Shoot straight, you bastards...

...or your History Lesson For Today!

Harry Morant was an Australian/English soldier and poet who fought for the Crown during the Boer Wars in South Africa in the latter part of the 19th century. For those of you who haven't ever clicked the "Random Article" button in Wikipedia, the "Boer Wars" was a fancy name for one of those routine cans of whoop-ass that Britain was known to quite regularly open up all over the previous settlers of a land they wanted to occupy whenever said peoples had the nuts to raise their hands (guns, clubs, pointy sticks, etc.) collectively and say "Erm...Not to be rude, but...we sort of live here." To which some impossibly mustachioed general (perhaps wearing a monacle, I haven't decided) would then reply "The sun shall never set on the Empire!" Then, a whole lot of better-armed but very polite and well spoken invaders would jump out and yell "Bloody well right!" and then...I don't know, crumpets or something. End result = South Africans kind of have a British accent. And so do Indians. And people from New England (I know, I was surprised, too. I lived there my whole life and just assumed the name was a freak coincedence. You know, like New Coke.)

Anyway, old Harry up there, along with a few buddies, killed a mess of Boer prisoners of war one day, acting on orders from his commanding officer (allegedly). Also, he killed some German guy who happened to witness it. Also, I think some kittens. So, the LDIC (Limey Dudes In Charge, stay with me here, people, I can't take time to explain all my acronyms) arrested Harry and his buddies and held a court martial; which for the British is a tea party where one guy doesn't get biscuits. Skip ahead, and Harry and his accomplices are sentenced to death by firing squad.

It turns out that his commanding officer probably did send a telegram telling his men to, in effect, just kill the living hell out of any Boer officers wearing khaki. Whether or not khaki was the uniform color of high ranking officers or this guy hated the Gap as much as I do (with all of my tiny, black soul) remains a mystery (or not, I may just have skipped that part). And also, the Boers in question may or may not have killed Morant's bestest friend in the whole world, mutilating him horribly (seriously.) Bummer. And, on the day of the execution, "as the afternoon wore on, all the prisoners could clearly hear the sound of coffins being built in the nearby workshop"...Double whammy.


Why bring up this seemingly minor event in British colonial history at all? Because fuck you, I find it interesting. And because Morant eventually became something of a folk hero. In Australia, much as in Ireland, if you get fucked by the British and someone writes it down, the folk hero thing is almost automatic. Then you get a movie made about you. Seriously, it's called Breaker Morant and it got nominated for an Oscar in 1980.

Of course, it turns out it's total bullshit. The transcripts of the court martial mysteriously disappeared from the House of Commons, and most of Morant's story was probably made up so some dude who was supposedly there could sell a bunch of books.

Again, why even bring it up when there are literally THOUSANDS of folk heroes across the world whose stories are probably just as much bullshit? (Hell, even Gandhi was, in reality, kind of a douche.)

Simple answer. Morant's last words as he faced a line of men armed with rifles pointed directly at his center mass:

"Shoot straight, you bastards. Don't make a mess of it."


How bad ass is that?! I'm pretty sure Gandhi's last words were something about really wanting a sandwich. (Actually, Gandhi had probably the most genuine last word ever. According to a witness, after he was shot, Gandhi made a noise like "Uh...." and then collapsed against a wall. You try to say anything sage like after you get shot. See if you can top "Uh...")

The End.

Capo di tutti capi...

I was watching the trailer for The Godfather II game today, and a few things occurred to me. One of these things was that I'm pretty sure I'm going to enjoy the hell out of this game. The gameplay seems like a refined and tweaked version of the first one, which was almost pitch perfect in the first place. The Godfather was, and is, one of my favorite games on the XBox 360. It's like you're playing the movie which, as all men will tell you, is really all we want in life: to be able to say, in all seriousness, "Never ask me about my business," and then have one of your lackeys close the door all slow and sinister like. AND THAT'S THE END OF THE ARGUMENT! AND YOU WIN! AND IF THEY QUESTION YOU, LUCA BRASI SLEEPS WITH THE FISHES, SEE! (or something like that) Plus, it would rock to look as impressive as Al Pacino in a suit. Well, Al Pacino in a suit in 1972. I love Pacino, but lately, he looks like a pile of old laundry being humped by one of those wrinkly dogs. Hoo-ah!

Another thing that occured to me, through a little roundabout thinking, is that I miss James Gandolfini. I don't lie away thinking about it or anything, but it's sad. Tony Soprano, and by extension, James Gandolfini, is one of the most fascinating characters in modern storytelling. He alternates between Joe Pesci from Goodfellas, Robert DeNiro in The Untouchables and George from Seinfeld many times through the course of an episode, and sometimes through the course of a sentence. And the character wouldn't have been as effective in the hands of another man. (Wow, that last sentence sounded unintentionally molesty. Eh...I stand by it.) And then The Sopranos was over (and the ending was fucking awesome, and if you disagree then you're wrong and should feel terrible), and he went away for awhile. I haven't had nearly enough James Gandolfini in my life lately; Luckily, as IMDB would have it, he's starring in no less than 6 films in the next year and some, and in one of those films he's playing Ernest Fucking Hemingway. (another of those films is called Sexual Healing, but less gloss over that one. He's a hairy, hairy man and the idea of him in a movie called Sexual Healing makes my stomach feel all...sad.)

That's right, Papa Hemingway, the man responsible for the creation of some of the roughest, meanest, bull-fightingest, mysogynistic...um...est men in the history of literature; the man who routinely drank enough liquor befire breakfast to take down a bull elephant, and the man who could have ruled France like the bad ass warrior king they so desperately, desperately need if he didn't think they were too goddamned wussy is going to be immortalized on film by TONY MOTHERFUCKING SOPRANO. That is the manliest thing that has ever happened. EVER. You know that old guy who sells juicers on late night infomercials that once pulled a bus with his teeth from Oakland to Seattle? Yup, manlier than him. The guy on the Discovery Channel with all the tattoos who routinely rams spikes through his face with a hammer? Manlier than him, too. We're talking some superhuman mash-up of Conan the Barbarian, Batman, Keyser Soze and The Rock that's currently wearing John Rambo's headband kind of manly. This Hemingway could slam your head repeatedly in a car door while simultaneously banging the hot neighbor lady AND writing a Pulitzer Prize winning novel. All this while wearing one of those beer helmets. Full of gin. On fire.

The film isn't slated til 2011, but I guarantee you it'll be haunting dreams everywhere this Friday. Watch it...or you're totally gay.

Another, shorter, less ranty thing that occurred to me during all this was that mobsters seem to have cornered the market on bad ass nicknames. Whitey, Lucky, Sammy the Bull, Lefty Guns, Paulie Walnuts, Big Pussy, etc. You don't generally run into a green grocer named Knuckles. Or a tax attorney named Pretty Boy. Let's take this one back for the working man. By the end of the week, I want to have met, at the very least, a mail clerk named The Louisville Slugger and two guys at the Safeway named Machete and The Thumb, respectively. There's your brilliant idea for today. Make it happen.

Roads? Where we're going we don't need....roads.

I realize I haven't updated this thing in a while. With our new president firmly in the buttery leather seat of the Oval Office, I guess I've just been too damn upbeat to rant lately. Either that, or I've been sick and whiny. Whichever one makes me sound more butch.

Anyway, this one is going to be a two-topic post, both of which relate to the title, as always. Topic number one: History is the best damn soap opera you'll ever come across.

I've always been fascinated by where we've been as a species. Seriously, how did we get from monkeys: hyper-active, angry, furry, hilarious critters flinging crap at each other from tree to tree, to 21st century humans: lethargic, angry, slightly less furry, hilarious (in that sad sort of way) critters flinging crap at each other in...I don't know...boardrooms and...well, internet blogs? Though that last sentence may seem a little on the glass-is-half-empty side of things, I am honestly pro-humanity. In a localized sense, individual humans are crazy, weird, awesome, despicable, beautiful, hideous, wacky fuckers that can simultaneously uplift and destroy my faith in the universe. We are ALWAYS entertaining.

Lately, I've been kind of poking around in the seedier parts of American history. If history in general is, say, Montel Williams, American history is TOTALLY Jerry Springer. Europeans have their share of dirty secrets and then some, so let's not give them a complete pass, but they've had thousands of years ; to continue my talk show analogy, Europe is the "Who's My Baby's Daddy?" episode of Maury Povich (a lot of screwed up stuff happening in the span of a half hour) while America is the "My Uncle is My Baby's Daddy!" episode of Springer (a lot of REALLY screwed up stuff happening, say, during the opening credits).

There are a lot of great books on the more colorful bits of American history, but I'll recommend three that I've been reading recently just for flavor:

Lies My Teacher Told Me examines the many and varied inconsistencies, simplifications and downright falsehoods perpetrated by American history textbooks from Columbus on down. It's fascinating, funny, and enlightening; and its no-holds-barred portrayal of the history of America is as bloody and porn-filled as anything on Cinemax at 2 A.M.

Lies Across America; similar to the above tome, and by the same author, this one looks at our beloved historical landmarks and how we cartoonize the history of our American heroes to fit on the little plaques attached to museum exhibits. Here's a bit of trivia: Abraham Lincoln's birthplace, the famous log-cabin, was built after he'd been dead a good while. Lies are fun!

Our Bastard Tongue, a history of the English language that focuses on its uniqueness. English, though a Germanic language, has more in common grammatically with the Celtic languages of Gaelic and Welsh. The author examines this peculiarity and in turn paints a picture of the early English-speaking world that is both intelectually fulfilling, and somehow kind of sexy.

Anyway, just a little something for when you're bored on a rainy day. You'll learn more than you did in high school History class, and pick up some awesome nuggets of filth to amaze your friends at parties. Knowing where we've been gives one a new fascination for where the hell it is we're going.

Like an episode of Springer, we're at times funny, sad, disturbing and/or incomprehensible, and we can sure as hell take a chair to the head and keep on swinging. Hell, we're so drunk, we didn't even feel it! Jerry, Jerry Jerry! I mean, U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!


Topic number two: Michael J. Fox is my hero. That's it. That dude is a fucking hoss, and I wouldn't be surprised if he PERSONALLY cured Parkinson's and then kicked it in the balls, Alex P. Keaton style. You rock, McFly.

We are all precancerous...

I watch a lot of night time TV. When you live in the suburbs, they roll up the sidewalks at 9:30 every night, so there's really little else to do on a day-by-day basis. Organizing those box socials you're all so damn fond of takes a lot of work and being a lazy kind of guy by nature, I can really only be expected to pull them off on a semi-annual basis. The bills for the ice sculptures alone are GHASTLY. That being the case, most nights after work the missus (she doesn't blog on as regular a basis as I do, but if you listen really closely, you can hear her ranting in "out loud" words most of the time. It doesn't give one the opportunity to savor every letter like my awesome "written down" words do, but it's way more violent. And I'm always pro-violence. ALWAYS. Anyway, go back up and read the beginning of the sentence again, because by now you've forgotten it.) and I usually mellow out with a movie or, failing anything interesting, the three to four hours of Friends they run every night on the CW. (Ed Note: I hate Friends. Once the monkey left, it was all downhill. You should feel bad for liking it.)

All exposition aside, I've been noticing a commercial lately for the Cancer Treatment Centers of America. I don't know if these commercials are a nationwide thing, but a quick perusal of their website shows facilities all over America, so chances are they run on your TV, too. The next time one comes on, pay close attention to it. If you're like me (read: filled with white-hot hatred the texture and flavor of delicious marshmallow Fluff on, like, a 24/7 basis), you'll vomit with rage.

"But K-Dawg," you might say (if you were one of the many people who refers to me as such in both conversation and thought), "Surely you're not going to shank a new one into the soft belly of a cancer hospital! They treat sick and dying people, and give families with no hope some glimmer of brightness in an otherwise bleak and unforgiving universe..."

Oh hell yes I am, Chester. Oh hell yes I am.

Let me clarify that: I have nothing but respect for the doctors, nurses, physician's assistans, hospice care workers, orderlies, accountants, janitors, gift shop employees and whoever else makes up the staff of a hospital or otherwise gives care to those of us who are in our most needy hour. People who work everyday fighting disease, treating injuries, and generally tapping Death on the shoulder and saying "Hey, look over there, what the hell is that?!" so that we might have an improved quality of life; so that a child will spend another Christmas with his grandma, so that Uncle Walt can walk on his own these days, and so any of us get to spend just a little while longer in this crazy-ass funhouse called life, are fucking heroes. Hands down.

And I don't have anything against the buildings themselves. Some of the architecture is very nice, quite modern and tasteful.

That being said: Fuck that commercial and whatever self-indulgent fuck decided that that's how they wanted all the people (and buildings) above represented to the people they're trying to reach.

Basically, said commercial is just a long string of testimonials from various patients (or actors, I really don't know): "When I was diagnosed with cancer of the (body part), I thought 'Damn, Gina. I'm wicked screwed.' I went to the hospital and the doctors told me 'You're totally gonna die in, like, a week. Seriously, you should probably start giving your shit away now. Here's some morphine. Drink it all, it'll be easier that way. Peace out, dead guy.' And then they threw some gang signs at me. But then I went to Cancer Treatment Centers of America, and in less than a week, not only did they cure the fuck out of my cancer, but now I can fly and have heat vision!"

Ok, so that's a little hyperbole for you. But once the actualy commercial spun around in my brain for awhile and I'd seen it a few more times, that's the impression I got: "Your doctors don't give a shit, they're dumber than hell and they don't care if you die. We've got some magic potion that not one single other doctor in modern medicine has ever heard of. Call us, and we'll cure you. That's right: WE CAN CURE CANCER!" Seriously, watch this commercial and tell me different.

Now, I can only imagine a doctor in an oncology ward having to watch this. Or being someone fighting cancer having to watch this. These people deal with the gravity of these diseases every day. Every little positive step is a miracle, and every setback is crushing. And then you hear about these guys at Cancer Treatment Centers of America, and your hopes get lifted, and you spend a shitload of money to get there and you find out that they're just plugging along hoping to get lucky and find an effective treatment for each of their patients the same as every other oncologist in the world. That's what really bothered me about this thing: the smugness. The sense that "All other oncologists are dumber than us. Fuck those guys."

I'm sure that the doctors and everyone else at Cancer Treatment Centers are working their asses off to help their patients. Or researching the hell out of any thread that might pan out to something useful. Or holding their patient's hand while giving them bad news, or good news, or telling them jokes, or whatever. They're probably awesome doctors. My only point is there are a lot of awesome doctors in the world, doing the same thing at hospitals all over the place. They're all trying like hell to make their patients' lives better. It's their job. And they know that THEY CANT CURE CANCER. And they don't claim to. But they keep trying. Watch a St. Jude's commercial to see how it ought to be done. They tell you, "Listen, cancer sucks. It sucks hard. And we can't cure it. But we're trying, and we're getting there. And little Jimmy here is probably gonna live long enough to get laid after the prom because of it." AND they'll get Robin Williams to say it.

Patch Adams out, fuckers.

...Claves Regni Cælorum...

So, tonight as I'm driving home from work, I notice an inordinately large number of cars sporting "Vote the Bible" bumper stickers left over from Election Day. Granted, I live in Texas, but still, it's a lot more than you'd think; Houston's generally a more laid back place than the traditional image of Texas would have one believe. Being a major metropolitan area, cultural melting pot and at least somewhat interesting place to science it up like a motherfucker kind of lends it a more mellow vibe. They have mega-churches and evangelical, jesus-freaky preachers, and sure they're both (churches and preachers alike) garish eyesores that rape the senses of anyone who doesn't buy in to their "BELIEVE IT OR ELSE" ethos. But there's a sense that most of the people here roll their eyes at that kind of thing. Ok, maybe not most, but enough of a percentage to where I'm not burned in effigy as a heretic on a nightly basis. Fortnightly, maybe, but I can deal with that. Hell, Harris County (the county that Houston is in) even voted Democratic in the majority last November. Not that it really matters, of course. This is America, and people can vote how they please (which is why the following is such a damn kick in the teeth).

Every now and then, shit like this will pop up and remind me that I'm technically living in the crotch of the Bible Belt. Any of us could guess at what "Vote the Bible" means, and we'd be right, but just for shits and grins, I Googled "Vote the Bible" when I got home, just to hear it in a little more soul-crushing detail. From votethebible.com:

"Christians have the responsibility, entitlement, and the God given right to take America back from the special interests of Anti-Christian extremists. We can accomplish this most noble task by exercising our vote. In this critical and important time, Christians must not be influenced to vote for their personal political preferences or interests, political party affiliation, not their individual financial purposes, nor the pigmentation of a candidate's skin. Vote the Bible on the issues that will determine the fate of America. Vote for the candidates that are pro life, pro traditional marriage, pro prayer in private and public places, and that embrace the Judeo Christian heritage of this nation. This election year is perhaps the most important we have ever faced. With God's blessings and by encouraging our fellow Christians to collectively "Vote The Bible" we can take America back."

Pissed off yet? Check this out, from The Most Reverend Dickface Jones...I mean, Pastor Steve Fender, figurehead of votethebible.com:

"Sometimes prevention is a greater manifestation of love than tolerance. Such as, prevention of a child from traffic or a burning fire. Some behavior should not be tolerated.
Comparing the behavior of homosexuality to the civil rights of
minorities is racism."

Squeezable Sweet Baby Ray, that's one hell of a nutjob. Leaving aside the terrible quality of the writing ("For the love of Jah-eez-us, Matilda, we MUST prevent that child from that burning fire!" Ass. ) This man is actually using the argument of racism to SUPPORT PREJUDICE! What the fuck, man?! That's like comparing oranges to oranges and then calling it the Holocaust. Ok, maybe it's not like that, but this prick makes less sense than I do, so I win.

Picking through his hate-filled garbage, one may find the thread of an argument that suggests that the struggles of the gay community are nothing like those of racial minorities. YES THEY GOOD AND FUCKING WELL ARE! Here you have a group of people who have been denied the basic rights afforded to others. They've beaten, spit on, jeered and otherwise roundly mistreated for many many years because they're different. And now they're fighting for the rights that everyone else gets by simple virtue of living in America. Or the U.K. or wherever, it's the same story (more or less; gay marriage is legal in England, last I checked. You go, Elton!) If that doesn't sound a hell of a lot like the Civil Rights Movement of the 60's, I'll suck a cock on Christmas. Are the things they've had to endure exactly the same? Not at all, but they're close enough for comparison. And saying "Jeez, man, those gay dudes sure have had to overcome a lot. So have those black dudes." Is NOT the same as saying "Jeez, man, I'm going to give this job I have available to that less qualified white dude because I sure do dislike the darkies." One is racism. One is not. Thus proving one of my long held beliefs: THE BIBLE IS NOT A FUCKING DICTIONARY AFTER ALL.

The Vote the Bible movement isn't limited to voting to deny homosexuals the right to marry or file their taxes together or receive joint health benefits. Not by a long shot. It throws in its two cents, as it always does, on liberalism, abortion, any religion that isn't Protestant, sexy entertainment, and basically anything fun at all.

Ok, here's my stance in a nutshell: AMERICA ISN'T "YOURS," ASSHOLE. It's ours. Mine, and yours and that guy's and that chick's and the skank at the end of the bar's, and the weird gay dude on the corner in nothing but a green speedo and roller blades's, and Barack Obama's and George Bush's and Jerry Falwell's and Kareem Abdul Jabar's and whoever else is lucky enough to hang here with us's. It's all of ours. And America, as much as it may look like it, does not have a "Judeo-Christian heritage." Yes, through much of its history, the majority of people in positions of power in America have been Christian. But that does not make this a Christian nation. It makes it a nation with Christians in it. And the moment, the fucking instant that you deny another individual a right that any other individual enjoys simply because you do not agree with his or her choice of sexual partner, or skin color, or because you think the invisible avenger you pray to could totally beat up the invisible avenger that dude's praying to, then America the way it's been promised to us is well and truly gone. Jesus himself said (The dude in the book, not the for real dude, I have no idea what he said, but I'll bet it was hardcore.) "In my father's house there are many mansions." Even in Heaven, there's room for pretty much everyone.

You think America's better than Heaven, Vote the Bible Guy? Wow.

Your move.


Don't Vote the Bible. Vote some goddamned common sense. And fuck the Most Reverend Dr. Prickface right in the mouth. Forever and ever. Amen.

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me...

I was reading a little about Sigmund Freud, mostly on the first chunk of his career, which can be summed up by the following: "COCAINE SURE IS GREAT, HUH GUYS?! MAN I SURE DO LOVE THIS COCAINE! I'LL BET IT'LL MAKE OTHER PEOPLE FEEL GREAT, TOO! EVERYBODY DO SOME BLOW!" Anyway, this lead to a generally poke around the psychology and psychiatry articles in Wikipedia. This, in turn, caused me to be reminded of something that had, until now, been confined to that shadowy area of my brain marked "Things That Give Me the Jibblies; A-L:" Lobotomy (Frontal). The premise behind the lobotomy is essentially this:

Dr. Prickface: Hmm....these mental patients of mine sure have been acting up a lot lately. That one over there can't stop screaming something about voices, and that one behind him has been stabbing that other one repeatedly in the neck with a fork. Wow, dude. Those are some messed up cats. I wonder if I could cut up their brains and take out the bad parts, leaving only the good parts behind. Hmmm...

Assistant: But Doctor, don't we have access to only the most rudimentary implements for cranial surgery? And only a very basic knowledge of what parts of the brain control which functions? And thus, don't we risk removing large portions of healthy, functioning brain tissue, leaving the patient not much better off than, say, an eternally tormented houseplant, locked forever in the shell of drooling sadness that was once at least a passable human being?

Dr Prickface: Only one way to make an omelette, Jimmy. Now, hand me that hacksaw. Better get some duct tape, too. And some paper towels. Science!


So the lobotomy became a common, if controversial treatment for such extreme mential disorders as schizophrenia, extreme epileptic seizures, violent, psychopathic behavior, and teenage rebellion. No, seriously. If your kid was a pain in the ass in the 30's, 40's or 50's, fuck all the "involved parenting" and "kids will be kids" bullshit. Strap that fucker down, Jackson! He won't ever get straight A's again, but at least he's stopped mouthing off. And...you know...speaking in general. And not shitting his pants. But hey, a well behaved teenager, you must be great parents, right?

But for all the negativity, at least the lobotomy was a somewhat legit surgical procedure. It still required use of anasthesia, proper surgical tools and an operating room. Until 1946, that is. That's when Dr. Walter Frankenstein...I mean, Freeman, invented the "transorbital lobotomy," which involved...ready for it?....: SHOVING A FUCKING ICE PICK FROM HIS KITCHEN THROUGH SOMEONE'S EYE SOCKET AND SCRAMBLING HIS FRONTAL CORTEX. No, seriously, this motherfucker used an ice pick to perform brain surgery. But at least now it could be done in state mental facilities without access to an operating room or surgial tools. Or, you know, even real medical doctors. Fuck it, get the janitor, he looks like a strong dude. And they didn't even need to anaesthetize the poor fuck; Freeman suggested just electrocuting them until they passed out. Seriously.

Freeman himself even performed his transorbital lobotomy on JFK's sister after their father complained of her being too moody. It cured her bitchiness right up, of course; with the unfortunate side effect of reducing her to a childlike imbecile, incapable of speech beyond an incomprehensible babble and unable to control her own bodily functions. No worries, though. They just locked her up for a while and claimed she'd actually been born retarded.

One good thing that came of it: in 1968, her sister Eunice founded the Special Olympics, thereby ensuring that handicapped people everywhere would get to show off their skill and athletic prowess and experience the thrill of being the best. She also secured the rest of us a special place in the deepest levels of Hell because, goddamn that shit is funny.

Come down off the cross, we can use the wood...

Just a quick one today. It's late and I'm tired.

I was watching a special on crucifixion last night. They were trying to use forensic evidence unearthed during archaeological digs and textual evidence from the bible and historians of the time and such to reconstruct exactly how the Romans would have crucified someone. Turns out, they'd probably be made to carry not the whole cross, just the crossbeam, the cross would look more like a capital T, and they'd have a nail driven through each ankle, straddling each side of the cross with their feet on a platform. Anyway, that's neat and all, but what really intrigued me were the experiments they conducted with an actual living person. This person was chosen specifically for his build, which the historians involved deemed relatively similar to the build of a 33 year old Galilean around 2,000 years ago (Yeah, the History Channel gets all Jesus crazy around Christmas, I know but at least they crank out the devil really good around Halloween. Black masses and blood orgies and whatnot. Good stuff.) Anyway, they had this dude perform various stations of the cross as depicted, well, on the walls of every Catholic church I was ever forced into as a child, to see if they were physically possible and thus historically plausible. After several tries and several different methods, they came to the conclusions I noted above. What I wonder, and I what I pose to you is this: I assume being involved with a documentary on what is essentially the Passion of the Christ, this guy is at least a somewhat practicing Christian. As such, he may or may not see it as honorable, putting himself through what Jesus himself supposedly went through. But what if for this guy, physically, it turned out to be not that big a deal after all? What if Some Dude handled crucifixion better than the supposed Son of God? Would he feel good about that? Me personally, I'd be pumped. I'd have shirts made that said "Jesus was a pussy. I got crucified and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."