In like Flynn

Aussie oldtimers like me persist in believing that the expression "in like Flynn" evokes the great Tasmanian movie seducer Errol Flynn [1909-1959].

Jeez, there are so few famous Tasmanians that we can't afford to let this fellow slip between our fingers. I hardly need to supply a diagram to illustrate the objective truth that, with respect to countless sexy females, Flynn was often—as it were—in rather than out. Meanwhile, certain nasty detractors consider that Errol—who gained fame through his portrayal of Robin Hood—might have been gay.

I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: Is there the slightest trace of anything other than stout heterosexual manliness in these images of our Errol ?

Somebody suggested that Flynn was aiming his Robin Hood arrows of adoration at a certain budding Hollywood fellow named Ronald Reagan... but we are incapable of evaluating this allegation. And what the fuck !

Meanwhile, in God's Own Country, front-page news has been focussed these days upon the super-general David Petraeus and his James Bond girlfriend, Paula Broadwell.

It's all a bit too much. But what I like most of all is the title of Paula's hagiography of her Saint Petraeus.

What a simple but evocative title: All In. In like Flynn! In military talk, Paula Broadwell was truly embedded, literally. She's got the potential to go a long way, this talented young lady. All the way...

POST SCRIPTUM

The following journalistic opinion is interesting:

For the moment, thank God, I can feel nothing.  I've just glanced behind me... but we all know that the Holy Ghost moves in mysterious ways. In the domain of stealthy divine sodomy, I love the frank tone of this recent front page of the French weekly Charlie Hebdo:

Incidentally, this front page was a reaction to the declarations (on gay couples) of one of my favorite targets of derision: Andrew Vingt-Trois, the current empty-headed archbishop of Paris. The drawing affirms that the Catholic dignitary—whose unusual surname, meaning 23 in French, suggests that one of his anonymous paternal ancestors was lodged in a maternity clinic bed numbered 23, or maybe abandoned in front of a house numbered 23... such as the building in the Rue Rambuteau where I lived for years, in the heart of Paris—was in fact the offspring of holy intercourse involving no less than three distinct dads: God the father, Jesus the son, and an esoteric Holy Spirit. The list of procreators might have included Joseph the carpenter, an archangel named Gabriel and, last but not least, a female named Mary who supposedly never had sex with any guy whatsoever. Shit, you have to be extraordinarily smart (or maybe mindless) to grasp and appreciate Christian theology.