My Sentiments Exactly


This is how I sound after reading the latest from the Eco Nazi or Psycho Feminist or how some school system wants to take away Valentine’s day because they say it hurts some kids feelings.

7 thoughts on “My Sentiments Exactly

  1. When I was in elementary school, the teachers made all the students make and send a Valentine card to another student. Everyone got a card, and nobody felt bad. I remember showing one to my mother: “Look what I got Mom! It’s a Valentine card from Janet Ziegelbauer!” Wish I still had them.


  2. LOL! Great video, Joey!
    Once, when I was a seminarian and was out on a ranch in Brazil, I was taking some time for prayer and reflection. At one point, I was doing an examination of conscience, reflecting on my relationship with God and neighbor, and how well I had kept to the rules of my community. Nearby there was a flock of sheep who keep bleating. It sounded to me like they kept saying, “Baaad! Bad! BAAAAD!” I couldn’t help but laugh and wonder if my subconscious was taking the “Catholic guilt” thing a bit too far…


  3. I can’t tell you how rewarding it is to me personally to read Fr. Green’s experiences alongside Joey and Donna and Paul and Kim and Peter and Vickie and every other GMG contributor’s experiences on a frequent basis. Fr. Matt, I for one am so glad you stayed on this GMG train. What a wonderful, rich cross section of life we find here. This is Gloucester. This is GMG.


  4. In our previous life Barbara and I kept goats for a few years. They were a great deal of fun and also quite a bit of work. By and large they were calm, friendly and made good, if unusual, pets.
    However, the one thing they did not like was to have their hooves clipped, which had to be done every few months. Perhaps it was our unique technique that unsettled them.

    First we had to capture them. They knew what was up and refused to respond to offers of all of their special treats. We then resorted to our system, which consisted of Barbara making scary noises and trying to chase the selected goat into a corner of the barn where I would pounce upon the poor creature, like Cato in the Pink Panther movies. I then would grip the victim’s outside legs and yank them toward me to flatten the subject on the floor while I threw myself on top of her to pin her in some sort of unsanctioned wrestling move.

    Once the goat was somewhat subdued by all of this foreplay, and while I was still on top of her, Barbara would commence trimming the hooves with a huge nail clipper made for that purpose.
    It was a long process, made memorable by a sound which emanated somewhere in the bowels of hell and erupted from the mouth of the clipee directly into my ear, which, through all the wrestling and subduing, always wound up directly next to the goat’s’mouth.

    Once the clipping was over and I regained some of my hearing, the buggers gently, and on their own, lined up, in size order, for their treats.


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