Raymone, Here's a Story from Yer Homeland - The Associated Press Reports
French judge bars group's pork soup plan Sat Jan 6, 9:12 AM ET
A top French judge ruled that an extreme-right group cannot serve pork soup to the needy, saying the charitable handouts aim to discriminate against Muslims and Jews who don't eat pork because of their faith.
Judge Christian Vigouroux of the Council of State, the country's highest administrative body, said late Friday that such giveaways by the far-right group Solidarity of the French threaten public order.
His ruling approved a decision by Paris police to refuse permits to the group on the grounds that such handouts could spark angry reactions.
France is home to more than 5 million Muslims and some 600,000 Jews. Both Islam and Judaism prohibit eating pork, and Vigouroux said the group had shown "a clearly discriminatory goal" with its charity.
Solidarity of the French was just one of several far-right groups that began distributing pork soup across France over the last four years.
Critics contend the giveaway of pork soup is a far-right ploy to draw support for their efforts to defend against perceived threats to European culture.
Far-right groups defend the soup as nothing more than an age-old staple of the rural heartland from which all the French, at least in the national imagination, are said to spring.
"Pork-fat soup is traditionally the soup of the poor because it provides complete nourishment," said Bruno Le Griel, a lawyer for the group.
Le Griel argued that no needy Jew or Muslim was forced to consume the pork soup. But the judge said the group's Web site indicated it was a policy to refuse dessert to anyone who did not eat some soup first.
_____
There you are Raymone, visible for once. Say Raymone, is it true that pork-fat soup is the favorite food of the poor French?
Oui, Monsieur Ray. C'est magnifique.
Er. Do you have a recipe, Raymone?
Oui, Monsieur Ray.
All righty then. We may need to enjoy yer national food staple one of these days. How about if we whip up a nice big tub of a pork-fat soup on Bastille Day, Raymone?
Excellement, Monsieur Ray.
All righty then. Now Raymone. Dang! Where'd he go? Raymone, where are ye? Dang it. I wanted to discuss the interesting topic of French culture with a natural Frenchman. But off he has gone.
Dang it. I am having a hard time fitting the above information into a Druidic pattern by myself. Reckon Crumby could hep me? Ovates specialize in patterning.
_____
But a great weariness suddenly overcomes Ray, the Sun God Trainee. He nods off and is soon dreaming away.
_____
Here I am. A poor little orphan bastard all alone on the cruel yet gay streets of gay Paris. Uh oh! Who are these hard-looking mongrel Celts headed my way? Mercy! You smell like pork-fat! Unhand me you mongrelized Celts!
No young Ray, you are an orphan bastard. We shall not unhand ye. For you are on your way to the orphanage. There, at the orphanage for little orphan bastards, you shall forget all your culture and heritage and be, born again, baptized in pork-fat soup.
No, no, no, let me go!!!!
The mongrel Celts haul Ray off, for in Ray's dream, he is no longer Ray Pistrum, mighty among the Druids, Possessor of Twain Beautiful Girlfriends, and a Sun God Trainee. Ray is instead, a miserable, snuffling, little orphan bastard with no powers to defend himself. Ray is eventually deposited in a cheerless dank cell, locked in with no hope of escape, and only a cellmate for company.
Hey there, I'm Ray. The mongrel Celts have got me and now they are fixing to baptize me in pork-fat soup. Cellmate, what do ye call yerslef?
Oh well, I am known by this or that, but ye may call me, Crumby?
Hey, Crumby.
Hey, Ray.
Listen Crumby. I'm real scared. What the heck is fixing to happen to me, exactly?
Fear not Ray. I have all this pretty well figured out. See. What these ignoramus mongrel Celts don't know is that the baptismal font, where they keep the boiling pork-fat soup, is actually Cerridwen's Kettle. Once they toss us in, we shall swim or float out through a secret drain pipe. Just remember Ray, once they toss ye in, swim or float toward the nice Lady that shall beckon at ye. She shall beckon at ye with a spoon or wand, hewn entirely from the wood of a birch or hazel.
She will?
That's right Ray. So ye shall have to pay close attention and be alert for the beckoning of the nice Lady with the spoon.
Er. How will I know if the spoon is made from the right kind of tree, Crumby?
Trust me Ray. It will be. For I ovate now that ye shall survive this terrible ordeal and become thereafter my loving bosom companion. One more thing though, try not to snort up a great deal of the boiling pork-fat soup. Remember, moderation is a good thing, so don't make a total pig of yerself.
All righty then, Crumby.
Anon, a band of mongrelized Celts, their cruel, twisted visages bearing little resemblance to the sunny countenance of Vercingetorix, their kingly Druid of yore, arrive at the cell door. The cell door is flung open and the mongrelized Celts seize upon both Ray and Crumby. Out the twain future bosom companions are marched into the dank yet dusty hallway. Off they go, herded along, until at last, as Ray and Crumby stumble with weariness, they arrive at a great hall with a baptismal font at one end of it. Ray and Crumby espy that at least three fifties of bastard orphans are assembled. Some of these other little bastard orphans have already been tossed in. There they are, bobbing in the boiling pork-fat soup like sausages.
Crumby!!!! Those little bastard orphans in the soup are boiled to a turn.
Fear not Ray.
Anon, it is the turn of the twain bosom companions to go into the boiling pork-fat soup. Both Ray and then Crumby are tossed in, unceremoniously.
Ray does a belly flop, but remembering Crumby’s advice, Ray sucks in a little pork-fat soup to compensate for his weariness. Then Ray espies around for the nice Lady with the Birch spoon. There She is, all righty then. Crumby’s already headed Her Way. So Ray does a frog kick or two and sure enough, there’s the drain pipe right ahead on.
Say, what’s that tapping on my noggin?
Wake up Ray. It’s time to help with supper.
Yawn. All righty then, Rayetta. I shall help. Say Rayetta, you want to hear about my dream? Crumby was in it and so was the WG.
Sure Ray. You can tell me all about your dream while you chop up the cabbage.
All righty then.
A top French judge ruled that an extreme-right group cannot serve pork soup to the needy, saying the charitable handouts aim to discriminate against Muslims and Jews who don't eat pork because of their faith.
Judge Christian Vigouroux of the Council of State, the country's highest administrative body, said late Friday that such giveaways by the far-right group Solidarity of the French threaten public order.
His ruling approved a decision by Paris police to refuse permits to the group on the grounds that such handouts could spark angry reactions.
France is home to more than 5 million Muslims and some 600,000 Jews. Both Islam and Judaism prohibit eating pork, and Vigouroux said the group had shown "a clearly discriminatory goal" with its charity.
Solidarity of the French was just one of several far-right groups that began distributing pork soup across France over the last four years.
Critics contend the giveaway of pork soup is a far-right ploy to draw support for their efforts to defend against perceived threats to European culture.
Far-right groups defend the soup as nothing more than an age-old staple of the rural heartland from which all the French, at least in the national imagination, are said to spring.
"Pork-fat soup is traditionally the soup of the poor because it provides complete nourishment," said Bruno Le Griel, a lawyer for the group.
Le Griel argued that no needy Jew or Muslim was forced to consume the pork soup. But the judge said the group's Web site indicated it was a policy to refuse dessert to anyone who did not eat some soup first.
_____
There you are Raymone, visible for once. Say Raymone, is it true that pork-fat soup is the favorite food of the poor French?
Oui, Monsieur Ray. C'est magnifique.
Er. Do you have a recipe, Raymone?
Oui, Monsieur Ray.
All righty then. We may need to enjoy yer national food staple one of these days. How about if we whip up a nice big tub of a pork-fat soup on Bastille Day, Raymone?
Excellement, Monsieur Ray.
All righty then. Now Raymone. Dang! Where'd he go? Raymone, where are ye? Dang it. I wanted to discuss the interesting topic of French culture with a natural Frenchman. But off he has gone.
Dang it. I am having a hard time fitting the above information into a Druidic pattern by myself. Reckon Crumby could hep me? Ovates specialize in patterning.
_____
But a great weariness suddenly overcomes Ray, the Sun God Trainee. He nods off and is soon dreaming away.
_____
Here I am. A poor little orphan bastard all alone on the cruel yet gay streets of gay Paris. Uh oh! Who are these hard-looking mongrel Celts headed my way? Mercy! You smell like pork-fat! Unhand me you mongrelized Celts!
No young Ray, you are an orphan bastard. We shall not unhand ye. For you are on your way to the orphanage. There, at the orphanage for little orphan bastards, you shall forget all your culture and heritage and be, born again, baptized in pork-fat soup.
No, no, no, let me go!!!!
The mongrel Celts haul Ray off, for in Ray's dream, he is no longer Ray Pistrum, mighty among the Druids, Possessor of Twain Beautiful Girlfriends, and a Sun God Trainee. Ray is instead, a miserable, snuffling, little orphan bastard with no powers to defend himself. Ray is eventually deposited in a cheerless dank cell, locked in with no hope of escape, and only a cellmate for company.
Hey there, I'm Ray. The mongrel Celts have got me and now they are fixing to baptize me in pork-fat soup. Cellmate, what do ye call yerslef?
Oh well, I am known by this or that, but ye may call me, Crumby?
Hey, Crumby.
Hey, Ray.
Listen Crumby. I'm real scared. What the heck is fixing to happen to me, exactly?
Fear not Ray. I have all this pretty well figured out. See. What these ignoramus mongrel Celts don't know is that the baptismal font, where they keep the boiling pork-fat soup, is actually Cerridwen's Kettle. Once they toss us in, we shall swim or float out through a secret drain pipe. Just remember Ray, once they toss ye in, swim or float toward the nice Lady that shall beckon at ye. She shall beckon at ye with a spoon or wand, hewn entirely from the wood of a birch or hazel.
She will?
That's right Ray. So ye shall have to pay close attention and be alert for the beckoning of the nice Lady with the spoon.
Er. How will I know if the spoon is made from the right kind of tree, Crumby?
Trust me Ray. It will be. For I ovate now that ye shall survive this terrible ordeal and become thereafter my loving bosom companion. One more thing though, try not to snort up a great deal of the boiling pork-fat soup. Remember, moderation is a good thing, so don't make a total pig of yerself.
All righty then, Crumby.
Anon, a band of mongrelized Celts, their cruel, twisted visages bearing little resemblance to the sunny countenance of Vercingetorix, their kingly Druid of yore, arrive at the cell door. The cell door is flung open and the mongrelized Celts seize upon both Ray and Crumby. Out the twain future bosom companions are marched into the dank yet dusty hallway. Off they go, herded along, until at last, as Ray and Crumby stumble with weariness, they arrive at a great hall with a baptismal font at one end of it. Ray and Crumby espy that at least three fifties of bastard orphans are assembled. Some of these other little bastard orphans have already been tossed in. There they are, bobbing in the boiling pork-fat soup like sausages.
Crumby!!!! Those little bastard orphans in the soup are boiled to a turn.
Fear not Ray.
Anon, it is the turn of the twain bosom companions to go into the boiling pork-fat soup. Both Ray and then Crumby are tossed in, unceremoniously.
Ray does a belly flop, but remembering Crumby’s advice, Ray sucks in a little pork-fat soup to compensate for his weariness. Then Ray espies around for the nice Lady with the Birch spoon. There She is, all righty then. Crumby’s already headed Her Way. So Ray does a frog kick or two and sure enough, there’s the drain pipe right ahead on.
Say, what’s that tapping on my noggin?
Wake up Ray. It’s time to help with supper.
Yawn. All righty then, Rayetta. I shall help. Say Rayetta, you want to hear about my dream? Crumby was in it and so was the WG.
Sure Ray. You can tell me all about your dream while you chop up the cabbage.
All righty then.
posted by ray pistrum at Saturday, January 06, 2007
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