Posted by wolfhound at 7/20/2009 3:57 PM EDT
Even among jaded New Yorkers, there are few people low enough to speak ill of the dead, much less shyte on their still-warm bodies.
But when you're quite ill yourself, like stark-raving mad Catholic League (Membership: 1) President Bill Donohue, speaking ill comes very easily.
This happily solitary voice from a century best forgotten chirps up every now and then to condemn this and decry that, as this is the only kind of language he is familiar with. If it's not in Donohue's version of the Bible, which he authored himself to ensure accuracy, it's evil and off to hell with you.
This foul beast Donohue now gurgles up from the clogged toilet that is his life to condemn the late author Frank McCourt, a well-earned recipient of the Pulitzer Prize (among others) for his masterpiece, "Angela's Ashes," as well as for other original works and books that became major motion pictures and theatrical productions.
Like William Butler Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, and Flannery O'Connor before him; and Brian Friel, Pete Hamill, Jim Dwyer and many other Irish who were his contemporaries, McCourt has made it across the line that separates those who write words from those who write literature. His work has been seen, respected and loved by millions, and today there are many tears and many eulogies from all quarters of society in his remembrance.
But not from the Catholic League Insane Asylum and its one pathetic, untreatable patient. As he hates The New York Times even more than he hates Frank McCourt, the great author's eulogy in The Times, with an accompanying excerpt from "Angela's Ashes," gave Bill the opportunity every split-personality hallucinates about: to kill two stones with one bird.
Here is the entire enraging quotation from "Angela's Ashes" which The Times printed, and which, to Donohue, is a certified entry pass to hell for its author. In it, McCourt describes the fear surrounding his First Communion as a young boy in Ireland:
Then he [the priest] placed on my tongue the wafer, the body and blood of Jesus. At last, at last. It’s on my tongue. I draw it back. It stuck. I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the master’s voice, Don’t let that host touch your teeth for if you bite God in two you’ll roast in hell for eternity. I tried to get God down with my tongue but the priest hissed at me, Stop that clucking and get back to your seat. God was good. He melted and I swallowed Him and now, at last, I was a member of the True Church, an official sinner.
My God, what filth this satanic McCourt could summon up! The devil's own words, screamed Bill! But this, he says, was par for the course in McCourt's lifelong crusade against Catholicism, which was lapped up by his "sophomoric fans."
What a fekking idiot!
McCourt did indeed have a lot to say about the Irish Catholic Church and what it was like to grow up with this "institution" -- now revealed to be Ground Zero for pedophiles and the conspirators who would cover up their every foul deed -- running not just their church, but the government and the very life of nation.
If Donohue really wants to read something "anti-Catholic," as he describes McCourt's work, he should order a large-type edition of the Ryan Commission report on church child abuse. Or, if he likes, he can wait a day until the Dublin Archdiocese tell-all, which if it is possible to be more damning to the Catholic Church, will be.
But McCourt's humorous and gentle recollection of a young boy's anxiety over chewing the communion wafer? Or his wise if pointed jibes at growing up Irish Catholic in a society ruled by the Holiest of the Holy who turned their church into an unholy pit?
Go to hell, Bill.
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