Okay, without offering any editorial comment one way or another about whether I think Rev. Tony Alamo is "suffering the little children" or not, I have to protest at the description of his little Jesus Camp. That's right, the legacy media is already calling it a "compound".
Now, as best I can tell, there are no guard towers, rabid dobermans, or machine gun nests, so its only qualification as a "compound" is that sometimes some people live there whose religious views might be a few bubbles off plumb, like Rev. Tony Montana. By that definition, the Southern Baptist church retreat at which I spent the idyllic summers of my youth, getting sunburned and making awful braided lanyards for... well, whatever it is that you attach awful braided lanyards to, was a "compound".
I'm sorry Mr. Reporter, but unless you can turn up the ammo bunker or the fallout shelter, Rev. Tony Cacciatore's little collection of holy double-wides is a few Kalashnikovs short of a compound, no matter how many times he may or may not have read kids "My Weekend With Uncle Badtouch" as a bedtime story.
I'm going to start calling our house Roseholme Compound. Lord knows we've got better chops for the accolade than Tony does.