Back of the North Wind

backofthenorthwind

My faith is almost gone, to be honest. Not my belief that God exists – everyone believes that, even the demons. It’s easy to believe God exists, the more so for anyone who’s studied philosophy. We splice and dice propositions with ever increasing analytic precision until we realize there are none whatsoever that are immune from splicing. There is nothing true that can’t be analyzed and dissected into irrelevancy. In such a world, any and all propositions can be accepted or rejected at a whim; the more grandiose, the better. So we’re left with a primal urge to see a person in back of it all.

No, it’s not belief He exists that I’m lacking. It’s belief that He cares. I’ve had too many unanswered prayers – too many mountains that have remained unmoved – for me to give any credence to what Christ says in Scripture. The best His apologists can say is that the plain reading is incorrect and that, despite appearances, God really didn’t mean to suggest He would be with us day in and day out. He didn’t mean that He would answer our prayers or that He would supply us our basic needs. Nor even that He is some sort of master potter (or a shepherd), molding or guiding us along a specially-created path of destiny. No, really we’re all on our own; whatever happens, happens, and God is the God of the dead. We’ll see Him when it’s all over but until then, He’s irrelevant. (The majority of Christians believe this – look at their actions, not their words; you’ll see I’m right).

Other “experts” aren’t as honest. They try to claim God is constantly answering our prayers; they do this by trying to twist any occurrence whatsoever as, somehow, the answer to a prayer. They do this to save their cult more so than out of loyalty to God. If they were loyal to God, they’d freely admit that, despite all of Christ’s grand promises in Scripture about knocking and having the door opened, or seeking and finding, etc., He doesn’t do any of that. Give me an honest Christian who admits that Christ doesn’t open doors, no matter how often you knock – and I’ll show you someone who’s really loyal to God.

Better to say: no, despite what Christ said, He doesn’t seem to answer prayers today. I don’t know why, but He’s God and He can do what He wants. I follow Him even though He’s not doing what He said He would. I put all my trust in Him, even though it seems foolish to do so. Better that guy than an army of dishonest apologists.

No, it’s not belief in God I have a problem with. It’s an outright fury that He doesn’t do what He says He’ll do: answer our prayers, be a part of our lives, bring vengeance on our enemies, etc. etc. You start wondering if Jesus is wrong about God answering our prayers, if He’s wrong about God taking care of our basic needs and so on, what else might He be wrong about?

The author George MacDonald was a man really loyal to God.

If there’s any chance of saving my faith, it’ll lie in his writings. In his novels, characters are taught to trust that God is good, even when God blatantly seems to do bad. And while MacDonald strikes me as a little naive about the coming spiritual destruction of Europe (a fault he shares with Lewis, Chesterton, Tolkien, etc. etc. – that is to say: he wrote during a time when he had the luxury of being an optimist), his works resonate in me as expressions of the true faith.

They cause me great joy mixed with great bouts of anger and cynicism…the demons never leave quietly.

Happy birthday to a man who’s few lines of poetry are the last holding me to Christendom.

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Strange Senses

“You need not mind, my girl,” he went on, to Mary.  “Everybody knows I am ill ­very ill.  Sit down there, on the foot of the bed, only take care you don’t shake it, and let me talk to you.  People, you know, say nowadays there ain’t any hell ­or perhaps none to speak of?”

“I should think the former more likely than the latter,” said Mary.

“You don’t believe there is any?  I am glad of that! for you are a good girl, and ought to know.”

“You mistake me, sir.  How can I imagine there is no hell, when he said there was?”

“Who’s he?”

“The man who knows all about it, and means to put a stop to it some day.”

“Oh, yes; I see!  Hm! ­But I don’t for the life of me see what a fellow is to make of it all ­don’t you know?  Those parsons!  They will have it there’s no way out of it but theirs, and I never could see a handle anywhere to that door!”

I don’t see what the parsons have got to do with it, or, at least, what you have got to do with the parsons.  If a thing is true, you have as much to do with it as any parson in England; if it is not true, neither you nor they have anything to do with it.”

“But, I tell you, if it be all as true as ­as ­that we are all sinners, I don’t know what to do with it!”

“It seems to me a simple thing. That man as much as said he knew all about it, and came to find men that were lost, and take them home.”

“He can’t well find one more lost than I am!  But how am I to believe it?  How can it be true?  It’s ages since he was here, if ever he was at all, and there hasn’t been a sign of him ever since, all the time!”

“There you may be quite wrong.  I think I could find you some who believe him just as near them now as ever he was to his own brothers ­believe that he hears them when they speak to him, and heeds what they say.”

“That’s bosh.  You would have me believe against the evidence of my senses!”

“You must have strange senses, Mr. Redmain, that give you evidence where they can’t possibly know anything!  If that man spoke the truth when he was in the world, he is near us now; if he is not near us, there is an end of it all.”

“The nearer he is, the worse for me!” sighed Mr. Redmain.

“The nearer he is, the better for the worst man that ever breathed.”

(From George MacDonald’s “Mary Marston”)

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Thrice the Rooster…

rooster

Had a long hard day, lads. Chainsaws, axes, and maws. We loaded the wood, drove it across town, and dumped it.

When all was over, I lit up a cigar and plopped down on an old truck bed. As I was resting, a rooster came strutting up.

He’d come to me, pause, then come a few steps closer. On and on until he was at my feet, twisting his head to study me.

I looked at him, he looked at me. We appraised each other for close to 15 minutes. The thing was interested in me. We had a connection. He was judging me with his eyes.

“Did you betray Christ, too, you piece of crap?”

“No sir. I stood my ground.”

“Well…now you’re just being cocky…”

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A’Fast, ye Food Lovers…

He’s alive! The Young Drummer is alive! After many years he’s emerged to give a new interview. I thought, maybe, owing to how bad things have gotten, he’d given up and hunkered down in the world of fairy tales; left us to our own devices. I should have known better. Thanks to everyone who participated in the search.

And things are bad. I’ve had to stop reading Drudge. It’s too awful. I can’t stand my Facebook wall either. Too many people wrap themselves in the signs, symbols, and sayings of old Europe, without knowing anything at all about the spirit that animated the creation of those signs, symbols, and sayings. I compare it to my old notion of collecting baseball cards:

I loved collecting baseball cards. I knew all the different companies (from Flir, to Upper Deck, to Topps), and carefully separated out all my rookie cards. If the guy turned out to be good, his rookie card would be valuable. I even sorted them by team. The one thing I didn’t care about at all was baseball, itself. Sure, me and the other neighborhood boys, were ushered off to little league a few times a week (during the season). I played “catch” with my dad. But it was all empty. All rote. We did it because it’s what everyone was doing. There was no deep love of the game. I just loved the flashy cards and collecting them.

I loved the *idea* of baseball, but didn’t care a lick for the game.

The majority of people in the Alternative Right milieu love the idea of old Europe, but they don’t care a lick for the people or God who created it. It’s hard for me to see someone like that post a quote from Robert E. Lee or cite a pithy something from Fitzhugh. What do they really know about Lee or Fitzhugh?!

On a lighter note:

I’m prepping for another water fast! I’ll document it here, day by day, as usual.

Looks like I’ll have to work through it; I can’t afford to take the time off. That’s not ideal, I know. Could even be potentially dangerous; you got me. You know what’s more dangerous? Letting my spiritual life plod away into nothingness.

Additionally, if anyone is looking for Big Dan and curious about the rest of his adventure, I’m moving his story to my fiction site, to be slowly worked on and improved. The character Big Dan is based on a real life individual I met and his story about seeing angels in a corn field was told to me, by the man himself, as if it were completely true. Of course, he was an overzealous Pentecostal, so…take that for what it’s worth.

Still…God does seem to do big things for children and the childlike…

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Missing Person!

youngdrummer

“Drummer, Drummer! I pray thee, hear! Hast thou forgotten thou heldest me dear?”

We live in an unprecedented age of spiritual poverty and bondage. The Devil has been set loose among the flock and Europeans – once the standard bearers of Christ – have let go His hand, and, like Peter, dropped into the black depths of modernity; prey for the wolves.

There was one from the Black Forest though, who used to speak on behalf of the poetic spirit of Christendom. The Young Drummer, who believed in miracles and the power of a fairy tale vision.

It is with a heavy heart I bring to the attention of my readers, that, owing to his prolonged absence, my friends and I have begun to suspect the Young Drummer is not only missing, but may be in serious danger.

It’s been so long since we’ve last heard an interview from him – he used to speak regularly to the author of CWNY – that we’ve decided to form a Missing Persons campaign on his behalf. We’ll marshal the resources of the internet to bring him out of hiding and rescue him (if we’re able) from whatever danger has kept him from us.

If you, or anyone you know, has any information on the whereabouts of the Young Drummer, please contact your local search-party leader. Additionally, please take the above picture – which is the most recent image of him available – and broadcast it far and wide.

We last few with beating hearts need his drums now, more than ever.

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Shotgun vs. the Liquid Jew

alien

I was told that if you’re sensitive to caffeine, stop using it for awhile, then take a high dose, it’s liable to give you a panic attack later in the evening. I didn’t believe it as I chugged one of the many brands of liquid jew on the market, but here it is, almost five in the morning and, I believe!

I was sitting on the back porch surfing my daily reading when, out of the corner of my eye I caught a slight movement that looked every bit like a seven-foot-tall “grey” alien, ambling menacingly outside my field of vision.

Whatever it was scared the (redacted) out of me.

The fear gave way to anger. No demon from Hell was going to treat *me* that way. I’m a son of Adam and holder of the sacred fire of the Occident! He shall not pass!!!

I burst out of the screened area onto the deck, shining my flashlight in all directions. A Netflix documentary popped into my mind. It was about this man who was “haunted” by aliens and saw them frequently, as well as mysterious little girls who’d peer at him from between his porch railings. I shined my light to the railings, expecting to see a little white girl with bulging, alien eyes.

“You are *NOT* welcome in my yard, you little minx!”

I didn’t see anything (lucky for the alien) but the dogs a field over were howling for all they were worth. I gathered my things, came back in, and am writing this post – where, I now realize (upon cooler reflection), this is all probably caused by that damned energy drink.

…the liquid Jew.

Not. Even. Once.

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The “Politically Correct” Test…

There’s an odd phenomenon among today’s work-a-day “conservative” masses – they consider themselves “politically incorrect”, while unconsciously holding the most radical left-wing social views. They are so badly educated they’ve become unable to critically analyze their own position and compare (or contrast) it to the “liberals” (who are the bad-guys in the pro-wrestling narrative that is American politics). These “white grazers” have the right emotional disposition towards liberals – a knee jerk hatred of them and their agenda to enforce social norms on the masses – but they don’t realize that their own acceptance of egalitarianism and multiculturalism, is the result of that same enforced enculturation. They’re “reconstructed” without realizing it.

I could rant about this, multiply anecdotes, or point to pop-cultural phenomena that exemplify my point (Gretchen Wilson’s country song “Politically Uncorrect”, with a video that is, well, very politically correct, for example)…but instead, I’d rather get to the business of aiding our bewitched brethren. I’ll offer a quick test – a quiz to help determine if the taker is politically correct or not.

So clear your desks, take out a clean sheet of paper, and get your #2 pencils ready, readers…it’s pop-quiz time here at Shotgun Barrel Straight:

============

True or False?

Question 1: It’s ok to swear, even around women and children, but we must never use racial slurs (like the “n-word”) or terms-of-bigotry towards those with lifestyle preferences we may disagree with.

Question 2: If your child picks up on your linguistic habits and repeats the “f-word” in front of your dinner guests, you’d laugh it off as cute. Kids will be kids, after all. But if your child calls one of your guests a “faggot”, you’d severely punish him. “Wrong F-Word, you little bigot!”

Question 3: Those pesky liberal historians are constantly trying to destroy the good image of our American founders. They clearly want to “re-write” history. But when it comes to the “Dark Ages”, or the American Civil War, or to WWII, we must trust everything these same historians teach.

Question 4: We must always use the preferred ethnic honorific when referring to our non-white brothers: African-American, Arab American, Latin-American, etc. Using any other terminology is not only impolite, but offensive.

Question 5: The old South was a multicultural utopia and the majority of the southern leaders were civil rights advocates; basically, the forerunners of Martin Luther King Jr. In light of this obvious historical fact, it is wrong for negros and other liberals to remove Confederate monuments and symbols.

Question 6: It is vitally important to use hip, upbeat, rock (or more preferably) hip-hop songs in Christian worship. Those old farts who protest, need to be relegated to the back pews, segregated into an earlier worship time, or simply die out. Some may need to be “educated” on the Biblical teaching of multiculturalism and racial harmony, because their objections to Christian Hip Hop may have sinister “racist” motivations.

For the following questions, answer with a number from 0 to 10, where 0 is outright disdain, dislike, or discomfort, and 10 is emphatic agreement or pleasure.

Question 7: How do you feel when Shotgun uses the word “negro” to describe black people?

Question 8: What about above, when Shotgun used the word “faggot”, even though it was in quotes and an obvious allusion to a hypothetical context?

Question 9: How relieved were you when Shotgun used the replacement phrase “n-word”, instead of the actual word?

Question 10: Let’s say, hypothetically, a small handful of those Muslims snuck into America and, without us realizing it, slowly took control of the banking industry, the news industry, all education facilities, and Hollywood. Then, they began working together to influence culture in such a way that we each began hating ourselves and our Christian religion. They begin selling our daughters into slavery and posting lewd pictures of them on the internet. In this hypothetical scenario, would you be willing to round them all up into, say, a political prison camp?


Hand in your papers when you’re done and I’ll grade them. Non-Whites get an automatic curve, of course.

 

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Traveling Knight

questingknight

“Still the knight is young
 and traveling on with pleasure.
Grant him wishes well,
luck in the fullest measure.
Bid you all adieu,
stories to keep and treasure.
When he’s passing through,
ever and on he goes…”

I tweaked those lyrics; I hope the Willis Clan doesn’t mind. They suit me better now. And not just me, but all Christians. We’re all going ever and on. If you’ve stumbled across my blog and you’re not a Christian, you’re not exempt. Thinketh not ye are safe! The refining light of Heaven issues from a terrible being who spares not the wicked from celestial fire…at least I hope He doesn’t.

Don’t hate me! Don’t hate me! I don’t mean I’m wishing you were in Hell – that’d be unkind to my readers. Rather, I’m wishing your submission to the forge of Angels. Consider MacDonald:

TheVeryFire

That flashy intro out of the way, what’s the point of this evening’s post?

I’m traveling onward. Again. Ever and on.

My criticisms of Kinism – not new or capricious – have recently garnered attention. While not necessarily good attention, I consider it a small boon and will say a quick word while I’ve got an audience:

The trouble I have (had?) isn’t so much with the doctrines of Kinism, although I have always had small disagreements hither and yon with this or that talking-point. Rather, looking back, I think I was wrestling with the Reformed faith itself. I’ve noted here (and others have affirmed elsewhere) the importance of Calvinist dogma in laying the intellectual ground of Kinist polemics. There is no better or more thorough defense of racialism in the entire English speaking – perhaps in the entire white – world. No Alternative Rightist, no white nationalist philosopher, no Darwinian HBD guru, has as intimate a grasp of the underlying epistemological issues nor have any of them developed such an intricate, worldview-in-scope philosophical system to underlie their political philosophy. None. Of. Them.

I defy *anyone* to say otherwise – and even now, while I’m something of a pariah in official Kinist channels (and am in some doubt about the Reformed tradition), I could easily defeat such a challenge. Probably within a matter of minutes. They’d be reduced to profanity and sputtering about how useless philosophy is (I’ve seen it happen many times in my career as a Kinist). There are, of course, many who come close; there are some sharp guys in the pro-white community and I don’t want to disparage their work or discourage them. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, whenever a Kinist can be bothered to write the “Kinist Manifesto”, it’ll be the most thorough intellectual defense of the white race ever to have been written (assuming they do a good job in explicating the doctrines).

There’s a problem in the Reformed tradition however.

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere at Shotgun Barrel Straight (and in some of the podcasts I’ve participated in), but there was a split in American Calvinism, corresponding to the North / South divide in America. Refer to it as the “New School / Old School” debate if you’d like, but for those who aren’t interested in arcane Presbyterian history: the North (except Princeton) was radically “liberal” while the South, in whole, was Conservative. It’s difficult to lay out the theological issues specifically since there were so many of them. Nathan Strickland and I did a podcast on Southern Presbyterianism and Kinism which is still on Soundcloud if any of you are interested (the bad audio is completely my fault – I apologize). You can all guess: the Southern Calvinist tradition was lost along with the political South.

What happened afterwards was a spiritual tragedy. Northern religiosity spread throughout the entire country – this has been documented and analyzed elsewhere, especially by the Abbeville Institute (search their articles if you’re interested; also see “Strangers in Zion” by William Glass for a concise study of how “fundamentalism” in the South is an aspect of Northern religious tradition).

For better or worse, this “spirit” (if you will) dominated all of the Reformed tradition although, years later, the conservative wing of it spawned the Christian Reconstruction movement which later spawned Kinism. Kinism, however great, is, nevertheless, mired in the Northern Calvinist religiosity. To the extent most Kinist are Southerners however, they’ve managed to mitigate the negative effects and yet, the total devotion to a dogmatic system is, perhaps, in varying degrees, a disease in all modern religious expression.

And however mean and childish (fill-in-the-blank with whatever other criticism you prefer) you think I am, I’m simply not comfortable with this “Dogma-Uber-Alles” attitude. Hence my struggle with Kinism – a struggle perhaps more with a dogmatic religiosity than with the Kinists themselves (most of whom are still very dear friends – I even still like the ones who claim to be my friends while publicly psychoanalyzing me).

What am I now if not a Calvinist? What am I traveling on to? Onwards and upwards? (Or, downwards if you’re convinced strict adherence to a system is the path to Heaven)? Well that’s just it, isn’t it? What does it mean to be a Calvinist? Is it that I believe in some typically Calvinist doctrines? If so, then maybe I’m still a Calvinist. Or is it that I’m a formal member of an organized church? That, I’m certainly not. Or is it that I participate in and identify as a member of a certain culture, with certain jargon and social habits? If it’s that – and I suspect it is, even if a Calvinist says otherwise – then I’m not at all a Calvinist.

In fact, it’s only been recently that I’ve stopped caring about dogma at all. There are far greater and more important truths about our Father than how His liver might work in conjunction with His pancreas. He’s not on the theologian’s autopsy table.

Call me a “Christian Romantic” if you need a label. My mentors in the Faith are the likes of Lewis, MacDonald, and Owen Barfield…although, don’t suppose that’s an exclusive list. I value Spurgeon and Machen as well. Far more so than anything I’ve ever read in Calvin or Edwards.

At any rate, I still care for many who claim to be Kinists; I don’t suppose for a minute they believe in abstractions over flesh and blood, or dogma over bonds of honor. I’ll never forget the fellowship and in-the-trenches-type battling we’ve done together (many of my Kinist friends came to my defense when I was being slandered by the national media, some even risking exposure and doxxing on my behalf).

…but I’m sorry. I can’t continue traveling the Calvinist path. God is taking me (quite against my will, truth be told) onwards and upwards. To higher truths and a stronger Faith than I ever imagined.

I truly hope He does the same for you (although I pray the flames aren’t as hot for you as they are for me).

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Shotgun and the Leprechaun

Leprechaun

If you’re wondering what happened to my response to Ehud’s F&H slam article, I’ve unpublished it. I decided to take the high road; be the bigger man, as it were. So come, my minions. Critique me; psychoanalyze me; make judgements about me based on little more than a phone conversation we had years ago. I welcome it. Really. I’ll enter your criticisms in the footnotes of my ten-chapter-long memoir (which I’m sure F&H will publish).

…but if you’re new to my blog (visiting thanks to the publicity my friends decided, out of the blue, to offer me), then be mindful that I’ve been publishing my struggles with the Christian Faith. You’ll be interested to know that after a particularly dark bout of providence and a resulting spate of angry prayers, I challenged God to discipline me. He did, in at least two instances, both of which, oddly (though humorously) had an Irish twist. The first was a few weeks ago and is recorded in my last post (Luck of the Irate). Here’s how the second happened:


Suffice it to say, I was having a case of the Mondays. Two hours from home, my car had broken down in coon-town. My radiator was bone dry and I was in a vacant lot surrounded by be-bopping jacobins. Was this God punishing me again?! “Well…” I reminded myself, “…I asked for it.” Asked for it indeed, with a healthy side of profanity. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure God disciplines us whether we ask for it or not. Best not to ask for it.

Luckily (and the irony of that word doesn’t escape me), there was an auto parts store about half a mile away. Believe it or not, it was an Irish-themed establishment with, you guessed it, a large shamrock as part of their logo. I put my pistol in my back pocket and set out to a gas station to get water. I was able to fill the reservoir enough so the car would start, then managed to drive it out of the lot and down to the O’Reilly’s. I had a busted seal in my thermostat housing; the water blew out so fast the radiator was dry again by the time I arrived. I thought I could purchase sealant and plug it enough to get home.

…turned out, that was wishful thinking. There was no way the sealant could plug the entire leak. At that point, I called my dad, who had to stop what he was doing and drive two hours with tools so we could perform a minor operation right there in the parking lot; we’d have to replace the entire thermostat. In the mean time, I needed more water (to re-fill the radiator), and asked the clerk if I could get some. “In the back,” he said.

I’ve had radiator issues before and I knew about the large sinks in auto stores. They use them to fill mop buckets but they’re also ideal for milk jugs. Sad to say, when I got to the back, theirs had an “out of order” sign on it. I swore. All the frustration of my recent religious struggles hit me full force. “Why God!?!? Again?! You just can’t give me any good luck, can you?!”

If you’ve arrived at my blog from F&H you might be used to judging your fellows harshly. I implore you not to in my case. There are times we all lose our cool and the pressures of life, even the relatively small ones, act as proverbial “feathers” to break a peeved-off camel’s back; or my back, as the case may be. Broke down in coon town, surrounded by vagrants and thugs. Even the O’Reilly’s employees were shady looking. It just wasn’t my lucky day. Until…

“Hey man…maybe I can help?” a voice said.

I turned around and…you’ll never believe it… there was a midget. A friendly lil’ feller, who, despite his stature, had the trustworthy features of an honorable, normal sized white man. He was holding a water key.

“Yeah…” he explained, “…this one’s broke so we’ve been having to use the outside spigot. You have to have this key though. Come on, I’ll help you out.” And help he did.

A kind word and friendly hand at the right moment, dear readers, mean all the world to a Christian down on his luck.

…although, maybe I wasn’t down on luck after all?

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Luck of the Irate

irate

Here’s a pro tip guys: if you give a girl flowers and she’s disappointed because they’re not edible or otherwise useful around the farm, marry her.

Here’s another pro tip: no matter how angry you get at God, never challenge Him to discipline you. “Come on! Do it! We both know you wont! We both know I’m out of the covenant and praying to a God who doesn’t answer prayers! You only discipline those you love anyway; I’d prefer that to silence. So come on! Have at it!”

If, hypothetically, you ever pray such a prayer, consider the following two stories about what happened to me after doing so. Interestingly enough, both anecdotes have an Irish twist. The symbolism escapes me but in hindsight, adds an hilarious irony I can’t write off as coincidence. No, what I’m about to relate are real interactions between God and man. My awe (and frustration) aside, if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned they might still be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Heaven…


The first happened a few weeks ago. I was angry because God seems capricious, “…you’re no better than a weathervain, Lord.” He blesses one minute, curses the next. This makes God more of an impersonal force than a divine person. We may as well be praying to the wind. Although that’s not quite true either (so I reasoned). No, the wind, at least, changes directions from time to time. With God it’s a never-ending stream of bad luck. “Why can’t you be more like the wind, God?! Change it up a little! Give me some good luck for a change!”

The next morning I got out ye olde power washer, put on my headphones, and began a long day of labor. Hours went by. I washed everything, high and low; destroyed wasps, spiders, pollen, and mold. I had to re-fill the gas tank five times. As the day was wearing down, the machine inexplicably shut off. I checked the gas – it had plenty. I checked the water – it was on full blast. The engine started but I wasn’t getting any pressure.

After messing with it and performing all the troubleshooting I could, I decided my water pump had gone bad. It’s a fairly common problem with pressure washers. Unfortunately, a new pump costs almost as much as the whole machine. I’d have to scrap it. “See, God?! This is exactly what I’m talking about! Where’s my luck?! Why can’t I have good luck for a change?!”

As I began coiling the hose and preparing for a disappointing end to the day, it occurred to me there was one thing left I might try. I hadn’t checked the water hose’s connection to the washer. Maybe, somehow or other, something had gotten lodged in there? So I squatted down, hunkered over the connector, and released it. As soon as I did, residual pressure exploded out of the nozzle, blowing… (and you’ll never believe this)…clovers all in my face. Shamrocks! Not just a few, ladies and gents; an entire face full of stereotypical good luck charms. They were clogging the hose and blocking the water. It took me awhile to clean them all out, there were so many.

Now you tell me, you science-minded denizens of modernity…you tell me how that many clovers got into my water hose. You tell me how they made it through miles of county pipe to arrive, at the most ironic of times, plastered all over my face.

Fun Fact: St. Patrick, it’s sometimes said, thought of the Shamrock as a symbol of the Holy Trinity.


In the interest of keeping these posts a manageable size, I’ll post the second story tomorrow. It may involve a leprechaun!

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