Call Me Lucky

I'm convinced that if you could just hop into this time machine I've got here with me and go back a few thousand years to when there were hair-shirt Biblical prophets running around eating locusts and cutting their personal concubines into pieces, you would find that they were a generally unpleasant, unpopular group of scruffians.

Not just the stink of their unwashed bodies, but also their thoroughly un-politic yelling at the powers-that-were, and the way they perpetually violated every societal norm they could think of in their demand for justice, justice, justice.

Oh, and they'd be swearing a lot—like Jesus might've done, I reckon—because there's some sort of symbiotic relationship I don't quite understand between the profane and the holy.

Anyway, I just finished watching a great, moving documentary about one of our modern-day prophets, a Mr. Barry Crimmins. I recommend you check it out, and tell a friend, and then also do something.

Because like all good prophets, Crimmins' voice demands action.


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