God Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: Lazarus Awakes!

Glory! Greetings and blessings, fellow soldiers of Christ! I fear my extended absence from God Beat has left holes in your lives. These lonely holes of yours have become drafty gaping caverns of despair. But your prodigal sister in Jesus is back, asking you to find it in your cholesterol-choked hearts to invite me once again to dive into your holes and fill them up with the pulsing throbbing warmth of the Holy Spirit. Praise!

Long story short, my beloved Aunt Betsy mistakenly had yours truly committed to an open-ended stay at the Peducah Home for the Odd and Peculiar (or P-HOP), a discount maximum security mental health facility wedged betwixt the Jiffy Lube and the Piggly-Wiggly out on Route 3. Let me assure you I had no business being tossed amongst the fruitcakes and demonically-possessed. It was all a poopy misunderstanding which arose when I took my still-born twin Janet –  floating obediently in her jar of formaldehyde – down to the Peducah edition of the Antiques Road Show.  I was hoping one of those sweet effeminate bachelors could put a price tag on a set of pewter salad tongs I picked up at a Lutheran flea market (I wrongly suspected they date back to prehistoric Mesopotamia). Can you believe they thought I was trying to get Janet appraised? Heavens, no! Let me chase away any doubt; I would never sell my still-born twin Janet, not even for 10 million dollars. Well, yes, I’d sell her for $10 million. I’m not CRAZY, after all. Glory!

As you know, I sing mezzo-soprano with the Peducah Praise Singers (an all-girl gospel choir), now on temporary hiatus following our whirlwind tour of South Sudan, Saudi Arabia and Craters-of-the-Moon Idaho. The tour was mostly successful, although we had to high-tail it out of Saudi Arabia; a sudden sand storm struck as Trudy Plank (coloratura, whore) leapt into her scat solo during “My Fanny is an Exit (Since Jesus Entered My Heart).”  Gale-force winds ripped Trudy’s hijab off her body, leaving her nakeder than Jesus wants to see anybody. Imagine our shock to discover the graphic tattoo of crucified Jesus on her torso (which wouldn’t have been so tacky if her nipples weren’t doing double-duty as the nails in Our Lord’s hands). Anywho, Trudy was promptly gang-raped then stoned to death for being gang-raped. Hallelujah!

In ferret news, you will remember that the latest in my ill-fated line of ferrets (Princess Penelope Prancypuss) was discovered to be not a ferret at all, but a rabid Yemeni mongoose. Before I could sell the wretched imposter on Craigslist, she gave birth to a litter of 50 rabid baby mongooses, all of whom perished horribly because their irresponsible mother made her nest in the garbage disposal. Imagine my shock when I dumped my breakfast bowl’s remaining Apple Jacks and flipped the switch! Such a commotion! I had to replace the drapes over my sink.

But enough fiddle-faddle! Let’s get down to brass tacks already!

This week on God Beat:

• Who’s-his-name and what’s-his-face – otherwise known as Jimmy “JJ” Walker and Kirk Cameron – hopped the same train back from Has-beenville long enough to tell us they believe homosexuals oughtn’t be permitted to register at Pottery Barn. Jimmy Walker, if you recall, last experienced semi-relevance three popes ago while playing Steppin Fetchin on a show about funny negros.  Kirk Cameron’s superstardom hit its apex when he graced page 6 of Tiger Beat back when Cheney had a human heart.  I for one am thrilled to see them again! What’s more, I’ve developed a swelling curiosity as to what Pam Dawber has to say about climate change and whether Mindy Cohn feels spending cuts alone will sufficiently achieve meaningful deficit reduction. Glory!

• Mittens (everyone’s favorite Mormon after all of the Osmonds except for the fat/gay ones), allowed lovely Ann out of her wife-kennel. Suddenly she appeared on teevee to defend her man’s decision not to release documents that reveal he pays Uncle Sam less taxes than a busboy at Ruby Tuesdays. But that’s only because his vast network of sister-wives run shell corporations in the Cayman Islands.  “You people know enough about us!” she hissed through clenched teeth. Agree, Ann. We know plenty about Mittens: he enjoys traumatizing incontinent dogs and he finds it fun to tackle terrified fairies for impromptu haircuts. As for Ann, we know she likes to ride Cadillacs and her horse, and gets her kicks teaching the latter how to prance about like a homo while she rides it through the eye of a needle. Praise!

• Goodness! Colorado (the square state to the left of Kansas, in more ways than one) certainly has been smited by Yahweh these days! First He sent fires (which inadvertently devoured the most right-wing city while leaving Gomorrah Boulder unscathed). Now, during a movie about a man-bat who traipses hither and yon doing battle with evil clowns and penguins (obviously based on the Book of Revelations), a shy young man dressed like a commando mowed down more people than Dick Cheney on a pheasant hunt. Several evangelicals (showing their best Christian mercy) immediately Just-For-Menned their pompadours so they could explain to the media that it’s the homos fault, and graciously informed us which of God’s children shot to death are currently being spit roasted by demons in the bowels of you-know-where (no not Tuscaloosa, sillies!).  

• Speaking  Kansas, you simply MUST load your diabetic families into your Dodge caravans so they can spend an enchanted day at the multi-million dollar Aborted Fetus Museum in Wichita. The Peducah Praise Singers were proud to sing our hit “Ride me Home, Jesus” (number 14 on the Pentecostal Hit Parade) at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. After an hour, I have to admit I got bored and started thinking about my newest entrepreneurial venture: selling Biblical costumes for ferrets  on E-Bay. Jesus forgave me when I explained to him that aborted fetuses, like Chinese folks and Olive Garden restrooms, are entirely identical and interchangeable (although Aborted Fetus #873 reminded me of my still-born twin Janet). Glory!

In conclusion I think we can holler in unison, with every ounce of Christian charity in our bones: “Actually, Dorothy…you ARE still in Kansas, you pill-popping succubus!”

xox
WAM