Another side of a recent foreign incident.

I've read up on the fiery, tragic incident of the mosque slayings in Christchurch, New Zealand on Friday.  They're calling it the worst mass murder in New Zealand's modern history.  It certainly seems  like it is, no argument from me there.
But among the tears they're shedding around the world, is the notion that the world itself has become such a dark and horrible place, and this shooting incident proves it, that the world just isn't worth living in anymore, New Zealand especially, compared to the absolutely ubiquitously mentioned "good old days."
Excuse me, but THAT is where my concurrence stops cold.
There is another way of looking at the essence of this incident.  However horrible this apparent genocide is—a genocide by New Zealand's standards, definitely, anyway—one has to factor that every national culture has to have its national tragedy in some age, sooner or later.  This proves it.  We had 9/11; Ukraine had Chernobyl; New Zealand has this mosque massacre.  I know it's bad.  But don't blame the rest of the world.  And don't blame the times.  At least show sensitivity for the victims and their families; it'll take quite a few tears to heal the wounds, and a bit of time.  However, there is something to be learned from this.
And that's a lesson about the gaps in religious culture, anywhere in the world.  The bastard who pulled the trigger, a white racist from Australia, had strong sentiments against Islam, so it's reported.  It seems as though parts of the globe are already forgetting to patch up wounds of faith since the age of popularized terrorism that went on during the 2000s has been fading into the ether.  Or maybe, to put it more fairly, there are those who don't understand that we should be entering a new age of peace, and there are certain ways to do that—one of them being not to hold anything against even religious cultures notorious for sponsoring acts against the West, at least so the West's loudmouth leaders implied years ago.
For another thing, no one ought to bring a holy war to their own neighborhood these days—least of all in a city in New Zealand, of all places.  We just needed to learn that lesson.  Let's meditate on these subjects in order to heal the wounds.  While the dozens of victims in the shootings can be paid tribute to with the flow of a few tears, we can improve between us all with a few thoughts about each other and our practices and what they mean these days.  I hope I'm being constructive and not shallow.  That's my exact intent.

A very appreciated episode of Ren & Stimpy.

There is this one cartoon on the "Ren & Stimpy Show" from a little over 25 years ago that I still remember as one of the funniest cartoons I ever saw.
Its title is "An Abe Divided." It starts out in a trash can where Ren and Stimpy are rooting through garbage to eat, and come across this ad for guardians to the President in a recent newspaper; the position sounds very lucrative.
So they go to Washington, and consult the hulking, hostile position supervisor: Sergeant Big Butt.  He grabs his lady's wig, turns around to face them in lipstick and a very pretty skirt, plus his military reg jacket and five-o'-clock shadow, and informs them that the job comes with definite responsibilities.  "You know what you get with the job?  You get...TOWELS!!!" Stimpy: "I like towels." So Sergeant Big Butt shows them what comes of that, presenting military men in only towels, who take them and snap them at Ren and Stimpy's behinds.  Their butts full of stinging, agonizing welts, Stimpy can't be brought down even now: "Gosh, I love military tradition!"
So the gruesome twosome are presented to the President, which we recognize as the Lincoln Memorial.  Sergeant Big Butt snarls at them to scrub away every single speck of dirt.  "AND...DON'T...SCREW...UP." Ren complains, but Stimpy, overjoyed at this sight, jumps in the Memorial's lap and starts asking for a bunch of toys.  When Ren informs him: "That's a memorial, stupid!" Stimpy bursts into tears: "I didn't know...Santa Claus was...DEAD!!!" But Ren whacks him in the face again.  "Don't ya know President Willard P. Fillmore when you see him?  Now get to work!"
Later, they act as tour guides when tourists come in to gaze at the President and take photos, etc.  But no sooner have they opened the doors when Ren overhears an elderly man say to his grandson: "I hear tell there's a treasure inside his head."  Ren's eyes widen...his mind fills with an image of driving out of Lincoln's ceramic head in a new car, filthy rich and surrounded with hot women...he loves the idea so much all of a sudden...he bursts out, "Closing time!" and herds all the tourists back out the way they came.  But Stimpy says, "I think you're mistaken, Ren.  We're supposed to stay open for another eighteen hours."  "Shut up and help me get into the President's head, you eediot."
But getting in through the nose doesn't work out.  So they try cutting off the head, and while they're sawing it off, Stimpy says he knows about the treasure: "It's pounds and pounds...of wonderful...golden...CARAMEL CORN!"  Ren is, of course, skeptical.  They get the head off, and Ren says, "Now get a grip on the head, and whatever you do, don't drop—" That's when the head tumbles to the floor and busts apart.  Stimpy, holding Ren by his head, says, "Oh...you meant the President's head."  They rush to find the treasure: Ren's shocked; Stimpy's delighted; it is indeed "Care-mully car-molly corny corn!  My FAVORITE."
They now try piecing the head back together, but Stimpy gets it wrong so many times, having to break it all over again so many times, it's reduced to dust.  They try all sorts of replacement heads, like a copper penny ("too small"); a sculpture of hot dogs, which some belligerent pigeons eat right up; the Statue of Liberty's head ("too big"); and a dumpster with the face drawn on.  Ultimately facing sure doom from Sergeant Big Butt, they nonetheless agree to keep the faith, because, so they say, the spirit of good old Honest Abe himself will see them through this.  That's when they get their butts kicked by Abe Lincoln's very ghost, carrying his severed head, who says, "Like heck I will."
The next day, Sergeant Big Butt is coming down upon them: "Do you have anything to say...BEFORE I KILL YOU?!?" Ren says: "Listen, let me try to explain.  You see"—he points at Stimpy—"it's all his fault!"  The sergeant grabs them.
That evening, all is well at the Memorial of the President.  The tourists are admiring him as usual; in particular they're admiring his new face—as which Ren and Stimpy themselves now serve.
That one was great.