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.

Who is the Antichrist? Part 2

He’s not a member of your family. He’s not your Uncle Louie. The way it works is, if he were your Uncle Louie, you’d be begging him for it. It’s sick, I know, but that’s how the Antichrist rolls.

“The Messiah will come as a thief in the night,” it is written. In the same way, the Antichrist will come as someone who gets mugged in broad daylight. Some say that the congresswoman who got shot in Tucson could be the Antichrist, if she turns out to be a man, but I doubt it. The Antichrist won’t be a politician. Way too obvious.

What do the polls say? 75% would rather date the Antichrist than the Messiah. 80% feel that the Antichrist’s mother is to blame for his behavior; she could control him if she wanted to. She’s permissive. She lets him get away with murder. Always did. She”s in denial. As long as he gets good grades, visits her on Sundays, and promises not to marry that Shiksha he’s been hanging around with, he can do no wrong. 85% believe that the Messiah is secretly jealous of the Antichrist. I mean, the Antichrist is the Antichrist. The Messiah can’t wear dark glasses, get his hair done by Zariff, and share Clooney’s tailor. You won’t find Christ in 230 Fifth in Manhattan, sharing his cocktail with some babe.

90% are waiting for the movie to form an opinion. A guy named Frank thinks that this has something to do with the Red Sox.

95% believe that the Antichrist is a politician. See what I mean?

99% of those polled have opinions so shaky and ill-formed that I’d be a fool to even mention them. It is written that when the Antichrist comes to fully understand what a bunch of morons he will gain dominion over, he’ll hand the whole package back to the Messiah and  concentrate on finding the best forget-me-now, liquid incense, and marching powder in the U.S.

Whoever he turns out to be, I can assure you of one thing. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll be like Brad Pitt or Justin Bieber. For you, no access.

Who is the Antichrist? Part 1

What can you say about this guy?

He’s a guy, of course, not a girl. Hell hath spewed up plenty of female candidates for Consort to Lucifer. In fact, I’ve married a couple of them. But some guy secured the Antichrist role way back when they were writing the Bible and he’s still hanging onto it.

Anyway, the Antichrist will take care of your needs but, in the end, deny you salvation. That’s his well-known plan. It’s like the housing bubble, or any other Ponzi scheme. You want to get onboard early, reap all possible benefits from your association with the Arch-fiend, and then bail before Christ shows up.

He’s the abomination of desolation, the Antichrist, but that means he’s going to have a neat posse, like that boxer who bit off the other boxer’s ear. It’s like with a frisky pit bull. Poke it. Have some laughs, but don’t get too close to the teeth.

The Antichrist could be an Arab, keep that in mind. The Muslims have their own “deceiving Messiah.” They don’t get off the hook just because they like Muhammad better than Jesus. In fact, the Antichrist could well be Chinese. The idea that he’ll fulfill your worldly wishes with respect to furniture, toys, and electronics would fit with all that manufacturing going on across the Pacific. There is something sort of devilish about it, especially when you put it together with that family of weirdos who inherited the WalMart guy’s empire when he croaked.

Is Obama the Antichrist? Please. If he were, then Gog and Magog would have to be Perry and Romney. Perry might have some dirt in his past, but I challenge you to demonstrate to me a Romney/Bimbo pairing that’s credible. Tiger Woods could qualify, but the Antichrist is not going to blow out his knee hitting a golf ball.

I’ve found that my studies of the Antichrist have helped me in my Sunday betting on NFL games. If you would be interested in my “system,” I’m giving a talk aboutit at Tuesday night’s AA meeting in the basement of the Methodist Church at the corner of Elm and Theosophy.

God’s Dog 2

I posted a few words about God’s dog the other day and was met with a firestorm of reader protest. Everyone’s an expert. The French believe that God’s dog is a poodle. The Southern Baptists believe that God keeps hounds in a kennel out behind the house, cared for by an angel named Rastus. PETA has some crazy idea about a neuter and spay clinic just inside the pearly gates.

I realized pretty quickly that no human could answer my questions on this matter, so I spent one year figuring the thing out for myself. 365 days in a row, I took a different dog down to St. Canisius on Main Street. All possible breeds, sizes, colors, and conformations. Watered and well-fed. Each day I locked a dog in and left it there for 24 hours.

Only one dog did not soil the church. If you want to know which one, in case you ever need to pray to Him or Her for some pet-related reason, send $100 cash or money order to my P.O. box in Keokuc.

A hint: at the command to speak, this dog goes arf, not woof.

God’s Dog 1

Does God have a dog? Yes. Just a dog, though, not a cat or a bird or a goldfish or a gerbil or a ferret, and he’s not one of those nuts who keep a goddamned cheetah in their house. God has assigned all of his pets, other than the dog, to Noah, who is good at taking care of disparate animals.

When cat lovers arrive in Heaven and find out that God has a dog but no cat, they feel anger. If their anger registers too high on the heavenly anger meter, they’re sent directly to Hell.

What kind of dog does God have? What breed? Does God love the pit bull? He won’t commit on the pit bull. You can’t pin Him down. A guy told me that he (the guy, not He) was out for an evening once with Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Bruce, and Him, and when it got late and they were all a little impaired, God did whisper something to them about pit bulls – to all of them but Uriel who, ironically, was off urinating. But none of them will tell me what He said.

Anyway, God has a Jack Russell. He has always been partial to fox hunting and this active terrier is ideal for the sport. Of course, God doesn’t use actual foxes. Satan turns souls currently burning in Hell into faux foxes. They’re glad to be out, sort of like Nick Cage in “Drive Angry,” even if they are being chased through the woods of Heaven by a pack of terriers. It’s actually just God’s dog, named Jamie, chasing them, but he seems like a pack. Heaven is full of that sort of thing.

Of course, sadly, you can’t talk about religious matters for more than a minute without sex coming up. I apologize for that in advance, but I didn’t create the Universe. You Know Who did. Having said that, what does Jamie do for “relief.” Yes, he mounts God’s leg and that’s a really cute sight, in a scary sort of way. (Did I mention that Jamie can talk and the sermon on the mount began with this?)

But it’s not enough. Jamie needs a bitch. God tried having Satan send up faux bitches. Some of them hated that duty but others sort of enjoyed it. Jamie wasn’t satisfied. His partners would scream or shriek or beg for mercy or moan in delight, depending, but none of them howled like, well, you know, like a bitch in heat. So God asked Noah to send over the real thing. Her name was Ethel and she was prime stuff. But she didn’t take to Jamie. Every time he sniffed her, she’d turn and lift her lips up over her considerable canines in a snarl, with fire blazing from her big beautiful liquid dark eyes. Jamie was beside himself.

“You’re God,” he barked at his master. “Do something.”

“With your breath, I don’t blame her,” God said. “Let’s change your devine kibble.”

For the denouement to this tale, look up “God’s Puppies” in the Book of Enos (brother of Elvis).

God’s Wife 3

Does God have a wife? What do you think? He’s God, for Christ’s sake. Of course He’s got a wife. And, He hasn’t got a wife. Get it? That’s how God rolls. He’s got infinite wives. The universe is 4 billion years old and, at the rate of one per night, or no, two or three per night, you know, a “two-fer” or a “three-fer,” say, God has still got a lot of wives that He hasn’t even seen yet, much less “known.” He could pass one of these women in the street and go, hey, what a babe, and unbeknownst to him, she’s His wife! He don’t even recognize her! And these aren’t dogs we’re talking about. There are so many babes around (speaking for Hollywood anyway) that even Satan has babes. The bad ones! He doesn’t marry them, either. He’s the Devil. He goes trolling every night. But I’m getting off track here.

So let’s get to it: Mrs. God. What’s going on with this Supreme Deity? Or Supreme Deitress? Well, She’s not some gay male wife or trophy wife young enough to be God’s daughter, I’ll tell you that. She rocks. What does she do? Is she like the First Lady, in charge of prayers from all the orphanages, and flowers blooming in the Spring, and rainbows? Or is she edgy like Hillary, with a large staff, always angling to become head of the World Bank or suchlike?

There are only two ways to find out for sure, of  course: prayer and the holy scriptures.

Go ahead and try prayer first. Every so often somebody gets up in the morning with their answer, although it’s usually about what color to paint  the guest bathroom or something like that.

As for the scriptures, you’ll come up short in the Bible, but fortunately there is also the Pseudepigrapha, available used from Amazon in hardcover for less than $100, which is one hell of a deal.

There’s also the Apocrypha, but it’s got nothin.

The Pseudepigrapha is a gold mine when it comes to stuff like Mrs. God. The title means “falsely attributed” in Greek, but don’t let that put you off. For the dope on the big Wife, check out especially the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch (the Wife gets mad), Cave of Treasures (yes, that “cave”), and Sword of Moses (yes, that “sword”).

Some facts gleaned from these scriptures:

– There are four hundred billion galaxies in the known universe, two hundred billion over there and two hundred billion over here. Mrs. God prefers the two hundred billion over there.

– She’s an ethnic.

– She’s not jealous but she will kill off a million or two of her Husband’s favorites if He pisses her off, just on principle.

– She likes to fingerpaint.

– She’s had more than four trillion babies and suffers from a touch of prolapsed uterus.

We’ll take up the question of Devine Abortions in a later post.

God’s Wife 2

As soon as you mention God’s Wife, the specter of sexual organs is raised. We all know that, for example, the penis comes in many shapes and sizes. An exception about knowing shapes and sizes would be the faithful wife, who has only seen one. If the faithful wife is female, that is. If the faithful wife is male, then it is unlikely that the penises of husband and wife will be identical, perhaps to the surprise and disappointment of the faithful but well-hung wife. In this case, if her penis is much larger than your own, it doesn’t mean that you have to take any shit from her pardon my French.

We did a poll in Montana on this. 78% of respondents stated that they’d rather discuss the private parts of their cattle. 10% stated that they’d rather discuss the private parts of their sheep which they can’t quit, and 12% said they would only discuss such matters in their own bedroom or in a motel room if we would be interested in that.

So the thing is, suppose your penis does not look like God’s penis? Or your wife’s private bits do not look like those of God’s Wife – you know, are more, well, prominent, or perhaps more sequestered? Maybe the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, but I guess that’s another subject. If you’re very different from the Divine, does God still love you? No. If you’re unusual in some way, is there a chance that God’s Wife might take a special interest in you? Maybe. I know a guy like that.

But let’s get our minds out of the gutter. God’s Wife. Does She do the dishes? No. That’s what the angels are there for. Does She want to go out every night, or is She content to let God lie on the couch and for once watch a goddamned football game in peace? Hmm. I’ll set up a poll on that one.

God’s Wife 1

First of all: this is a serious post. No way I’m going to dis God in a WordPress post. Maybe it would be ok over on Facebook, which besides its 100 million Godless teenagers has several large pockets of Satanists, who, except for the group sex, are the most boring… I’m getting off subject.

There are some Christian religions that believe that God has a wife. They don’t talk about it much, but if you pin them down, they will admit it. Most will say more about the Holy Ghost, but the Holy Ghost – he or she or it – is a ghost, a spirit, a cloud, whatever. Nobody ever tells us that the Holy Ghost has, say, a penis. The Holy Ghost is just easier to talk about than God’s wife. Or should it be God’s Wife? Sometimes the Holy Ghost does appear in the shape of a bird, but nobody ever tells us what the sex of that bird is, or that it’s got a twig in it beak (for nest-building). Or maybe an olive branch, for reasons unknown.

Later: Hold on. I’m wrong. If you poll the rural preachers of Mississippi, asking them whether the Holy Ghost is male, female, both, or neither, 100% reply that the Holy Ghost is male. If you ask whether the HG has a penis, 100% say well hell yes. If you ask whether that penis is large or small, 100% of the black preachers say large. 100% of the white preachers say that it’s medium in size; perhaps just a hair small. If you ask the black preachers whether the penis bends to the left or right or hangs straight down, 100% respond that the penis hangs, or “dangles,” straight down. 100% of the white preachers respond that it bends to the right.

One Asian preacher was polled. He dropped his trousers and waggled his member in the pollster’s face, without articulating an answer. Very Zen.