THE NO SIN ZONE

Jesus just told me, with suspicious cheerfulness, that it is so-called “Gay Pride” this weekend. Since God created me in His image, I have selflessly devoted my life to passing on the favor by trying to make everyone just like me. As such, nothing is more galling than people I don’t approve of being happy. And I would not be a True Christian™ (aka Baptist) if I didn’t view other people feeling content as a ripe opportunity to besmirch them, leech out their joy in Jesus’ name — and then and make some tax-free cash! Therefore, I encourage all homos this weekend to drunkenly climb down off those garish floats and sign an irrevocable $9,899 contract with my ex-gay ministry: BASH — Baptists Are Saving Homosexuals! Building on the qualified success of my Ex-Negro Ministry, BASH has helped countless* gay men to find frumpy lesbian wives and renounce the silly, annoying hobby of being who they are! [*almost one!]

Celebrity deaths are spectator sports. And Michael Jackson’s is the Super Bowl of televised grief. America’s patron saint of wholesome exploitation, Mary Hart, can hardly keep her giddiness in check (”Think of the ratings! But why did they have to die on the same day? Damn you Jesus!”), while other celebrities, from the authentic (Paul McCartney) to the risible (Heidi Pratt), all jump on the exciting news as an opportunity to wring some attention for themselves out of the still warm corpse. And, of course, a mindless seeker of perpetual attention like Ashton Kutcher can be counted upon to Twitter his thumbs into a frenzy as he tries, once again, to insinuate-by-texting himself into any situation that holds the public’s fleeting attention he jealously craves, like a junkie hours from his last fix.

People tried yesterday to work themselves into an emotion that approximated grief when Farrah Fawcett died, but she was a minor star and her death was about as predicable as that of the villain in a bad movie. And before everyone could really begin keening her lost in earnest, she was upstaged, in true Hollywood fashion, by a bigger star with a flashier exit. And so the emotional masturbation begins! Ready yourself for the televised tears and the blogged bathos. Emotions are no longer authentic if they aren’t witnessed. Grief is suspect if it isn’t grand enough to register on digital video. So make way for people to appear in public and parade their inconsolable grief over a stranger, someone they never knew outside the removed lens of celebrity — and its close cousin infamy.

Somewhere in Hell, America’s most famous child molester is smiling. He got out of doing those onerous London concerts he was going to cancel anyway. And he can now sit back and watch the one thing he seemed to prize more than melody: flattery. Michael spent so many years giving himself relentless praise; how happy he must be to have finally done something again that provoked others to join in on the adulation. And his death, unlike the now-scrapped London concerts, will be a hard act to follow.

As a Real American™, I am troubled by the lack of attention given to the most troubling aspect of this whole sordid, cross-equatorial liaison by Mark Sanford. American Patriots™ do not import mistresses from overseas, taking over-paid jobs on political payrolls away from American harlots, whores and extortionists. This outsourcing of sin deprives American tramps enormous salaries, which double as hush money with each indiscreet lick of someone else’s man! In this economy, can we truly afford politicians who turn tricks and their finances over to sexual playthings overseas? What’s next? Will the Roman Catholic clergy begin thumbing through cheap, Chinese catalogs for mail-order altar boys, thereby depriving Real Americans™ millions of dollars in punitive damages? Think of how our already shaky economy would have suffered if Senators Ensign’s and Edwards’ on-the-payroll hoochie mamas had been foreign sluts and their generous payoffs had been exported?

Friends, patriots have sordid assignations with other amoral Americans. Real Americans™ have domestic affairs — and, in the case of another infamous South Carolinian, Strom Thurmond, affairs with domestics! In this time when American jobs are being sent overseas, let us rally around this heartfelt cry: Homewreckers should come from HOME!

Dear Flock:

You can now find me on FACEBOOK:

http://www.facebook.com/bettybowers

As America’s foremost embedded reporter in the current War on Christmas, I am sending this encrypted message to you from the front lines: Macy’s.

Dear Soldiers for the Baby Jesus:

Once again, pagan combatants, wielding verbal grenades made of non-specific cheer, are on a militant rampage to retake the Winter Solstice, a holiday invaded and occupied by Christians over 1,700 years ago. 

Friends, we stole December fair and square — and are going to stay the coarse ones in turning a season devoted to love and joy into an vitriolic turf war all about us!

The first shopping skirmish of the season occurred when my Personal Shopper spotted secular insurgents maraudering behind the Estee Lauder counter.  I personally overheard several of these “Happy Holidays” extremists, uniformed in the Lauder infantry’s blue, paramilitary smocks, boldly declare a jihad on the Baby Jesus’ birthday.  As I feigned interest in an egregiously harloty shade of bright red lipstick, I overheard the make-up militia chant such bellicose, Christmas-hating greetings as “Have a wonderful holiday!” to civilian shoppers.  They also brandished IEDs (introductory exfoliating devices) to Christian foundation buyers, Bible-believing bargain hunters simply looking for a Christmas gift that came free with a $35 purchase.

Moments later, bell-ringing infantry from the Salvation Army were called in to drown out the battle cries of “Ho! Ho! Ho!” from a sidewalk Santa. This invasion appears to have been based on faulty intelligence as it turns out that the Santa bellowing “Ho! Ho! Ho!” was merely greeting Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and Britney Spears as they drunkenly stumbled out of Neiman-Marcus. Before Baptist mercenaries realized this mistake, angry Pentecostal militia had already rounded up striped-stockinged enemy combatants (pint-sized operatives calling themselves “elves”).  They were wrestled to the ground just outside of their bunker, a Styrofoam gingerbread house in Bloomingdale’s window.

Yes, friends, this year’s War on Christmas has been the most angry and dangerous yet.  Several shoppers’ eyes were taken out as called-up shopoholic reservists from Landover Baptist Church carpet bombed mall parking lots with “Jesus is the Reason for 40% Off Selected Merchandise” Bible tracts.

Bill O’Reilly and I undertook a reconnaissance mission to undercover anti-Christmas propaganda militants.  Holiday hostilities began after I resourcefully used a “Noel” candle from Pottery Barn (which Bill mistook for a candy-striped pagan tribute to Jeb Bush’s crackwhore daughter) to ignite an appalling “Peace on Earth” banner dangling just outside a notorious secular stronghold called Sephora.  As Bill jumped up and down on the flaming banner, he screamed at frightened eye-shadow and fragrance browsers, “Peace on earth?  You can take your anti-troops, anti-Bush, pinko pacifistic agitprop and shove it right up your –”

Fortunately, a resourceful spritz of “Hillary Duff with Love” Eau de Parfum Spray not only prevented Bill from completing his proctologic entreaty, it also caused so much collateral damage to bystander shoppers that “Hillary Duff with Love” has replaced Polonium-210 as my favorite disabling spray during our current campaign to retake the fur department at Saks for Jesus.

As all of you arm yourselves for CHRISTmas shopping this season, know that your comrade-in-arms, Mrs. Betty Bowers, is with you in the AMEX-accepting trenches.  Your Commander-in-Cashmere wishes all of you a joyous Baby Jesus Day and asks you to remain vigilant against secular uprisings, such as shockingly rude cards that wish so-called “nice” things without pandering to your particular brand of faith.  And a special word of warning to you lady shoppers out there: Watch out for Pastor’s notoriously inaccurate missile-toe!

So Close To Jesus, I Still Haven’t Forgiven Him For Stretching Out Last Christmas’s Lovely Elie Tahari Paulo Sweater By Allowing The Entire Trinity To Try It On All At Once,

Mrs. Betty Bowers

America’s Best Christian

A NOTE FROM BETTY: Allow me to introduce Prophetess Debbie, who goes to my church, Landover Baptist. Frankly, I became so utterly vexed with my Savior (and that dreadful hick from Alaska) pestering me while I shopped at Neiman-Marcus (it was nothing short of salvation stalking!), I hired Prophetess Debbie to act as a go-between, at least until I’ve finished my holiday shopping. In this way, I will treat my Debbie as the Catholics treat their Mary, as a glorified gofer to take messages to the Lord. A word of warning: Prophetess Debbie tends to speak with unseemly candor. She fails to couch her Republican thoughts in the politically correct, focus-group tested phrases that more sophisticated, savvy right-wing Christians — me! — instinctively employ. In other words, she says thing publicly that are best left behind thick church doors. But please bear with me: There really isn’t a wide selection when it comes to Baptist prophetesses this late in the season!

Hey, you all! Now, darling, I know, in the wake of that sad little election we just had us, this is a time when our country is rightfully resentful of the usurpation of godly-ordained Republican power by Satan’s stooge, the Anti-Christ Barrack Hussein Muhammad Ali Baba Obama. In such a stressful (end) time, it is easy to concentrate on all the bad things dark people do. I would join you, but I simply don’t have that kind of time. But, good gravy, I’m not trying to stop you all from that very healthy, cathartic, truly Republican undertaking.

Instead, what I would like to do is to provide a little balance. You see, the Lord Jesus came to me while I was in the powder room at The Olive Garden (which, I assume, he confused for the Garden of Olives), and He reminded me that people “of color” are not always off color and are surprisingly capable of moments of Christian righteousness.  My stars, He made them sound almost like real, actual Christians!  LOL!!!!!

For example, Proposition 8, banning so-called “gay marriage” in California only passed thanks to the overwhelming support of colored Californians. The sad truth is that, if left to white people, homos in that state would still be free to pretend to be joined in their disgusting “marriages,” the very thought of which make me want to vomit up countless garlicky breadsticks.

To be honest, I was worried that, due to their supposed struggles (dear Lord, when will ever hear the end of that?), Negroes would be more susceptible to choosing so-called “civil rights” over Jewish law. (And, between us chickens, I was also a tish concerned that they would realize that scrupulously enforcing the rules of the Old Testament would open the door to going back to giving the Lord’s helpful hints on beating your slaves in Exodus another go!) Fortunately, I found that most Blacks (or whatever it is they like to be called this week! LOL!) are apt to only fuss over their own so-called “civil rights” and were happy to squash the so-called civil rights of homos, as Jesus would have commanded, had He gotten around to remembering how much He loathes them and everything!

So join me and Jesus in saying, “Thank you, you darling, precious people of colors for giving the homos what for!  But, just so we are clear: This still doesn’t make us even on the whole black president thing. OK?” 

Meet Tonya Jenkins. She died of shock this morning. You see, the poor thing had spent the past two years getting all of her information from Sean Hannity. She would then go to her favorite website, Free Republic, and read thousands and thousands and thousands of vitriolic posts, all containing no facts inconsistent with Mr. Hannity’s and no opinions that caused Tonya to rethink her own.  

Tonya went to bed last night with a tumbler of cold tequila and a head full of comfy knowledge. She knew that the Lord Jesus would answer her prayer to never let no colored Muslim communist terrorist be no durn president. She was certain she would wake up to find that sassy Sarah Palin and her running mate, a wonderfully mavericky war hero, had been elected instead. In her Christian heart, Tonya was confident that Americans were every bit as racist as Republicans hoped they’d turn out to be, as the much discussed, posted about and wished for “Bradley Effect” would work its reactionary magic at the polls. 

But this morning at work, Tonya got sloppy. Maybe she was tired. Maybe just a bit hungover. Whatever the cause for her lapse, she became infected by the Liberal Elite Mainstream Media. As she carelessly bused her table, she inadvertently glanced at a New York Times a suspiciously informed dinner had mischievously left behind. Sensing danger, she tried to look away, but it was too late. She’d already read the headline. Before she could blindfold herself with the rag she was using to wipe the table and repeat her “la la la la MR. FACTS I DON’T HEAR YOU!  la la ” incantation, inconvenient information had already burrowed into her head like anthrax spores. Poor Tonya’s bitter heart just couldn’t take the shock: The America of FoxNews and her favorite right wing website wasn’t the America she was walking and breathing in. Before I could call out “But Florida and California still hate the homos!” to revive her, she was gone.

With the delicious news that the GOP spent $150,000 to play dress-up Caribou Barbie and that Governor Palin likes to stay at the $700/night Essex House (in, mind you, notoriously not so “pro-America” New York City) for four nights to attend one-day seminar on the taxpayers’ dime, I am realizing that when it comes to spreading the wealth around, Sarah Palin can always be counted upon to have her palm wide open.

Let’s think . . . a fascist misrepresenting her background, spouting lies and nonsense while being repackaged for the benefit of the little people? Who does that remind you of? Oh, I know! I think it’s time for an updated production of Evita! It helps if you picture a chorus of self-conscious, pasty males in Brooks Brothers suits and felt elephant trunk baseball caps. 

 GOP DRESSERS:

Eyes! Hair! Mouth! Glasses! Dress! Strut! Smirk! Slander!

Per Diem! Winks! Glamour! Face! Fibs! Excitement! Image!

SARAH “EVITA” PALIN:

Did you hear ‘bout the coats and handbags I took?

Poor people, I want your votes, but not your look!

My tresses? From the GOP, saucy and slattern

New dresses? I now get for free, not from a pattern!

Do you think I fill hangars with men ‘cause I’m bright?

No, they just want to screw me!

So open toe shoe me!

Make my skirts short and tight!

Throw out my frayed jeans and parkas!

I look like a hick

So have Cindy pick

A de la Renta from Neiman Marcus! 

TUCKER BOUNDS:

Stale platitudes, yadda yadda, by rote

Sound much fresher in a Prada fur coat!

CINDY McCAIN:

And nothing works with deceitful attacks

Quite like an Armani silk suit from Saks!

SARAH “EVITA” PALIN:

Yes, Joe Plummer, it’s hard to care ‘bout your sticky tax bracket

When I just spent your monthly wage on a kicky Saks jacket!

And Joe Six Pack, I’d know your pain if only I read the news!

And you’d know mine if Cindy McCain chose all your shoes!

Please read the marvelous take on “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” written by Mrs. Bowers’ divine acolyte Fama Keen: Read the rest of this entry »