I know less about religion than being an overweight, gay, vegetarian with a lisp. Alright, so I know about the overweight part, but I ain’t got a fucking clue about the other ingredients. I have been theorizin on a lot of the theories behind Easter lately. I don’t really know what has made me think about what I don’t know, but when I know, I’ll be sure to say how I figured out that I knew it. Beyond never buying into organized religion – I mean church and not some puss form of a sports league – I’ve especially never bought into ANYTHING other than medical problems limiting the style of chow you shovel down your alchy-hole. If a doctor isn’t tellin’ you to lay off something because your blood has the viscosity of gravy, or your ass is one cheeseburger away from its own congressman, eat what you want. You only get one life to be a fat ass, and you should make the most of it IF you’ve decided to take the fat cart down the path of life.
Quickly, if you’re so fucking fat that you have to ride an especially equipped and dumbed down Vespa to make your way around the goddamn grocery store, what does that say about you? If you’re that fat, the gravitational pull surrounding your body should enable you to pull shit off the shelves when you get within a foot or so – like some kind of “Fat Force”. The Force is strong in that fat one.
Anyway, why is a ham the choice for religious feasting to celebrate Jesus’ RSVP’ing dinner? I thought he had some kinda connection to Jewish people or something. My whole theory on Jesus’ – is that the proper way to say Jesus possessed something? And I ain’t talkin’ about pre-exorcism here people – bein’ down with the Jews is based on what I learned from a Kinky Friedman song called, “They Ain’t Makin’ Jews Like Jesus Anymore”. Damn good song. Listen to it, and once you get passed what you initially think is a whole mess of racism, you’ll see the after school-like message contained therein. But – to get back on Target like a discount retail chain – why would whatever flavor of whoever want to flog swine in honor of His Holyfullness comin’ to grub out, if the mere presence of the fare was going to piss them off? Only thing I can think of is that ham was the cheapest of all the dinner meats, and the sacrileligiosity of it was eclipsed by its cost effectiveness. What the fuck is a motza ball anyway? I originally thought it was some sort of spherical meat like object made by a person from Sweden with bad teeth and a lisp. Apparently, it is something made out of something other than meat, and it tastes like something else entirely different. They have the color of dried dog turds. Not quite chalky enough to write with or mistake for crack, but just the right color to keep you from stepping in/on it.
If one of the basis of you getting into your version of Valhalla is your diet, you should give up on that shit and risk going to hell for eating what you want. Can you imagine being in the chow line waiting to take a number to get deep fried for the rest of eternity, and pulling the number right after Hitler and just before John Wayne Gacy? That ain’t nothin’ to clown around about. I say shave your Charlie Chaplin mustache and tell the powers that is to suck your nuts, cause what you ate shouldn’t have relegated you to the same fate as a couple of first ballot Evil Hall of Famers. Timothy McVeigh says, “I’m in here for blowing up a federal building, and killing a bunch of people. I deserve to die and go to hell.” Jack Jacobson says, “Yeah. I know where you’re coming from. I ate a pig in a blanket, and a fucking corn dog during Sha Na Na. I knew I shouldn’t have had that extra glass of Manischewitz either.”
What is this whole shit about not being able to eat meat on Fridays? You go from considering the swine a sacred bounty worthy of all those who arise from the dead, to telling all your believers to lay off meat on Fridays for some goddamn reason? Even if the cow, lamb, turtle, squirrel or Sasquatch was tortured before you ate its flesh, you had nothing to do with that shit. Culpability doesn’t start with digestion – unless you’re fucking Jeffrey Dahmer, or a member of a rugby team who survived a plane crash.
As a result of the almighty makin’ all these menu choices, believers keep themselves from going to hell by eating fish-like sandwiches from McDonald’s. I think you can get two, medium fries and a vat of the beverage of your choice with a #3 McHeaven Meal. At what point in the drive-thru line do you start to question your faith? When the garbled, Stephen Hawking with a crick in his computer voice comes over the speaker asking in tongues what Jesus wants you to eat? Or is when you realize salvation comes in small, medium and large sizes? When the hell is someone going to quit worrying about going there, and start questioning what kind of a fucking fish is square? They all end up breaded, but I ain’t never seen a free swimming square fish. Basically, the crux of a heavenly mandated meal should not look like something conjured up from forcing a bunch of random fish flesh through a fucking Play-Doh mold. I guess if you were fishing for one of these seasonal square fish, you’d just have to put a glob of tartar sauce on your hook – because you never see one that’s not covered in that shit.
Well, I’m getting back in the orientation line in hell. Mussolini is bitching about having to save my spot, and fucking Ty Cobb has already fired off a couple of rounds in my direction. Love, peace and here comes Jesus week…
I went to a local bookstore this weekend, and while rummaging through the bargain bin I picked up An Orgy of George – which is a box set of comedian George Carlin’s three books: Brain Droppings, Napalm & Silly Putty, and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? After reading a hundred or so pages of the first book yesterday, I can safely say this purchase was by far the best eight dollars that I ever spent. Over a year ago when this blog first started, I chose Carlin as the first person to be inducted into the disreputable and fictional Hater Hall of Fame, for reasons that shouldn’t have to be explained. However, looking back I don’t believe there is any way one measly post (and that particular one was definitely minimal) could ever sum up the greatness of arguably the funniest, and most thought-provoking comedian in the course of human history. So to pay my respects, I am going to do a recurring post that consists solely of Carlin’s infinite words of wisdom every Monday – starting today, and ending whenever I have plagiarized all the material from his books. There are a lot of people who look towards the “good book” for inspiration and guidance, but I prefer The Book of George:
“Things That Are Pissing Me Off”
“Haven’t we had about enough of this cigar smoking shit? When are these fat, arrogant, overfed, white-collar business criminals going to extinguish their cigars and move along to their next abomination?
Soft, white, business pussies suckin’ on a big brown dick. That’s all it is, folks, a big brown dick. You know, Freud used to say, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ Yeah? Well, somtimes it’s a big brown dick! With a fat, criminal-business asshole sucking on the end of it!
But, hey. The news is not all bad for me. Not all bad. Want to hear the good part? Cancer of the mouth. Good! Fuck ‘em! Makes me happy; it’s an attractive disease. So light up suspender man, and suck that smoke deep down into your empty suit. And blow it out your ass you miserable cocksucker.”
“What is all this nonsense about angels? Do you realize three out of four Americans now believe in angels? What are they, fuckin stupid? Has everyone lost their goddamn minds?
Angels, my ass! You know what I think it is? I think it’s a massive, collective, chemical flashback from all the drugs – all the drugs! – smoked, swallowed, snorted, and shot up by all Americans from 1960 to 2000. Forty years of adulterated street drugs will get you some fuckin’ angels my friend!
Angels, shit. What about goblins? Doesn’t anybody believe in goblins? And zombies. Where the fuck all are the zombies? That’s the trouble with zombies, they’re unreliable. I say if you’re gonna buy that angel bullshit, you may as well go for the goblin-zombie package as well.”
“Plugging Along”
“Don’t go pulling any plugs on me, either. That’s another bunch of macho bullshit floating around. People talkin’ about, ‘Aw, just pull the plug on me. If I’m comatose? Lyin there like a vegetable? Just go ahead and pull the plug.’
And I say, FUCK YOU! LEAVE MY PLUG ALONE!! Get an extension cord for my plug! I want everything you got: tubes, cords, plugs, probes, electrodes, IVs. You find I got an orifice that’s not bein’ used, stick a fuckin tube in it. Vegetable, shit! I don’t care if I look like an artichoke. Save my ass!
If you ever find out I’m comatose just remember there are three things I gotta have: ice cream, morphine, and TV. Give me the ice cream about every two hours; give me that morphine about, oh, every ten minutes; and turn on the fuckin TV!! I wanna watch Survivor!
And don’t be comin’ to visit me, either. I got no time for live people. I’m brain-dead, here. Ain’t you people got no respect for the brain-dead? Hey, you gotta be brain-dead to watch Survivor! in the first place; you might as well watch it when you’re clinically brain-dead.
Now, one more thought concerning this comatose stuff. This might come in handy someday. If you know a homosexual who is comatose, remember, you can always comfort his family by saying, ‘Look at it this way, folks. He was a fruit, now he’s a vegetable. At least he’s still in the produce section.”
Posted Under: The Book of George
This post was written by Silky Johnson on March 8, 2010
It has been a while since we heard from Raaaaaaaandy, the self-proclaimed hottest stand-up comedian in today’s entertainment industry. When he’s not playing to sold out shows across the country, and garnering critical acclaim for his numerous comedic innovations, the comedian has recently been spending a lot of time in the music studio working on the highly anticipated release of his debut album, “Raaaaaaaandy’s Mix Tape”. However, as is the case with all great entertainers, the comedian/musician has now become susceptible to imitators who will do anything they can to achieve the level of fame he has reached. Now, I will happily admit that I had no idea who the hell Justin Biebler was before I saw this latest video, but after some quick research and listening to Randy (and 10 seconds from one of Biebler’s songs) I now know enough to realize I don’t trust – or like – him. Without any firsthand knowledge of Biebler’s skills as a pubescent pop star crooner/songwriter, it’s impossible for me to say with 100% confidence that Raaaaaaaandy’s song stealing accusation is true. But after watching this clip and learning some pretty sordid details about what “The Bieb” is like behind closed doors, it’s hard for me to believe all the similarities are purely coincidental too:
(Contains language)
Posted Under: Music, This Doesn't Suck
This post was written by Silky Johnson on March 8, 2010
A rather religified judge in this red cervical region of the sticks cancelled his regularly scheduled motion on hour for this Friday. Knowing this particular man of the cloth – who incidentally wears a dress while on the bench – to be a believer in a power higher than the Yankees, I put one and three together and wondered what four? Then it hit me. This Friday must be one of them non-restaurant affiliated Fridays God is thanked for. Yep, it’s Easter Season. Jesus is back. Go buy a ham.
Having no clue about any of the myths set forth in the book which mysteriously seems to always know what hotel room I’m staying in (it’s like being stalked by the all-time No. 1 bestseller), I asked someone who I knew if they knowed of what I thunk. I inquired of this mythologically knowledgeable source if this Friday was that day when you’re encouraged to either eat Palm trees, cut them down, or do something with them. “No, this Friday isn’t Good Friday” I was told in a succinctness that allowed me to move on without any second comings of thoughts. And then the explanation bow broke, and my cradle was rocked with a bunch of Biblical knowledge that confused me into thinking it was Sunday.
Some of the actual highlights I remember were something about him carrying his own cross, some dude selling him out, people fucking with him on the cross, his being taken into some cave, some chicks showing up to do something, and being freaked out when they found he was gone. I heard a “shant”, some kind of religious chatter I could only equivocate to “Hey batter, batter, swing batter” and then finally the shedding of tears. This is obviously the Cliff Notes version of Easter 101 I was unaware I enrolled in. The seriousness of the tone, rapid fire factual assertions and constant eye contact of this whole thing freaked me out. It all started with a simple question, and turned into an episode of The PTL Club. I fully expected to be hit in the face with a coat to heal my many medical maladies. To attempt to get it to stop, I emptied the contents of my wallet onto a plate and tried to hand it over. This was to no Holy Grail. This guy was determined that I was going to be learned some Easter Goddamnit!
I busted up in Wikipedia’s trailer afterwards to try to find some specific stories and theories behind whatever it was I was told. I’ll be honest with you, after looking at that page, I had even less of a clue about Easter than Columbo trying to solve a case without his rain coat. I can’t make Jews or Gentiles out of the shit. There are more versions and takes on this whole theory than the ruminations on Young Elvis v. Fat Elvis – I was somewhat surprised to see Elvis wasn’t mentioned in this whole affair. I thought I had previously heard they had fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches at the Last Time Jesus Ate.
Apparently the whole Palm Tree worship goes down on a Sunday. This makes sense considering a lot of very religious geezers migrate to Florida every winter. And you thought it was just for the weather and tax breaks. The Thursday, Friday and Saturday following forestry Sunday are all considered to be “Holy” days. I hope to fucking God this doesn’t mean you have to watch that terrible Eddie Murphy movie ad museum. If this is the case, and it is put on one of those never ending loops on TBS, I’d probably find myself praying to George Steinbrenner to kill me. So what you’ve basically got here is that those keen on Jesus either didn’t really like to work, or wanted to force their beliefs straight down the gullet of everyone, because they take up a whole week with this shit. I buy into the theory that damn near every Friday is holy in some sense of the word, because it signifies the end of the theoretical work week. Thursday was kinda holy in college and law school, cause it meant you were going out, getting drunk, and probably failing at getting laid. Wednesday isn’t even ranked in the latest Bible Weekly/Pastor’s Top 25 Poll, because there ain’t no good t.v. shows on; you’ve got to go to work on Thursday, and getting people to show up so they can be yelled at twice in one week is a hard gig to pull off. Nobody in their right mind has ever accused Tuesday of being holy. Tuesday only reminds you that you stayed up too late, got too drunk, and probably lost money on Monday Night Football. Due to MNF, some have said Monday is worthy of being a holy of holies. Whereas this assertion seems to have some merit, it also fails in that MNF only occurs for approximately 5 months out of the year. If Hank Williams Jr, with his blue blockers and airbrushed beard, isn’t rehashin’ the same Goddman song he’s scattered, smothered, covered and chunked over the last 20 fucking years, then Monday ain’t worth a fuck.
I’m still that chic from Aerosmith videos over how the whole egg thing factored its way into this Easter equation. I’ve never read nor been schooled on any reasoning as to why Jesus, God or anyone from Arimathea chose this. Who would have thought jelly beans, chocolate rabbits, candied eggs and other assorted diabetic-inducing tastiness on a bed of faux grass nestled comfortably in an extra-large Chianti basket would further drive home the point that Jesus was back in town, and you better get your shit together. Or, Converse-ly, why in the hell would any of these believers or Gospel singers want to hide eggs or any other type of sustenance from a motherfucker who just woke up from a three day dirt nap? You know he was most likely hungrier than the real fat stoned guy who orders a pizza at every party he shows up to in college. If eggs really do have some significance to any of this, when did the coloring become in vogue? Was white, or farm house brown just not festive enough to celebrate some somebitch rising from the dead? If you saw a motherfucker previously thought to be pulse free stroll back into town and belly up to the bar, do you think you’d be worried about putting makeup on the dozen Grade A Jumbos in your icebox? Nah. I doubt it. Upon first glance, you’d be runnin’ out into the street, asking him to turn that 5 gallon stone jug of water into whore bait so you could plan yourself a sexual revival. At least, that what I think a normal, horny, erectilely functional single cat back in the tunic and Birkenstock sportin’ years would do.
I dug Easter growing up, still find it enjoyable now, and am glad my son gets all Easterfied when this time of year comes around. However, like I dug it, my father before me dug it, and his father before him was too drunk to realize it, I like the whole candy and gift giving version of it. When I see a Cadbury Cream Egg, I don’t want anyone telling me the tasty cream filling and outer chocolate shell is representative of the first egg whoever ate after turning their life over to a proofless theory, or anything else similar. I just want to be reminded that it fucking sucks these damn things only come out once a year, and I should eat as many of them as I can before they disappear until next year. Unfortunately, these damn Cadbury’s aren’t like the bi or tri seasonal McRib. You only get one chance, and you better make the most of it. Jelly Beans shouldn’t be indicative of some kind of bean that some overly tanned and thirsty sufferers of something tried to plant only to have them grow into four course meals. That’s all well and good if you want them to mean something, but a fucking jelly bean isn’t gonna change anything more than my blood sugar level. I can’t think up any type of symbolism someone could get out of that environmentally hazardous, stringy plastic faux grass shit. Unless Jesus had a jester, or some A.D. version of Bozo the Clown. I personally think that shit was just invented to get rid of the remaining shreds of highly secret government evidence related to Studio 54 and aliens.
Well, I’ve got to go to hell now. I think I’ve probably just secured a front row seat with a backstage pass. At least I won’t have to stand in line with assholes like your average murderers, child molesters, and Kenny G. I just hope I don’t get seated next to the dude who killed all those women in Florida. I can never remember his name, it’s either Al or Ted Bundy.
Love, peace and Easter sweets…
Posted Under: Holiday
This post was written by Jeremy Smith on March 8, 2010
