Instead of a casserole, bring Bible tracts when you visit your vile, hell-bound families this Thanksgiving! “The Missing Day” teaches us that: (1) The Lord helped the Pilgrims steal food from Indians; (2) The Lord then took all the credit from the Indians (who spoke perfect English) who feed them; and, most important, (3) A Thanksgiving host should always tell his dinner guests that they are all going straight to Hell (preferably before dessert)! Glory!
Saint Coco once observed: “Luxury is not the opposite of poverty. It is the opposite of vulgarity.” Had Miss Chanel stuck around to witness recent town hall meetings in America, she would have emphatically concluded that this country is in desperate need of some luxury. Code Bleu! Honestly, such a shocking parade of nasty, angry, vulgar people! The very people who not only didn’t mind, but cheered, when our big government got even bigger by slapping several trillion dollars on a Chinese VISA card, all for a vanity war, are now seething over spending a fraction of that amount on the frivolity of keeping Americans alive.
Apparently, after consulting Jesus (”What would you do, say, if you thought all your own socialistic teachings were garbage, Lord?”), they realized it is more important to spend money we don’t have to keep foreigners dead than to keep Americans alive. Now, it’s not for me to question what Jesus told them because, well frankly, He says a lot of things, much of which He doesn’t even mean (one hopes), but I do know that He never told them dress like that! In any event, an exasperated Jesus doodled the following graphic after several days of apoplectic prayers from His agitated, vulgar flock:
Do you recall the anal retentive pest who walked along the beach with Jesus?After he inventoried the footprints left by the two, he pelted Jesus with pesky questions about why there ended up only being one set of footprints.
One night, a filthy drunk had a dream,
He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the LORD after spending the evening together at a cheap motel.
Across the sky, flashed lurid scenes from the man’s tedious life. Jesus yawned, took a long drag from His menthol cigarette and spat into the sand.
For each scene the now naked redneck noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to him and the other to his lovely date, the LORD.
When the last scene flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand.
He noticed that there were only one set of footprints, left by very expensive Italian sandals he didn’t own.
He also noticed that it happened to be at the very lowest and saddest time in his pathetic, needy, miserable life.
This really pissed him off
So he put down his Jack Daniels, stuck his hairy index finger in Jesus’ shoulder and questioned the LORD about it.
“LORD, you said once I decided to follow You, we’d be like homos and You’d walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most troublesome time in my life, there is only ONE set of footprints.
I don’t understand why when I needed You the most You would leave me. Why LORD? WHY? Tell me NOW! Or I’m fixing to break this here bottle over a rock and come after you with it!”
The LORD replied:
“Stop asking me so many [UNCHRISTIAN WORD]ing questions!”
And that’s when the couple from Ontario, on the balcony of their timeshare, heard an enthusiastic volley of gunfire.
Yesterday, Jesus and I attended a performance of the dramatic sensation that is sweeping the nation: a theater-in-the-unfound production of “Healthscare!“ It’s a boisterous Republican-produced melodrama, currently in out-of-town tryouts, being performed at town hall meetings throughout America. As a parade of amateur actors dutifully recited their tortuous lines of sputtering outrage, performed as a geek chorus, more frenzied chants than coherent dialogue, I nudged my nodding-off Savior and muttered: “Honestly, if I’m going to be amused by such scenery chewing pathos, I’d rather see a sobbing Glenn Beck as Medea!”
During the tediously long review, choreographed crazies erupted on cue every time a politician opens his mouth to talk about healthcare. The dialogue and delivery were so over-wrought and under-thought, before the 67th encore, Jesus and I were reaching for our souvenir talking-points program and jealously eying the exits. Frankly, any corybantic catfight on The Real Housewives of Atlanta has more authenticity — and dignity — than the snarling cue card recitations of the Healthcare Industry Players. And it’s not as if Jesus is put off by a little psychotic hysteria. As you will recall, He was recently the first person since 1985 to say “no” to Michael Jackson.
But, speaking of entertainment that has passed its “BEST BY” date, when did American political drama’s plots become so predictable, its scripts so sloppy? You will be able to predict every word that every character says once the first apoplectic actor has delivered his first angry monologue, so given to simple-minded repetition is the playwright. According to the monotonous script, every single character hates every single word President Obama says, a dull contrivance that leeches every bit of dramatic suspense from each line, making for a rather dull afternoon of theater! And any hope for a better second act is quickly deflated once you realized that the cast will also hate every single thing the President says in every subsequent scene, no matter what it is he actually winds up saying.
Politics has always been theater. But when did its production values slide so precipitously into a self-indulgent, repetitive chorus that only skirts banality by hinting at insanity? Since our last socialist president, FDR, our ovations have drifted from civic acts to circus acts. When did we go from a president who pretends he can stand to a citizenry that pretends it can’t stand anything?
Now, don’t get us wrong: As American Christians, Jesus and I both believe that when a child gets healthcare, an angel loses its virginity — or, worse, its concealed weapon. Redirecting dollars from arming bombs to vaccinating arms is clearly the work of a wicked, hateful Socialist Satan! (Or is that a Fascist Fallen Angel? Honestly, as Republicans, we don’t get all liberal-elite, fact-obsessed when it comes to what pejorative labels for unfashionable ideologies really mean!)
Nevertheless, this Republican road show of rage, with its cheap set, set script and unsettling cast, needs to close out of town before it reaches that big burlesque theater on Capitol Hill. After all, rednecks who hanker to become unglued in public so that rich people can make even more money off them will always have Dr. Phil! But this tedious traveling show has all the spontaneity of a Tom Cruise remark, the sincerity of a Bachelor or Bachelorette proposal and the restraint of a community theater production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? And just as with community theater, in this vanity production, it seems as if the only people having fun are the screaming hams hogging the stage.
Will turn her wig more than 15 degrees in either direction.
She minds her dear, departed parents in Heaven grabbing popcorn and watching.
Requires her to shave above the knee.
Would suggest to her husband that she is actually enjoying herself unless, as is often the case, this will only serve to cause him to lose interest and stop.
Would leave toe-prints on the headboard or cause her to lose her place in Psalms.
Causes her to perspire more than when she stirs a thin soup.
Obliterates the crisp crease in her 400-plus thread count “Shroud of Turin” pattern “Exodus from Egyptian Cotton” sheets upon completion of her onerous marital duties.
Involves any animal noises not made by an actual household pet, which at all times will keep at least two paws on the bedroom floor.
Appears in the Old Testament.
Will leave lipstick on any body part not seen in church.
