Ex-employee Slams Measles Church

Oh, the itch!

Jesus had chicken pox but he never had measles. You can confirm this in the Epistle to the Walmites in the Apocrypha.

Who did have measles? Search the holy writ. Google “measles god jesus the holy trinity a host of angels and saints true republicans” and see what you get. Nada.

And yet, as far as we can determine, by prayer and introspection, neither God nor Jesus was ever vaccinated!  Measles are caused not by invisible “germs,” but by sin, QED.

I was hired by the One True Megachurch as a greeter. My job was to watch for vaccination marks. Or “Satan’s Mark,” as Reverend Amoebes referred to it. Those with the mark were drawn into the church, placed in positions of power, and then blackmailed. The Reverend also had a thing for those marks, so there was some physical monkey business going on as well. I had no problem with the blackmail, as the receipts were used by the Reverend to  further the ends of the church. I wasn’t provided with the details.

It’s surprising how many different types of mark a measles vaccination can cause. Reverend Amoebes never tired of the variety.

Once the Reverend was through with them, the marked church members were banished.

Naturally, quite a bit of measles and mumps was to be found in the congregation, especially among the children, whereas in the rest of the city the diseases were practically nonexistent. The church was being tested by God. Once it passed the test, measles and mumps would break out all over the metropolitan area and everyone in the church would become immune. In the meantime, we were the Job of congregations, questioning not our suffering, everyone looking like spotted chipmunks with cheeks full of nuts.

Everyone but the Reverend, that is. Miraculously, he remained healthy.

So matters would have remained if I had not surprised the Reverend in his  study late one Sunday evening. Later he claimed that I was sneaking in to get at the chest containing his “slush fund.” I could have sworn he was in the vestry with Pearl Price at the time. She was moaning in there for sure. Was it just the itch?

In his study, the Reverend was changing out of his vestments. He liked to go downtown after midnight wearing black. When I walked in on him, he was between shirts and there on his arm was a vaccination mark.  No way I could miss it.

Now, I’m out on the street, unemployed. Obviously didn’t reach the slush fund. No market in town for my job specialty, not until the city comes to its senses and learns to detest vaccinations like I do.

Guest Post: Hyrum Smith

On the occasion of his wedding (50th wife), welcome, Hyrum, and congratulations.

***

Thank you, DWEW.

Yes, I have 50 wives.

It’s a religious thing.

Don’t ask about the sex. That’s always the first thing to come up. I don’t talk to my wives about it. I won’t talk to you about it. Once the subject comes up at home, I can’t get a word in edgewise, so if a wife tries to sneak sex into the conversation, if a wife even looks like she’s thinking about sex, if she even glances anywhere below my belt, I tell her,  forget about it for the next year or two, period.

I mostly pay for sex in town. Much simpler. Note, however, that I do have 241 children, just in case you think I’m a closet homosexual or something.

Also, don’t ask about food. The cooking competition is worse than the screwing competition, pardon my French. I walk into the dining room, sit down, and eat what’s on my plate. Then I say thanks and get up and leave. You want a review of your dinner? Check my plate. If the food is still lying there, your dinner stinks.

Keep the kids away from me. One hint of favoritism on my part and all hell breaks loose. We’ve got 50 moms here (ages 12 to 92). Take care of your kids! If they want to go to college, make sure they get a scholarship. You can’t beat being a member of a cult for moving to the top of various lists.

If you’re my mother, one of my sisters, or one of my daughters, don’t try to marry me. This means you, Mom. It’s embarrassing to have a whirlwind romance and find myself at the alter, only to discover you’ve used a wig and contacts to disguise yourself.

If this is about money, talk to Sariah (the 92-year-old). She keeps the books. Cult finance is not taught in Accounting 101.

I don’t talk politics, except to say, where do you think Romney got those debating skills? And Jon Huntsman felt right at home as a diplomat in China, a country with a population of 1.3 billion.

One last thing about sex. If you consort with a prostitute on a steady basis, ensure that she has at least one child by you, if you want to keep straight with God.

could the anti-christ be china?

“could the anti-christ be china?”

This is a search question that was used to reach my blog today. I think that it deserves an answer.

First of all, I know a Chinaman. He serves me a plate of pan-fried noodles every Friday evening at Woo’s. I don’t know whether he speaks English or not. All I’ve heard him say is “You likee?” He wears a short-sleeved white shirt and black trousers. Could he be the Anti-Christ? Perhaps. I can’t just come out and ask him, because the Anti-Christ is apt to lie. Let’s keep this guy in the back of our minds for now.

There are one billion Chinese in China. That’s 1,000 million. We can deal with them million by million and then we’ll only have to do it 1,000 times. Half are female, so we can eliminate them. Or, wait. Has it ever been proven for sure that Christ was a guy? Maybe we better not rule out the females just yet. And anyway, with all the transgender, sex-changing activity going on (End of Days!), it’s a moving target anyway.

So, first of all, the Anti-Christ will come all friendly like. The checkout woman over at Pay And Go did not get the memo. Very crabby. Maybe she’s Japanese. I read an article where a whole crowd of folks, white, brown, yellow, and black, were given a test: they were all shown pictures of Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans. Nobody could tell the difference. So that checkout woman, if the Anti-Christ is Chinese, is not Chinese. She failed the friendly test. That’s how we know that the Japanese are not the Anti-Christ. Pearl Harbor.

What about all those different Chinese languages? You could get 20 Chinese in a room and none might know what any of the others are talking about. Is the Anti-Christ that tricky? What about Taiwan? Is everybody on the island just pretending to dislike the mainland?

If the Chinese are the Anti-Christ, they sure fooled Pearl Buck. And they’ve wasted a humongous amount of time, incense, and gongs on Buddist ceremonies.

Wait a minute! Lucy Liu. I love Lucy Liu. No way she’s the Anti-Christ. But she’s seductive, so seductive. Could she come to me sometime, like a thief in the night? No, that’s Jesus who will do that. It’ll be spooky when he does, too.

My time as a monk

When I was in my 20s, I renounced the materialism of the Western world. I got a job on a freighter after obtaining my seaman’s ticket, and worked on the high seas until taking my accumulated pay and debarking for good at the port of Chittagong. I could have lived like a king for a year in Bangladesh but instead I secreted my money on my person and made my way north on foot, depending upon the kindness of strangers for my biryani and llish.

In time, I passed through the hills of Meghalaya (the Scotland of India) and crossed into Assam. I endured rain, sat and watched the one-horned Indian rhinoceros, and eventually progressed into Bhutan. Here, in the deep valleys, as I approached the mighty Himalayas, I began sitting with the Vajrayana monks whom I encountered. Finally, in the company of these monks, I began the long, long tramp to Cona in Tibet, at 14,000 feet, and eventually, as the seasons passed,  to Gonggar. I was tempted to apply for membership in the Sakyapa school of Tibetan Buddhism at the Gonggar Dzong or the Gonggar Choede Monastery, but I craved to leave the valleys and trek up into the wild and rocky Himalaya hinterlands, which I did, feet wrapped in burlap. I could feel myself leaving the world behind and approaching true understanding on the edge of the great voids of thin air that fill the spaces between the mountain peaks up there.

I arrived finally in a small and nameless village on the stoney gray flank of a gigantic mountain. A woman, Chomo-Lung-Ma (Godess Mother of the Universe), took me in. There were no monks in the village but she explained by gesture that this was a good thing – that I could best advance my own personal monkhood in solitary fashion.

It developed that she had six children. She kept me busy with chores, which seemed good for a newbie monk. I never figured out where the village’s food came from. The goats would wander off over the flinty slopes; they must have found something to eat somewhere back there because they came back sated. Chomo-Lung-Ma gave me sustenance sufficient to keep me alive and able to work, no more.

When Spring arrived, she gathered the family’s meager belongings and the kids and prodded me out onto the track through the village. It seemed as if we walked for months after that. Walked and walked. In fact, we did walk for months. We walked until we arrived on the ocean shore at the harbor of Beihai in Guangxi province. Chomo-Lung-Ma took my money stash, which had remained intact since my final day on the freighter, and she and I and her children crossed the Pacific and were smuggled ashore south of L.A. We caught a succession of buses north to a furnished bungalow in Canoga Park. Five bedrooms, three baths, red-tile roof, full landscaping. We took up residence as a happy, middle-class married couple. She worked with a gang smuggling Far Eastern drugs; I was in charge of the kids, the pets we acquired, and the Escalade. Two housemaids came in on Tuesdays and Fridays.

I would have done some yard work, but a Mexican crew showed up every Thursday to take care of that.

Taxing the Rich: WWJD

Jesus hates taxes, but that’s not the end of the story. Jesus loves tithes. “The tithe is that tenth of our income that we give to God, which enables Him to move on our behalf in the area of blessings.” Satan would never cough up one tenth of his ill-gotten gains, not for Jesus or the IRS or anybody, except possibly for some really hot chick that he just couldn’t resist; but even then, he wouldn’t pay her until he’d sampled the goods. So if your tithing contributions are up to date, Jesus knows that you aren’t one of Satan’s minions. This may seem like taxation, but it’s a good thing, in terms of your health.

Jesus himself could be rich if he wanted. He could turn water into gold, never mind wine. So when you’re taxing the rich, it’s like you’re taxing Jesus Himself. This is a good way to get yourself  struck with leprosy or something even worse. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. You don’t want to be taxed, do you? So why would you tax someone else, even someone filthy rich and undeserving of the luxurious life he or she is living on the backs of the rest of us?

Polls show us that more than 61% of rich people are skunks. They’re stuck up, they’re rude, their kids are running wild, and most of their money is just sitting there doing nothing. Jesus would take that money and give it to those of us who are spreading the gospel over radio and TV. Jesus would give the rich a choice: donate or burn in Hell. But he’s say it better than that, talking about lambs and His Father’s Kingdom and so forth.

Jesus has always been about small government. You’ve got God, you’ve got The Holy Ghost, you’ve got Christ. That’s the three branches of Heaven’s government right there, and it consists of only three individuals, if you count The Ghost as a person. Any government with more than three people in it is heresy. Those thousands or millions of Hindu gods? That’s the type of government you want to avoid. The cost of salaries and rental office furniture alone will kill you.

Bottom line: If you’re rich, be a nice guy. Be pleasant at all times. Say “Ola” to your gardeners. Say “Buenas dias” to your maids and try to keep your dirty paws off them, unless they seem genuinely interested. Contribute to Ron Paul. Maintain a large compound in a third-would country in case Obama is reelected and finally starts to show a little backbone.

Flowers, Puppies, and the Love of God

Reading over some of my recent posts, I find them harsh. I regret these posts. The world does not need harsh. The inside of my brain is not a harsh place. Let us  mellow out.

Yes, let us think of… flowers. Their beauty. Floral beauty. Their colors. Floral color. Each flower provides sustenance and living space for myriad small creatures. Sure, the little things eat each other to some extent. There are spiders. It’s a jungle in miniature. Endless soulless remorseless death. But let’s not think about that. Let’s focus on the aromas, the deep satisfying colors. With global warming progressing exponentially, you’ll be able to grow all manner of heat-tolerant, drought-resistant varieties year round, until we reach the point where only cactii can survive. Increasing respiratory illness and allergies might spoil our walk in the roses, as will the advent of the African black death honeybee, but let’s not think about that.

Let us think instead of… puppies. So fuzzy. So friendly, except for those traumatized into quivering catatonia by their previous experiences with humans. Ha. You think you know where this is going: into negative territory, again and again. Wrong. Watch this. Puppies, yapping, tussling, months away from developing into vicious pit bulls… Now you think I’ll promise not to go dark, but then I will go dark. No. I won’t promise anything. Why should I? You don’t know me. We’ve never met. Have you ever been bitten by a rabid dog? Sure, the dog was tiny. But it’s teeth were like needles. Have you ever had rabies treatment? The needles into the abdomen? Sure, I can be mellow, but give me a friggin break! Let me work through a couple of issues first, alright?

So let us think of… love. The Love of God. I no longer say a blessing over dinner. Why? Because in the space of time that I am speaking the words of thanks, and while I’m also asking for a blessing upon family members, in that space of time, an average 423,706 individuals around the world will die, often in what some would call hilariously macabre circumstances. If I keep up the blessings, one or more of my family members are increasingly likely to drop dead while I pray, as am I. It’s simple statistics.

Will I read this later and find it harsh? I think not. If flowers, puppies, and The Lord are not mellow, what is? Or what are?

Who is the Antichrist? Part 3

I’m often asked, does the Antichrist diet? He spends a lot of time in the finest restaurants. He has a table at Le Bernardin. He cares about his appearance, but he wasn’t blessed with that rangy, rawhide slim build of the Messiah, who can’t walk down to the corner for a pack of smokes in the Castro without getting hit on every step of the way. Nevertheless, you won’t catch the Antichrist on a Stairmaster at Gold’s. He simply doesn’t have the patience for it.

He’ll strap on a rubber cummerbund to sweat off a pound or two around the middle. He does use the finest tailors to hide those little imperfections. He will keep a beautiful babe on his arm to distract attention from his midsection. He will sometimes use a snug fit to emphasize his package, for the same reason.

He rages about this in private. He’s seen that sudden look of shock and disappointment in the eyes of a starlet when he gets naked. Now he’ll only do it in the dark, or at least under the sheets. He’ll even leave his socks on.

The Anitchrist’s lack of restraint reminds me that he’s been having some trouble with expenditures lately. He refuses to live within his means. Bank of America has tacked some rather cruel late charges onto his credit-card account. He’s known for his towering rages, but I’ve never seen a tantrum to match the one he threw when he found all of his belongings out on the sidewalk in front of the Fifth-Avenue building where his penthouse is, or was, located.

How we know it’s almost End of Days is because prophecy doesn’t allow for the Antichrist to end up on the streets of New York looking like a mentally-ill homeless person before he’s even come face-to-face with the Messiah in a final confrontation, which is where he’s headed at the moment – to a shelter in the Bowery, I mean, and not in a good mood.

And while I’m thinking of it, you know those devil kids that are always getting born in the movies, to Mia Farrow or Lee Remick or whomever? The Antichrist wants you to know that they are not him. He hates the little bastards. They’re spawn of some devil seed or other that he wants nothing to do with. Contending with Jesus Christ, as well as his weight and bank account,  is more than enough for him.