Flogging the Dead to Sell a Load of Crap

—Gee, and I thought this was going to be a thread about John Edward.—

Pretty similar phenomenon really. Using the dead to mouth what you want to say. Who knows if any of those soldiers would have been for or against the current war? Who knows what things dead loved ones would want to convey to their living relatives? Dunleavy and Edward don’t. It’s not fair to speak for the dead.

In Flanders Field
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Steve Dunleavy is a creepy, dishonest AUSTRALIAN* who is only the latest in a long line of creepy dishonest columnists at the New York Post. Remember Ray Kerrison? Dorothy Rabinowitz? It’s unbelievable that any intelligent person would read that rag. I suppose that since it only costs a quarter, it could come in handy for picking up dog shit off the sidewalk.

  • I mention Dunleavy’s nationality only because he seems to make such a big fucking deal of his America-love-it-or-leave-it political stance. No disrespect intended to Australians, most of whom I’m pretty sure were thrilled to have this ranting jerk depart the homeland for the US.

we can all do the Lyrics game doghouse



Well how do you do, young Willie McBride,
do youmind if I sit here down by your graveside.
And rest for a while 'neath the warm summer sun.
I’ve been working all day and I’m nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
when you joined the dead heroes of nineteen-sixteen.
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean.
Or Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
There’s a warm summer breeze. it makes the red poppies dance
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’s no guns firing now
But here in this graveyard it’s still no-man’s-land
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.