The first is an editorial from the Washington Post about Pat Robertson's recent fatwah.
It's a pity Venezuelans don't know that "The 700 Club" broadcaster is a fading shadow of the Republican Party figure he once was. That Mr. Robertson once ran for his party's nomination, built a conservative religious advocacy group that had aspiring office-seekers quaking in their boots and -- entrepreneur that he is -- befriended every sub-Saharan kleptomaniac he managed to meet.
But Mr. Robertson's slide from the mountain peak of evangelical pontification was not because of his politics but because of his mouth. When his words were not ill-advised, they were moronic; when not callow, downright loopy, as in: predicting God would curse Orlando with a hurricane if gay-pride events were celebrated at Disney World; wishing a nuclear bomb would be dropped on the State Department; and suggesting that America had it coming on Sept. 11 because God had been insulted "at the highest level of our government." Venezuelans just may not know the Pat Robertson that America knows. Yesterday, Mr. Robertson apologized. We are used to that, too.
The second is a hilarious article from the French newswire. It's about an Austrian village named Fucking.
Guesthouse boss Augustina Lindlbauer described the village's breathtaking lakes, forests and vistas.
"Yet still there is this obsession with F---ing," she said.
"Just this morning I had to tell an English lady who stopped by that there were no F---ing postcards."