APPEARANCE VS. REALITY

Things are seldom what they seem./ Skim milk masquerades as cream. Gilbert

The beginning of Paschaltide is a fitting occasion to remind traditional Catholics still hoodwinked by the cult masters of Tradistan that deliverance is possible. All they need do is to break the emotional restraints that enslave them.

But that's easier said than done. Walking out of a Tradistani cult center over wasteful spending, "clerical" ignorance, managerial incompetence, or ill treatment of children doesn't last in all cases. Too often, outraged trads who ride out of the cult mounted on a moral high horse come back whimpering like whipped mutts, head hung low, more than willing to lick the hand that beat them.

If asked by astonished relatives and friends why they returned to the sham bishops' clutches, they answer with a not-too-convincing, high-pitched whine, "For the sacraments, the s-a-c-r-a-m-e-n-t-s!" But that doesn't explain their self-abasing behavior. There must be something deeper — and simpler behind it all. Rallying around the sacraments is one of those noble-sounding excuses weaklings offer to explain a repressed conscience. They pass themselves off as making a personal sacrifice for a greater good, as though abetting counterfeit "clergy" can be justified in the name of Catholic piety.

When we hear a prodigal son or daughter of the cult self-deceivingly protest, "I loathe Sinburn [or "One-Hand Dan"]. I only go only for the Mass," we smile inside, knowing it's an autogenic-training mantra meant to silence the inner voice, numb the sensus catholicus, and crush the superego. It's no different from the therapeutic formulas "my right arm is heavy" or "my solar plexus is warm." Passive concentration on the theme of "offering it up" makes it easy to avoid ditching a cult center for good.

Truth to tell, it's an addiction, not the sacraments, that brings leavers back to $GG or MHT, for the sacraments are available at many area chapels. (And the chances of their validity are much higher at some of the rival locations.) These ethical cowards are habituated to the Big Show, the dolly-dress-up, the staring blank faces, the slack jaws with bad teeth, and the carb-loaded, hillbilly chow blanketed with microwaved Cheez Whiz.

To break the dependency forever, cult victims must actively focus on verbal formulas designed to wake them up to the Tradistani imitation prelates' non-clerical state. Only when Catholics confess that these men are masquerading as Roman Catholic bishops will they be able to declare, "I must leave the cult to regain the true faith."

To get to that stage, however, cult addicts will have to repeat to themselves some precise affirmations, which, once thoroughly internalized, will make the sorry excuse "I only go there for the Mass" sound pitifully hollow. In our therapeutic work with cult-dependent Catholics, we have found four highly effective statements that recovering victims may recite in order to prepare to leave the bogus bishops and never return.

The trick is to master the statements one-by-one and then say all four in sequence until an overwhelming urge to encounter the real faith overtakes the will. Depending on how ingrained the bad habit of cult attendance is, the process takes anywhere from one to four weeks. However, there is a caveat: the subject must have an intact brain and an adult's sense of right and wrong, which is often not the case with life-long cultlings.

Fortunately, there are fewer and fewer of these spiritual two-headed calves, which means most folks stand a good chance of escape if they're willing to work at it. The beauty of the therapy is that you don't need much by way of equipment — just access to PL to remind you of the concrete arguments behind each statement.

Enough, then, with all this theorizing, and let's get the best of Tradistan's victims started on the road to a cult-free life.

STANDARD FORMULA # 1

As you sit in a squalid "bishop"-led cult center and see one or more of these pretenders decked out in pontificals, relax, close your eyes, breathe deeply, and say to yourself over and over for 30 seconds, "These dripping bags of pus have no right to dress like Roman Catholic bishops — they are wolfish laymen in a legitimate pastor's clothing." Practice this every time you lay eyes on one of these gussied-up religious impersonators. All the necessary background can be found in our post of Feb. 11, 2017 (here). After a little practice, soon you'll recoil at the sight of these fakes' sporting episcopal finery.

STANDARD FORMULA # 2

Now you're ready for the next step whenever you hear one of these puke buckets addressed as "Your Excellency" or see the most "The Most Reverend" prefixed to their infamous names. Again, calm down, breathe in slowly, and with eyes shut say, again and again for 30 seconds, "These gobs of spit have no right to official ecclesiastical titles of honor — they are malformed lay trash who don't deserve to be called 'Mister.'"  Our post of Oct. 1, 2016 (here), gives all the reasons behind this formula.

STANDARD FORMULA # 3

When you hear one of these charlatans preach about your obligation to support the clergy, then, using the same preparatory techniques and methodology above, repeat to yourself, "These disenfranchised cretins have no canonical rights — they are grasping lay wannabes dubiously ordained outside the Roman Catholic Church with no claim to clerical privilege."  For the detailed reasons supporting this formula, see our post of July 8, 2017 (here).

STANDARD FORMULA # 4

The next time you spy the coat of arms of one of the ersatz bishops, follow the usual procedure we've just outlined and recite, "These scofflaw, illicitly 'consecrated' toilet fish are not entitled to bear ecclesiastical arms of the Roman Catholic Church — they are lay usurpers of others' legislated privilege." Full details are available in our post of March 10, 2018 (here).

After a short time, you'll be ready to rattle off with ease all four statements in sequence. Do so for 60 seconds every time you set foot in a cult center or catch sight of one of the humbugs. We promise that once you're "woke" you'll be itching to pack up and get out of the world of make-believe Catholicism.

Some of you, however, may require a little more assurance about the inauthenticity of the mountebanks who've made a wreck of the lives of the faithful. Insofar as these churchly wooden nickels would not accept the judgment of the Vatican establishment, we looked elsewhere for something more neutral. We didn't consider U.S. civil society, because here anybody can self-declare to be a clergyman, buy clerical apparel, and be accepted by the gullible, no questions asked. We then thought of England where, under common law, Roman Catholic clergy who convert to Anglicanism are (or at least were) not obligated to be re-ordained.

Traditional Catholics may view Anglicans as heretics, but their ecclesiology teaches that they form a branch of the Catholic Church. Accordingly, for our purpose today, Church of England (CofE) practice tells us how a possibly sympathetic, organized religious body recognized by its nation's laws and governed by the monarch, often through Parliament and the Prime Minister, regards these wandering "clergy. " If the Tradistanis had any legitimacy at all, then certainly the "Big Tent" CofE, which boasts female bishops, would have no trouble with these lost boys, not only the "wandering bishops" but also the vagus "priests." Right? So we put the question to a source with deep expertise in these matters. Here's the (slightly edited) reply:

The answer is a big round ‘No’.  Old Catholics, in the vagantes sense, have never been received in their orders by the CofE.  Whilst the CofE, or parts of it to be precise, would say they believe these people have orders, they would argue they cannot exercise them legitimately.  In the CofE, licensing – which could broadly translate as faculties – is paramount.  However friendly clergy of the CofE will be to vagantes, they would not let them loose on a congregation without a license.  If the American lot ever approached the CofE for regularization, they would be regarded as irregular and subject to ordination.  The bottom line is the Thucites would never be considered other than laymen.

Need we say more? The cult masters are not the "real thing" by any sane person's yardstick.

START PRACTICING. YOU'RE A MONTH OR LESS AWAY FROM TEARING OFF THEIR MASKS AND GETTING CLEAN.

A GIFT HORSE LOOKED IN THE MOUTH

In a man's letters, his soul lies naked. Dr. Johnson

A CHICKEN COME HOME TO ROOST

Earlier this month, Radio Cristiandad posted a monograph by Fr. Basilio Méramo, a former member of the SSPX, in which he extensively quoted from "Two Bishops in Every Garage" and thereby revived the question of Thục's "cordura" (= sanity, good sense). Based on that exposition, Fr. Méramo judged the exiled archbishop's consecrations to be "really, objectively, and positively doubtful" (dudosas real, objetiva y positivamente). The whole sordid history from Palmar de Troya through des Lauriers and Carmona, he concluded with exasperation, must have been but a great lunacy or a tale told by madmen ("Qué es todo esto sino una gran locura, o un cuento de locos"). 

PL has no intention, today or any day, of weighing in on either side of the issue of Thục's mental competence. In our minds, we put that question to bed back on April 9, 2016, when we argued in favor of the sedes' securing multiple lineages as a way to eliminate doubts about their validity (click here). That approach is certainly a far better alternative than waiting for the other shoe to drop should alarming new facts come to light. Therefore, to put it bluntly, for all we care, Thục could've been crazier than an outhouse fly.*

A MEETING OF THE MINDS

With the exception of the SSPV and a few others, most sedes would agree, even if begrudgingly, that the uprooted archbishop was lucid when he performed the "consecrations" that established many of Sedelandia's sublineages. In which case, it would not be out of line for PL to assume these partisans would likewise assert that Thục's wits were never impaired.

For these sedes, it would be an exceedingly dangerous policy to allow that Thục drifted in and out of lucidity over the course of his exile from his native Vietnam. If they did, couldn't an adversary like PL allege the archbishop may have been suffering from one of his loony episodes when he conferred orders on Carmona and Zamora but not when he "consecrated" des Lauriers? Far more convenient is it to explain away — say, by citing "distractions" or "deception"** — what "Peregrinus" aptly termed "The Palmar Fiasco." If you took that escape route, you'd altogether avoid impugning Thục's mental stability, wouldn't you?

Hence we'll take a risk today and presume the sedes of the SW Ohio/B'ville cult would also uphold (1) Thục's judgments about whom to "consecrate" and (2) his motives for agreeing to perform a "consecration." In other words, we think they'd say the archbishop knew what he was doing. Furthermore, it's not unreasonable to suppose that the cultists might in addition argue his offer of consecration to any individual resulted from prudent deliberation, informed by his studies at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, from which he earned three doctorates (philosophy, theology, canon law).

All this speculation brings us to the problem of Big Don's Liénart liability, over which so many cult freaks wet their beds every time it appears on PL. To be entirely forthcoming, the Readers don't consider the disadvantage of Liénart-conferred orders to be as grave a threat to validity as is Dubious Dan's one-handed sacerdotal "ordination."  Nevertheless, we do believe the Lowly Worm should have gotten himself fixed before Junior's recent Sacrilege in the Swamp — for safety's sake. (The Kid should be forever grateful to Geert Stuyver for saving his bacon.)

A VOICE FROM THE PAST

For the present, though, we don't propose to revisit our moderate discomfort over the Liénart problem. Instead, we'd like to share Archbishop Thục's view of the matter. His Excellency "speaks" to us in a handwritten letter to Lefebvre, sent after he had heard of the SSPX founder's ill health. (The letter is available on the Today's Catholic World [TCW] blog here.)

Although we're not forensic analysts, nevertheless, summoning our paleography skills, we compared the handwriting of the letter to that of the 1981 consecration certificate Thục issued (available here). After a close inspection, we satisfied ourselves that the same person wrote both documents. A note (here) posted by the TCW blog affirms its authenticity, so you don't have to take PL's word for it.

On the web site, you'll find a not-altogether-satisfactory translation appended to the image of the letter. Consequently, for ease of reference, below we supply an almost slavishly literal version for the portions of the text that interest us today. (We don't want you to think we're loading the dice with too free a rendering.) Since the crabbed handwriting becomes at times difficult to decipher, we'll first provide a transcription of the French original (as we read it — we'll gladly consider other readings, since we've been contracted to prepare an annotated transcription of the entire letter):

❡2 Vous avez été consacré Evêque par le Cardinal Liénard [sic, as we read the written name]; or ce Cardinal n'avait jamais crû [sic] à notre Religion, — donc votre consécration par lui a été [our best guess] nulle.

❡3 Je suis prêt à vous consacré [sic] évêque ou bien trouver un évêque qui se charge de vous consacrer secrètement. 

(❡ 2) You were consecrated Bishop by Cardinal Liénart; but this Cardinal had never believed [reading cru for crû] in our Religion, — therefore your consecration by him was null. 

(❡ 3) I am ready to consecrate [reading consacrer for consacré] you bishop or else find a bishop who may take it upon himself [reading a non-assertive relative clause] to consecrate you secretly.

Two features strike us immediately about ❡2. First, the unmistakable syllogistic frame, to wit, the telltale conjunctions or (but) linking a premise and donc (therefore) introducing a conclusion. Second, the assumptive tone (which continues in ❡3): Thục doesn't hedge his declaration in the slightest. Taken together, both features conclusively indicate the letter was written with the presumption (1) that Liénart's faithlessness was common knowledge among high-level churchmen and (2) that Lefebvre was as aware of his principal consecrator's radical defection as was Thục.

The purpose of Thục's missive, then, was not to inform Lefebvre of his troubled holy orders. Lefebvre already knew of the problem. Instead, Thục wrote in order to (1) counsel him in Christian candor to accept undoubtedly valid episcopal orders and (2) offer his own services to that end. It may be worth noting that later in the letter he suggests Lefebvre be ready to re-confer the priesthood on the clergy he had but lately ordained or find another bishop to do so.***  (Gee-whiz, sounds almost like what the Readers have been trying for years to get "One-Hand Dan" to do!****)

THE BOTTOM LINE

So, then, what does all this come down to? In our mind, it boils down to two mutually exclusive questions:

(a) Was Thục a malformed, crazy, old geezer sputtering nonsense (and hence unfit to consecrate anyone ever)?

OR

(b) Did the "saintly" — as Dannie once called him — archbishop think there was something to the Liénart liability, which would move a prudent man to obtain conditional orders?

It's really a no brainer.

* Those of you who read Spanish might be interested in Fr. Méramo's take (and his takedown of shape-shifting Checkie and Big Don). For his article, click here.

** As we heard the Cheeseball once say in a 2011 interview (min. 19:25 and 19:34).

*** The TCW blog's English version does not translate the clause to which we refer, so you will have to consult the handwritten letter to verify. To assist you, here's our transcription of the French, the missing text in bold: ❡ 4 Quant aux ecclésiastiques que vous aviez fait prêtres naguère, vous seriez prêt à leur conférer la prêtise, ou trouver un Evêque [uncertainly reading upper-case e], par exemple moi-mêm[e] à les consacrer.

**** It may be unfair to judge from such a brief, hastily composed note, but Thục was definitely wrong in only recommending Lefebvre's re-consecration as a bishop. Lefebvre's 1929 priestly orders, which Liénart also conferred, constitute the real stumbling block.  If Lefebvre had been ordained to the priesthood by someone other than Liénart, the 1947 suspect episcopal orders conferred by principal consecrator Liénart would have been saved by one or both of the co-consecrators, Bishop Alfred-Jean-Félix Ancel and Bishop Jean-Baptiste Victor Fauret.

However, if Lefebvre were not a valid priest at the time of his 1947 consecration, then the co-consecrators, their unchallenged validity notwithstanding, most likely did not confer orders.  As Noldin wrote in his Summa Theologiae Moralis, "It is more commonly affirmed, that when the priesthood has not yet been conferred, the episcopate cannot be validly conferred (communius affirmatur episcopatum, nondum collato sacerdotio, valide conferri non posse)."

To fully cure Lefebvre's Liénart liability, Thục should have offered to re-confer both sacerdotal and episcopal orders. But then perhaps the wise, old archbishop was just using a kind of shorthand and intended all along to fix his colleague completely.

BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM

What happens to a dream deferred?/... Does it stink like rotten meat? Hughes

From time to time, developmentally delayed, religious deviants protest that $GG's continued survival on life support proves "One-Hand Dan" has weathered PL's criticisms and exposés. According to these purblind victims of ecclesiastical imposture, the Wee One is as optimistic as ever about the future of his cult.

We who see the truth recognize that the denial of looming collapse is groundless. If everything were peachy keen in SW Ohio, then Dannie wouldn't be obsessing about money, nor would he be aggressively begging for freebie meals and airport rides. Furthermore, $GG's weekly collection would show a steady increase over time, not the stubborn, below-subsistence flatline we've traced for several years. Volunteerism would be up, so His Impudency wouldn't have to impose upon the same, shrinking core of beleaguered, aging worker bees season after season. Most importantly, the number of bequests would be growing, not shrinking.

At this watershed moment after Junior's "consecration," an event that definitively marked the end of Dannie's rôle as the bench player of Sedelandia, it might be instructive to consider the phantom of defeat pursuing the Dirtbag throughout his lonely hours of tormented self-reflection. This May, he'll turn 67. Approaching one's 70th year on earth, a man naturally takes stock. For life's winners, the assessment is a joy; for life's losers, it's unrelieved agony. If the glittering dreams of youth and early middle age have turned out to be dross, a fortune's fool confronts a bleak future of zero triumphs, particularly as younger, ambitious, and more able men are scrambling to refine golden memories of their own to gild a happy old age.

To garner some insight into what must be Dannie's all-year-long winter of discontent, we must look at the controlling dream of his illicit "episcopacy." Wee Dan's April 27, 1983, expulsion from the SSPX dealt the thirty-something, pipe-dreaming idler a cruel reversal, but not for the reasons many might think. Having very early (and quite without justification) imagined himself a bishop someday, his ouster meant there would be no one to crown his overly wishful noggin with a coveted miter.

When finally, after a self-serving volte-face on the Thục line's validity, he wrested the longed-for headgear from the hoodwinked Pivster, he was free to set his sights on a jet-setting career: One day, he would become the "bishop" of all the sede chapels and groups, traveling the world in style like that globetrotting Archbishop Lefebvre, who had unceremoniously  — and in-person — shown him the backdoor some ten-and-a-half years earlier.

As the days, weeks, months, and years following his unlawful "consecration" passed, that dreamed-of day never dawned. Everybody conspired to thwart the realization of his fantasy.  Pivareeno, whom he thought he could muscle out of the way both in sunny Mexico and at home, prospered, sweeping up chapels all over the map. (In fact, after the 2009 $GG $chool $candal, a well-motivated Pivmeister pitched camp in Li'l Daniel's back yard at the petition of a colony of ex-Gerties.) Within less than a decade of Dan's mitering, Big Don snared a miter for himself, much to Dannie's peevish dismay.  In the meantime, nobody of consequence signed up for the Wee One's "little" Salesian boys' club.

The Jellyfish was the next to elevate its slimy self. It then turned around and consecrated a South American with a large following in Mexico. Sensing a void, a few years later the Ham Sandwich mounted a coup, which almost emptied $GG, leaving only depraved culties. Not too long afterward, the triumphant Sammich — Lower East Tradistan's "Second-Hand Rose" — decorated his own swollen bean with a used miter ordered online (🎶 I'm wearing second-hand hats, second-hand clothes 🎶). One by one, the serious Mexican and French independent "clergy" cut themselves loose.

The upshot of it all is that the Mitered Maggot's fevered vision of VIP airport lounges, luxury hotel suites, smiling concierges too impressed to accept a gratuity, chauffeured limos, fawning maître d's at Michelin-starred eateries, comped lunches at Taco Bell, groveling "clergy," celebrity-struck laity, and painstakingly curated guided tours of Old-World venues never became entries in "The Bishop's (?) Corner." All those hallucinations lay forever out of reach.

Why, he never even got close! 

It was Diminished Don who was asked to England, Down Under, and the Continent (and he may yet fly off again soon if he gets medical clearance). But the Lowly Worm's travel victories over Dan are yesterday's news. Nowadays the title of Mr. Worldwide properly belongs to the hyper-ambitious, always scratching, ever conniving Ham Sandwich, who boasts a European apostolate reaching into Germany, Spain, and Italy, where he'll spend about a month and a half this spring. At best, "One-Hand Dan" has only managed to wrangle short-term invites from (1) a shunned group of Argentine malcontents notorious for their pants-wearing womenfolk and (2) some Trento breakaways in Mexico. (But even one of the latter groups soon grew disillusioned.)

As many a practicing therapist will testify, it's almost impossible to recover from a traumatic psychological setback occasioned by a dream that's toast, particularly if you had your heart set on it. It's worse still if you shared your wild hopes with a lot of people who have long memories. The verismo novelist Federico De Roberto once wrote that only castles in the air "avoid the dissolving hands of time." That's Dreamland Dan's cross to bear. That's what makes hellish the black hours of solitude spent in his room.

His vividly imagined persona as an American nouveau-Marcel trekking about the continents — an image refreshed and augmented over many nights in the delicious minutes before sleep overtakes — stubbornly persists. It cannot be erased, no matter how hard he tries. It reappears at the worst times to mock him. To remind him of the failure of his life, the defeat of his outrageous fancy. To bedevil him over the crumbling cult center and evaporating enthusiasm for his enterprise. To taunt him with the fine restaurants he can no longer afford. To heap abuse upon his useless, contemptible, self-mitered noodle.

Bitter is advancing age absent the sweet consolation of a personal chronicle of dreams fulfilled.  Add disappointment over disappearing resources while mixing in a growing awareness you never had what it takes to begin with, and you've got the makings of the misery of the damned. Although his self-destructive backing of Tony Baloney and the "Principal" triggered the mass exodus of 2009, thereby hurling his already moribund career into its current death spiral, Dannie actually never stood a chance to become a Lefebvre redivivus.

For one thing, he lacked the physical stature, the air of command. (A perpetual risus sardonicus, or rictus grin, inspires no awe.) For another, he didn't have the right formation or the necessary skills. But the greatest drawback to success was an incapacity to attract to his banner men of genuine ability. He had to settle for the third-rate Erroneous Antonius, whose abrasive personality, misplaced self-esteem, and penchant for windmill tilting only magnified the Wee One's defects in the eyes of both "clergy" and lay folk. Perhaps a gifted sidekick might have been able to mask His Deficiency's shortcomings, but then Li'l Daniel probably never could've attracted the allegiance of someone with unalloyed talent anyway. The ungifted needy seem to find each other, don't they?

Ambition is by no means wrong; it is often beneficial for organizations and individuals. But to achieve true success, both collective and personal, ambition must be underpinned by native ability and a desire to improve lives other than your own. To motivate competent people to follow, you need to offer them something besides a life of servitude to your person. The talented "bishop" who figures out that he must first become the servant of the "clergy" and laity, not their overlord, could become the "metropolitan" of Sedelandia, with whatever diminished perks it may now offer in its last days. However, since the sub-par sede impostors opt for adulation, not stewardship, nothing will change. They'll remain strutting, turf-warring, undistinguished daydreamers who cannot transmute airy whimsy into concrete reality.

WAKE 'EM UP: LEAVE THE CULT TODAY!

THE RIGHT TO KEEP AND BEAR ARMS

Arma virumque cano ("Arms and the man I sing"). Virgil

Whenever there's an "episcopal consecration" in Tradistan, we cringe when our British, Continental, and South American friends kid us about the infamous American habit of plundering others' coats of arms. Our acquaintances aim their barbs not only at the lawless assumption of armorial bearings by bamboozlers who are not bishops of the Roman Catholic Church but also against crudely aspirational goofballs' usurping ancient tokens of gentility on the grounds of a shared surname with a grantee of English arms, who in all likelihood was never a forebear, not even by way of birth on the other side of the blanket.

The Blast in the Morass occasioned another bout of ribbing, this time far less playful owing to the risibly naïve pretense of the description of Junior's DIY heraldic achievement (ROTFL) on pp. II and III of the event's program. However, before we direct our attention to the hideously rococo salmagundi pictured above and its companion valentine to the Clone's last name, we'll first deal with the unrelievable armorial disability attached to the Tradistani religious buccaneers.*

UNARMED BUT STILL DANGEROUS

Ecclesiastical heraldic legislation, which emanates from the Holy See, is a special part of the internal positive law of the Church, wherein it enjoys a special place, for such legislation expressly and clearly identifies an individual's position in the hierarchy by marking rank and dignity. Moreover, it is founded on the dogmatic order, being granted exclusively to the ecclesiastical state, which condition derives from (lawful) ordination or consecration and the exercise of an authentic ecclesiastical office.

Thus, inasmuch as the Tradistanis were illicitly ordained/consecrated outside the Church and accordingly have received no commission from her, they consequently have no jurisdiction or authority. Insofar as they therefore possess no personal or intrinsic right to ecclesiastical insignia (e.g., miter, crozier), their use of emblems of ecclesiastical dignity and office, which they do not possess, is gravely unlawful, not to say patently unnecessary.

Moreover, as a result of their ecclesial position, the sedes won't submit to the rulings of the Congregation of Divine Worship (the successor to the Sacred Congregation of Rites, which had the competence and duty to repress any abuse [see c. 253.1, 1917 CCL]). From the many examples we've seen of their arms, including the above, they must have never forwarded their designs to the Collegio Araldico to determine whether they violated any heraldic rules and/or good taste, as Pope St. Pius X required of new bishops. But in fairness, the counts, nobles, knights, and other swells who compose the college most likely would have consigned, with a very upper-crust sneer, these New-World bumpkins' applications to the round file.

Notwithstanding the defense for receiving illicit holy orders during the ongoing crisis, traditional Catholics must acknowledge that only the Church, insofar as she is a visible, hierarchical, and juridically perfect society, has the right to institute dignities, establish new offices, and confer upon their holders insignia of honor and marks of dignity. Consequently, the mission-less, Tradistani non-clergy, in the eyes of the Church, must necessarily have no right to assume ecclesiastical arms.  If they had an ounce of decency, they would discard their misappropriations at once.

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

Turning now to the gushing paean offered in homage to Junior's surname, found at the beginning of the "consecration's" booklet-length service paper, ** let's evaluate its content in the light of heraldic practice.

As soon as we began to read the program note on Junior's coat of arms, we knew the author, one of the Swampland fake "nuns," was in way over her head. Her very first words assert the Kid's arms are based "on the family crest," and again at the conclusion she writes, "The motto Fiat Voluntas Dei (May the Will of God be Done)... appears on the family crest...." (Emphases ours.)

A very inauspicious beginning and end for the fan letter — second only to the howling violation of the basic rule of composition of arms, the Rule of Tincture, which forbids placement of a color on a color. You can see the howler for yourself above: Azure a saltire engrailed sable!!!  Such arms are called armes fausses ("a false coat of arms") or armes pour enquérir  ("a coat of arms to be investigated"). ***

As Marvin Grosswirth wrote in The Heraldry Book, "It is a clear mark of heraldic ignorance when someone uses the term 'crest' when referring to a coat of arms. Beware of heraldic merchants offering to sell you a 'family crest.'" A crest, according to J.P. Brooke-Little, Clarenceux King of Arms, is "an hereditary device, modeled onto the top of the helm and part of an achievement of arms." It is so called because it crests the helmet.

In The Oxford Guide to Heraldry, T. Woodcock, the incumbent Garter Principal King of Arms, and J. Robinson, Maltravers Herald Extraordinary, bemoan "the indiscriminate use of the word 'crest' to describe armorial bearings when anything but the crest is intended." Bringing home their point with a skewering critique of hopeless souls like our perplexed priory princess, they bitingly add, "The crest is only the part of the design on top of the helmet, but despite the logic of a crest like that of a bird being worn on the head people remain muddled."

But the problems with the program's puff-piece are greater than terminological. The "nun" goes on to reference the coat of arms of a family that shares Junior's surname (and perhaps her own?) without adducing any proof of the Kid's descent in an unbroken male-line from the ancestor for whom the coat of arms referenced was first recorded. Worth noting here is the advice found in the Society of Genealogists' Information Leaflet 15:

Armorial bearings do not appertain to all persons of a given surname but belong to and identify members of one particular family. Coats of arms and crests are a form of property and may rightfully be used only by the male-line descendants of the individual to whom they were first granted or allowed....

Unfortunately, over the centuries, many families have simply assumed arms and crests belonging to other families of the same name, usually without authority and without demonstrating any relationship between the families.... The erroneous and widespread practice of adopting the arms of a family of the same surname (extracted in most cases from one of the printed armorials listing the arms of families alphabetically) is much to be deplored. It detracts from the basic purpose of coats of arms and crests, which is to provide hereditary symbols by which particular families may be identified.

Coats of arms, you, see, do not belong to anyone who happens to bear the same surname as that of an armigerous ancestor of another family. Only those individuals, cautions Burke's General Armory, "who can deduce descent from an ancestor whose armorial bearings have been acknowledged by one of the Visitations [by heralds from the College of Arms] are entitled to carry those arms by right of inheritance."****

The bottom line here is that an individual must substantiate he is descended from someone whose right to bear arms has been admitted before we begin to give credence to his personal claim. In this day of easy Internet access to all manner of squirrelly "family crests," absent proof from a claimant, we should be doubly skeptical of all assertions, especially those coming from Americans. No substantiation, no assent. And it's more than a social or civil matter. "Under no circumstances," wrote Henry McCloud near the beginning of the chapter on ecclesiastical heraldry in his Clerical Dress and Insignia, "should a prelate make use of a coat of arms which belongs to a family other than his own without proper brisure."

Putting aside the ersatz sister's dearth of proof and raft of heraldically imprecise terminology, a dissection of which would render this post unreadable for both its length and complexity, we conclude by noting the bulk of her cheerleading effort busies itself with the symbolism of the charges and tinctures.  "The gold lion symbolizes courage"; "The Saint Andrew's cross...is indicative of suffering for the Faith and of perseverance. The black color of the cross signifies constancy"; "The star is the emblem of our Lady"; "The gold is the symbol of love"; "The shield is of blue lapis to honor Our Lady."

While that twaddle about mystical significations may sound nice and pious to your garden-variety, bug-eyed sede cultling, such "ridiculous fancies," as Joseph Edmondson called them as far back as 1780, are out of keeping with the spirit of the Church in matters armorial. Citing the American ecclesiastical heraldist Pierre de Chaignon la Rose, John Nainfa wrote in his Costume of Prelates of the Catholic Church According to Roman Etiquette:

To avoid mistakes, it is well to start out with the principle that a coat-of-arms is not and needs not be symbolical. A coat-of-arms is only a distinct personal mark or sign. Any or every sort of drawing cannot be used as a heraldic bearing; it must conform to the laws of Heraldry in regard to shape, colors, disposition, etc.; but a "meaning" is not necessary. Asking the meaning of a coat-of-arms is a sure mark of heraldic ignorance....

We would add that overtly assigning to charges and tinctures specific moral or spiritual characteristics or indirectly imputing the symbolized virtues to the bearer underscores that mark of ignorance.*****

In this study of Junior's armorial bearings, it is more than clear that what we have is Play-Church and Play-Heraldry. There is nothing of substance in Tradistan. The whole thing is bogus. The cult masters respect no rules. The whole messy, disedifying business amounts to a pre-adolescent parody of the divinely ordered society of the Church. All these self-promoting, glory-seeking, lawlessly mitered, illicit armigers are useless as well as fake. The pious traditional Catholic can only conclude there is no warrant for this capricious multiplication of unneeded, unwanted, make-believe prelates, who prey upon the laity for prestige, esteem, and financial resources to which they have no right and which they do not deserve.

GET REAL! SEND THESE IMPOSTORS TO THE UNEMPLOYMENT LINE.

* The underlying juridical rationale of the ensuing discussion of the cult masters' inherent disqualification to bear ecclesiastical arms is based on the 1978 Italian translation of Abp. Bruno Bernard Heim's Heraldry in the Catholic Church: Its Origin, Customs, and Laws, pp. 43-45. Much of our text is either a close paraphrase or direct translation.  Heim (1911-2003), possessor of a doctorate of canon law from the Gregorian University, was a celebrated ecclesiastical armorist of the last century.

** A scan of the 67-page (!!!) service paper is available here for download.

*** Nainfa writes in Costume of Prelates of the Catholic Church According to Roman Etiquette, "A rule too often violated in making a coat-of-arms for a Prelate, is that 'color should never be used upon color...." In A Complete Guide to Heraldry, Fox-Davies admonishes:

One of the earliest rules one learns in the study of armory is that colour cannot be placed upon colour.... Now this is a definite rule which must practically always be rigidly observed.

****If the "nun" is referring to this illustration as the Kid's "family crest" (LOL), then in fairness we'll have to admit that the appropriation of the saltire is virtually unnoticeable: the blazon for that shield is simply Sable a satire engrailed or, while Joey's overcrowded arms would demand much more of the blazoner's art and patience. Abp. Heim instructs us:

Another frequent error among ecclesiastics is that of having overly cluttered arms. The oldest, purest, and most beautiful are always those [that are] the simplest. The over complexity of a shield confers on it a very artificial look; instead of a clear and distinct blazon, one gets a mediocre rebus that represents the personal history of the possessor. [Ed. Translated literally from the Italian edition.]

***** Where do you start with someone who, in describing the shield of arms, writes this?

The Saint Andrew's cross, also known as the black saltire, consists of two diagonal lines in the form of an X; it is indicative of suffering for the Faith and of perseverance. The black color of the cross signifies constancy. The gold lion symbolizes courage, strength, and fearlessness; it also represents Christ who is the "Lion of Judah." To the ... emblems of the cross and the lion has been added, in the upper portion of the shield, a star shining above a storm-tossed ship. The star is the emblem of our Lady who is the Star of the Sea. It is she who guides the soul, symbolized by the ship, in its journey over the waves of tribulation. Saint Thomas explains that etc., etc. for a few more paragraphs of heraldic baloney.

How much more tasteful — and impressive  — would it have been to provide a blazon proper for the complete achievement, perhaps followed by a no-nonsense "translation," leaving all the mystical puffery out. But without hoodoo, Tradistan has nothing to offer.

BUMMER!

We are very disturbed since this consecration [Joey's] perpetuate[s] the cult-like and the sectarian attitude of Most Holy Trinity Seminary and the last-year newly founded priestly institute — Roman Catholic Institute — of Bishop Sanborn. Markus "The Ham Sandwich" Ramolla*

The Readers stood at the ready — fully loaded they were for bear.

It occurred early last Wednesday evening. The 4K UHD TV stretched across the west end of the well-appointed, custom-installed home theater. Latter-day amanuenses manned their MacBooks. In her tailored, designer jeans accented by Manolo peep-toe mules, our fragrant, dark-eyed techie was pertly stationed at the console, fetchingly poised to work her digital magic on state-of-the-art video software.

At her left, jauntily astride a high swivel chair, rockin' the Sennheisers, waited our play-by-play, color-commentary announcer, an occasional consultant who'd emceed two "episcopal consecrations." Close at hand lay a Pontificale Romanum along with a hand-annotated copy of Nabuco's Pontificalis Romani Expositio Iuridico-Practica. Splashed across the monitor to his left were side-by-side scanned images from Moretti and Martinucci.

In the deluxe Barcaloungers deployed before the gargantuan 65" screen sat the Reader-in-Chief flanked by top PL execs, notebooks in hand. Lining the paneled back wall were empty chairs for the next day's guests. Within the fridge cuddled bottles of bubbly for Sanguigno-blood-orange mimosas laced with Grand Marnier to wash down the Panera's brioche breakfast sandwiches and sweet rolls on order. **  Stored in the humidor next to the Breville cappuccino machine beckoned a fresh box of robustos (El Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme, to be specific); atop the immaculate white box awaited a half dozen Romeo y Julieta Julietas for the team's distaff side.

The mood was buoyant as staff braced for the test.  Before returning to their homes on Friday, the Readers knew they'd barely have 12-15 hours after the Sacrilege in the Swamp to draft copy for a special Saturday-morning post. There'd be no time for troubleshooting come Thursday A.M.!

At the press of the power button, the television chimed to life. Then the Internet connection was established. Laptops flickered as a dainty French-manicured manita clicked on the link to the YouTube channel promising to livestream the Bash in the Bog. But within microseconds, the distinguished assembly groaned in worldly-wise dismay as on the screen flashed this dark message.

Curses! Foiled again! The cult took down its own channel!

Making lemonade out of the disappointing lemon handed us, staff set to work. But first our host fixed mimosas as the Reader-in-Chief passed around the Cuban treasures. (It's never too late for mimosas.) After alerting contacts in the swamp and elsewhere, we hatched a plan for gathering all the intelligence available the next day.

By 1:00 P.M. on Thursday, the pix, scans, and hot tips started flooding in (including a droll social-media shot of the new "Bishop" as Sarong Boy).  It wasn't all we'd hoped for, but then again the cult prohibited snaps inside the Big Tent. The first visuals came from Scutty's candid shots of the Wednesday practice session, from which we learned Dubious Dan had been admitted as a co-consecrator. (Later stills from outside the pesthouse confirmed the foolish decision.)

Although on several occasions we had hedged our bet about Dannie's exclusion from the ceremony, we were still mildly surprised. Based on what we know about the Swamplanders' contempt for the Wee One, we surmised the Long-Island Jellyfish must have bailed out, thus forcing the élite to call up the over-eager but validity-challenged pinch hitter from the bench. Seeing it was necessary for the Kid to have the most over-the-top, three-"bishop" extravaganza Tradistan's ever seen, we concluded theatrical considerations had trumped prudence. (The Show is what Tradistan's all about anyway.)

Informants in Michigan earlier passed the word that another "priest" had filled in for Jelly on Sunday, February 18 (reportedly a Mexican national). Although other sources, which got their scoop directly, insisted that no Highlander had planned to attend the Display near the Bay, we still thought the Jellyfish would've surfaced in the peanut gallery for what was in reality a command to dance attendance on Junior. We honestly couldn't imagine Jelly the Nervous Nelly not jumping whenever Big Don nasally bellows, "Frog!" But apparently Its Gelatinacy was a no-show. Perhaps it couldn't abide its fellow scum buckets, so Its Invertebracy pulsed back to home waters to recover. (There have been recent sightings on Long Island.)

When you think about the Big Show dispassionately, apart from the grating presence of His Humpty-Dumptyship on stage before rancor-wracked Swampland culties who despise him, no harm was done to the Kid's validity. The participation of Geert Stuyver, whose priestly and episcopal "orders" come from the Thục-des Lauriers line directly through McKenna, surely counteracted the major threat from Dubious Dan and the far lesser, but still real, hazard of Big Don's Liénart liability. Junior and Jelly now constitute the only relatively certain "episcopal" lineages in Tradistan U.S.A. (Of course, outside that wasteland, there are dozens of valid "bishops" with multiple valid lineages.)

But moving to something more significant, the Readers are most puzzled by all the secrecy. Big Don promised to update us in January but didn't. We could never find the "special schedule" for the "consecration," which was supposed to follow the regular February schedule. Uncharacteristically, Dannie never once blabbed he was to be a co-consecrator, not even to taunt PL. During the three-ring circus itself, photos (you'll recall) were proscribed. And, as we noted above, at almost the last minute, the webcast was suppressed.

All this hush-hush hardly squares with the raucous fanfare that originally advertised the Blast in the Morass.  First there was the big announcement-cum-sheepish-justification in the November 2017 pesthouse newsletter, followed by a comically elaborate e-invitation on the website. Then, with the exception of Gabby Dannie's "Corner," we heard zilch until the February 2018 newsletter, which only gave us a snooty, looking-down-one's-nose clerical fashion review.

What happened? Why the blackout until Scutty's tweet about the practice?

There may be many answers to our questions, but one in particular argues for strong consideration:

  The cult masters were frightened of the scrutiny. 

Discretion, they must have reasoned, was better than worldwide praxis-shaming. Not without foundation would there be a fear that Europe, North America, and Latin America were watching closely for foul ups. Better to put out a heavily edited video later. Furthermore, had Dannie and Checkie's participation been made known too early, Big Don may have faced savage internal opposition from his cult benefactors with a mighty big bone to pick with the Cincy Gruesome Twosome.

The blackout, withal, wasn't disastrous. In the days and weeks to come, there'll be more reports and photos to help us piece together who attended and who didn't. (We may even get a good audience headcount: early dispatches assure us that far fewer than the anticipated 300 showed up.) Since social-media chatter leads us to believe the Swampland will produce a commemorative video, our experts may be able to tease out the liturgical snafus, despite the cult's best endeavors to erase them.  Our expectation is based on the supposition that if the Skipper — the "clerical" clown completer who once omitted the consecration at Mass — acted as the Assistant Priest, it's not unreasonable to infer that gross missteps occurred.

Let's all wait 'n' see.

* Transcribed from his allocution on the episcopal "consecration" of the new Boy "Bishop," the audio of which was made public on the Sammich's website. Click here to listen, but do it fast, for we don't think it will remain there for very long.

**To the extent that the work of Thursday was expected to extend into the wee hours of Friday morning, the younger Readers would've needed their sustenance early. They don't associate with any lawless "bishop," Tradistani or otherwise, who would dispense them from the Lenten fast.