played in Xbox tournaments, World of War Craft, Mario Cart, Super Smash Brothers on N64 and often won first place! One day at school, Herbie found himself cornered by an Air Force recruiter in the lunchroom. Herbie confessed that all he wanted to do was play video games for a living and had not given much thought to the Air Force. To his surprise, the recruiter told him he was in luck! They were seeking young men who could fly the new predator drones. Herbie, eager to serve his country, joined the Air Force right after graduation. He found himself remotely piloting drones in Iraq from Las Vegas and living it up every night.

Ole Herbie would clock in at 5:00 PM at the Air Force command center, hit some remote targets with the drone's “Hellfire Missiles” in Iraq, clock out, and head to the Vegas Strip! Herbie really got to explore all of Vegas: strip bars, casinos, back alleys, tattoo shops—while never really thinking too hard about what he was shooting up with his little nifty joystick and control panel during his shift. What a life he had, getting paid to fly drones and then party every night. Well, one day at the command center, Herbie noticed what his target really was. It seemed to Herbie that he had been incinerating civilians from his little command module and joystick in Las Vegas. After this shift, ole Herbie freakin' lost it as reality set in.

In a fit of despair Herbie went straight to the seediest spot on the Vegas Strip and bought the biggest crack rock he could get. He stayed up for a week smoking that shit, meeting just about everyone on the Vegas strip, telling them all about the drone strikes and atrocities committed by the U.S. military in Iraq. 

Well, since ole Herbie was technically AWOL and sobering up, with his giant crack rock dwindling, he needed another way to make money to continue that crack high good time. He just couldn’t face the fact that he had been murdering civilians overseas behind a computer screen with a little joystick in the middle of Las Vegas. So, old Herbie was gonna need to make some quick cash, and that was the moment Herbie started hookin. God bless ya Herbie! Hookin sure beats killing kids with drone strikes!

Jim 

Feral chow dogs on the loose in Rulo Beware!
I was hanging out in my backyard having a glass of wine with the gals when this freaking beast came outta my neighbors yard and it completely demolished my Gazebo and ruined my party! My friends were terrified. Good thing I had Gazebo insurance from the Primo Gazebo Call Center!

 

Letters to the Editor 

Dear editor,

That fucking bitch Judy better leave my fucking dog alone! My dog wouldn’t hurt a fly. Judy’s dumb ass climbed up the gazebo when my dog got out and the whole thing collapsed under her weight. Lay off the wine my dog don’t bite. And stop bringing my ex over to spy on me.

Ted 

 

Dear Editor,

The poetry slam at the library was rather lame, even with the free weed gummies. The slam poetry, with its themes about this and that, proved to be tedious, to say the least. Whatever happened to the gritty, working-class Bukowski style poetry? Or that wild Allen Ginsberg shit from back in the day! Nowadays, it seems everything has to adhere to political correctness and such. How about some poetry with substance? Gambling, drinking, and womanizing... These topics have depth. You bunch of dorks probably haven't even tasted a beer, let alone experienced love making with a woman or a man. 

Doris

    Here’s my comment, and Big Jim's reply, and what that led to:

Sloan Bashinsky

There ain’t no museum near big enough to hold and preserve the hilarious shit you bless the deserving with.  

Free Radio Rulo

You are too kind brother!   

Sloan Bashinsky

Naw, you are too funny, ought to be a law against it, all those deserving feelings you hurt.

Sloan Bashinsky

Once upon a time, early 1986 actually, I moved from my hometown, Birmingham, Alabama, to Santa Fe, New Mexico, hoping that would reset my clock and my life would change to suit me better. Soon, I met some people around my father’s age, who took a shine to me, why I can’t even now imagine. They told me about a fellow named Hugh Prather, who had written a pretty popular book called “Notes To Myself,” and then he had started in Santa Fe what he called “The Dispensable Church”. Hugh had moved elsewhere, but his church still met every Sunday morning in a rented church space in town, and I attended a number of services, during which different members of the congregation got up and spoke a little while. After a few months, one of the members said it was time to dispense the church, which I felt was dispensing some pretty darn good stuff, and that was the last service. 

By and by, after some tinkering with me from the great beyond, which got my undivided attention and caused me to think I was super duper important, I moved to Boulder, Colorado, where I hoped my clock would be reset to suit me better. Slowly, but surely, what was tinkering with me turned up the tinkering a few notches, which included starnding me before lots of mirrors looking at little old me, and my view of my importance was ruthlessly mangled, stomped and torched, and I was a really slow learner, proven by the mangling, stomping and torching continues until this day, but that gets way ahead of what else I wanted to say about The Dispensable Church, which is everywhere it wants to be, when it wants to be, say, hmmm, in Rulo. Nebraska. But that also gets way ahead.  

In Boulder, something stirred me to write Kundalina, Alabama: A Strange Tale. In one chapter, the alleged hero I pretty much made up to be the man I might have been if I wuz deserving, started his own dispensable church for a while, the idea for which he probably got from his mother who had written a cheeky anonymous column in the Birmingham Post Herald about goings on in local churches that did not seem to be able to discern the difference between God and the Devil. His lady love is to die for. There’s a heap more in that not entirely all fiction tale than that, but your dispensable church in Rulo generally, and especially your latest offering, caused me to fondly think back on all of that and tell you about it. 

 

Kundalina, which has some ET lore, is a free read at the free internet library, archive.org, which is run and endowed by various colleges. The library specializes in out of print books and books authors offer for free. 

 KUNDALINA (A Strange Tale)

 (1992)

https://archive.org/details/kundalina

By and by, two more dispensable novels with some force majeure lore hatched out of me. One twisting and winding tale that took a good while to eventually tell itself about a man I might have been if I was deserving. His lady loves are to die for, too. 

 

Heavy Wait: A Strange Tale

(2001)

https://archive.org/details/heavy-wait-a-strange-tale_202212/page/n1/mode/2up 

 

Return Of The Strange

(2023)

https://archive.org/details/retun-of-the-strange-v-20_202306

Free Radio Rulo

I love the idea of the "Dispensable Church". Shows up when you need it, moves on when ya don't. Are you sure it was even real? Thinking hard about the tax breaks 

 

Sloan Bashinsky
It was very real in Santa Fe, until it dispensed itself. Don’t know if it was IRS qualified charity. I think some paperwork has to be filed to get that going. As for me, I don’t know when I’m ever not in church. Your Substack stuff sure looks like a church to me :-).

slooanbashinsky@yahoo.com

the artist and his shadow living balls to the wall, whole hog, risking pretty much everything, free reads at archive.org

 

Mustang Sally

    Ok, younguns, today is what Christians call “Good Friday”, which, given what happened on that day 2,000 or so years ago, according to the Gospels, don’t seem good for the guy it happened to.

    Yesterday, someone “liked” the first comment I made under a Poetic Outlaws offering I stumbled across about 9 months after it was published. My second comment pretty well summed up what it has been like living in my skin.

The Artist and his Shadow

By: Erik Rittenberry

POETIC OUTLAWS

SEP 15, 2022

He is unfit for this life, this

unduly managed era devoid

of poesy and freedom, a time

of useless haste in honor of

the illusion of progress,

a life starving of life, a life

dripping with chains as dull-witted

bureaucrats and political

imbeciles run amok.

There’s something dark and peculiar in him

that forbids his full participation in

the blatant absurdity of

today’s world.

Even as a child he felt something

fierce was there in him — an unrest, an

unrealized freedom, something

shadowy but knowing,

a deep-seated primordial power

groping endlessly in the

apocalyptical night.

It’s still there, stirring in the

inmost abyss, this esoteric ghost,

this daemon, dwelling

in the shadows of the soul,

convulsing and throbbing like a

diabolical gypsy in the throes

of ecstasy.

He tries, at times, to wash it away

with morality and decency, bowing

down to the sanctified normalcy

of his fellow humans. But still,

it’s there, raging, taunting him,

hounding him, forcing him

out of the prison of SELF

and into the creative realm,

the destructive realm,

into the elemental kingdom

of existence.

It calls forth the spirit

into a higher dominion of being

and yearns for expression, this

enigmatic drive,

even at the cost of reputation

and alliance

and it tempts the body, the vehicle

of the soul, to thrive with

Dionysian defiance,

and it wants to flip over the table

of conventionalities and go to war

with all customary forms and

cultural norms.

It’s this archaic force that burns from

the most profound depths

of his being, an insatiable rapture

that coalesces the dark of the unconscious

with the universal light, arousing

the sheer realization of his

utter nothingness — the

true awakening.

He could hardly put on a mask and

endure the typical occupation, or

partake in the social games

of the ordinary, blindly acting

out his role on the stage of culture,

following the fashions of the

day, living uncritically as a

conditioned child.

Undefinable,

with no creed or title and a

fierce contempt for conceptual

reality, he’s in spiritual exile

from the place and time

he was born into. Terribly

alone among his contemporaries,

misunderstood

by an arid society, an

aimless wanderer, he is, laughed at

by the well-adjusted, their minds

chloroformed with low-grade

entertainment, their meanings

and desires built into them

from the outside.

The more emaciated they are inwardly,

the showier they become outwardly.

But he cares nothing of status

and spectacle or the unimaginative

interests of the bourgeois, so he

ventures onward

towards

an austere existence,

choosing the possibility of

poverty over pointless labor,

autonomy over dependency,

art over it all –

an unconditional renunciation

of a secure existence in

search of the sublime.

He’s in flight from the endless trivialities

that make up the modern world, choosing

instead to live perilously close to

the primal forces within.

His fate, he knows. He is doomed

to suffer alone.

When uninspired, the firm grip of melancholy

takes hold and he becomes the unhappiest

of mortals, endlessly sloshing around in

a cesspool of despair, nourishing

his apathy with whiskey and

mascara-smeared love.

But when enthused, he’s lit up,

galvanized, electrified, and his

heart is filled to the brim

with poetic rapture and the

forces at work within him

become relentless. He is

transformed into a mere

instrument of supremely

powerful forces,

consecrating and sacrificing

every fiber of his BEING to the

supreme task of

CREATION –

quenching the thirst

of a bone-dry

generation.

“O melodies above me in the infinite,

To you, to you, I rise.”

Sloan Bashinsky

Sloan’s Newsletter

July 5, 2023

I might like to know some of the backstory on this poem.

Poetic Outlaws

Jul 5, 2023

Author

I appreciate you my friend. Thanks for reading. It was loosely based on some of the 18th and 19th century artists that I adore. The solitude and the twinge of madness it takes to truly create penetrating art. 

Sloan Bashinsky

Jul 5, 2023

Twinge of madness, surely you jest? :-)

I probably am lucky I didn't get locked up and the key tossed into the Mariana Trench. 

Imagine what psychiatry would do with William Blake today :-)

Or with Shelly, or Keats, or Yeats, or Poe, or lots of other poets, and anyone, who spoke and/or wrote of their what most people would view as stranger than fiction or too ugly and awful to tell.

Yet it seems to me, regardless of all else, poetry, real poetry, poetry that grabs and digs and never lets go, boils up out of a well so truly deep, personal and disturbing that demands its own voice. 

I suppose because I never did it, I can't fathom how people become poets by attending poetry workshops. Or by listening to other poets recite their poetry, or someone else recite it. I think that might open a crack where the light might be able to come in. 

But living balls to the wall, whole hog, risking pretty much everything, getting mangled and chopped up, drowned and swallowed, digested and shit out by lions, tigers, crocodiles and great whites, orcas even, and boiled alive, and ripped to shreds by tsunamis, tornados, hurricanes, and blown up in volcanoes, buried under glaciers, and bitten by cobras and black widow spiders, and smashed by meteorites, etc., and fucked to death many times, and loved ones dying, or changing or going crazy and leaving us writhing behind, adds a bit of flavor otherwise lost.

    I told an amiga today, who likes to read books, that the only way to really get to know me (other than by living with me) is to read my novels, and to grab her best hold, ‘cause she has no idea what she’s in for 😎.

    I suppose the novels could be viewed as epic poems, but they are laid out as wild, wooly, passionate rides that maybe happened somewhere else and swooped through a wormhole into the so-called Heart of Dixie and then wiggled, squirmed, oozed and leaped about.

 KUNDALINA (A Strange Tale)

 (1992)

https://archive.org/details/kundalina

Heavy Wait: A Strange Tale

(2001)

https://archive.org/details/heavy-wait-a-strange-tale_202212/page/n1/mode/2up 

 

Return Of The Strange
(2023)

https://archive.org/details/retun-of-the-strange-v-20_202306  

    Thanks to my tech buddy Bob, those tales, and my often stranger than fiction nonfiction books, are being read in 33 languages at the free internet library, archive.org, at the rate of 8,000-12,000 complete reads per month, per book.

    Endowed and staffed by various colleges in America, archive.com specializes in out of print books and books whose authors allow them to be read for free. 

    To read my books online, go to archive.org and type Sloan Bashinsky into the search space and click Enter and icons for the books will come up and you can open and read one by clicking on its icon.

    Same procedure for reading books by other authors in the free library.

    If your device asks if you are sure you want to open archive.org?, know that it's being used by people all over the world to read books they otherwise cannot find, buy, or even know exist.

sloanbashinsky@yahoo.com