January 08, 2017

Lindsay Lohan’s “vapid” Instagram anti-terrorism poem misses the mark

David MenziesMission Specialist David Menzies
 

Do you know how you can tell terrorism is getting out of control? Well, because that philosopher-king Lindsay Lohan recently composed a poem about it, which she shared on Instagram. 

Watch as I share a few of her grammatically incorrect stanzas.

Like Lohan herself, the poem is both vapid and vacuous.

And her proposed solution for dealing with radical Islam is akin to an ostrich burying its head in the sand:

Ultimately, Lohan closes the blinds and stays in the bed of whatever 5-star hotel she’s currently residing in.

Who knows? Maybe those soldiers of Allah who comprise ISIS will read Lohan’s poem and renounce terrorism but probably not.

So to Lindsay Lohan and all the other has-been, never-was celebrities living a life of privileged luxury most of us can only dream of, if you’re going to send out anti-terrorism poems on Instagram, don’t beat around the bush when it comes to naming names.

And please don’t be so damn lazy when it comes to crafting rhyming couplets.

Comments
You must be logged in to comment. Click here to log in.
commented 2017-01-08 22:28:28 -0500
AL PETERSON;
I’ve come to expect interesting prose on THEREBEL – commentary and opinion…but not poesy.
Chesterton’s ‘Lepanto’ was a delight to read, even the second time. It was an effective anodyne against that painful bit of dribble I polluted my consciousness with by Loosey Lohan.
Knowing Chesterton and Kipling were contemporaries, I can’t help but think Chesterton must have appreciated Kipling’s sentiments in his, “THE WRATH OF THE AWAKENED SAXON
I know I certainly do…
commented 2017-01-08 21:05:31 -0500
Yeah genius you will fix those ISIS minds, and that cold you feel is a side effect of whatever you intoxicated on.
commented 2017-01-08 21:02:59 -0500
To be fair it is hard to compose a poem when you have fried most of your brain cells.
commented 2017-01-08 21:02:13 -0500
ISIS may i suggest the academy awards or the globes or some other celebrity get together for an attack target.
commented 2017-01-08 20:18:47 -0500
YIKES !
Not poetry — ranintoatree
commented 2017-01-08 19:28:02 -0500
Whaaaaaaat? An entertainer who lacks in intelligence and has nothing of worth to provide to any conversation. I can hardly believe it.
commented 2017-01-08 14:16:12 -0500
@al PETERSON….Nice find Al…just goes to show this is hardly a new phenomina….salaphism is just the most recent accellerant to the fire.
commented 2017-01-08 14:00:54 -0500
Since 9/11 – IN THE NAME OF ISLAM (SATAN): 32,572 Attacks, 208,735 Killed, 292,253 Injured that we know of.
commented 2017-01-08 11:53:18 -0500
I am not familiar with this woman, is she a celebrity of some kind? Whatever, she has expressed her feeling in the best way she could. Her message expresses her fear and desire to be rid of the Death Cult called Islam. I will go along with that.
commented 2017-01-08 11:28:26 -0500
Now here is Chesterton’s poetry on Islam. I think you’ll find it better in all respects. Europe needs another Don John.

Lepanto

BY G. K. CHESTERTON
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young,
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate ;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael’s on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed—
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade….
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
commented 2017-01-08 11:07:52 -0500
Lindsay Lohan should probably stick to her strengths…like being a skanky, drug addicted slut and degenerate.

What the heck is she ‘famous’ for anyway?
commented 2017-01-08 09:49:18 -0500
She needs to stick to acting! She’s trying to remain valid, but I don’t think poetry is her thing. Ignorance is bliss, and I do wish she’d keep it to herself. While the rest of us warn others of the storm clouds that are coming.