Can O' Whup-Ass

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

 

 

Gov. Rick Perry unveils long-awaited Republican fiscal strategy: cry and pray!

Rick Perry (Governor of Texas, ABBA fan, gaydar activator) has taken a break lately from his many closed-door meetings with his Secretary of State and his personal chef in order to team up with that notorious homophobes-for-Jesus outfit called the AFA. They want to see if they can't solve the problems of Texas and the U.S. The U.S. of course, is the country Texas keeps trying to secede from but still loves anyway (behavior, which to our mind likens Texas to some battered bowling alley waitress on the Springer show).

See, God's favorite political party has been caterwaulin' about the deficit. So the first thing they did was lower taxes. Wait, what? Seems when you lower taxes, revenues shrink and the deficit GROWS! Oops!!

Hey, let's make America number one again by firing our teachers and taking grandma's medicine away! After all, most decent folks home-skool their kids anyways cause they don't want their precious noggins polluted by all that science flapdoodle. As for grandma, she's an insufferable freeloader who smells like rosewater and pee. Hold on, pardner! The old biddy also votes!! Who, oh who can save us now?? I know! JESUS!!

But let's think about this. Jesus has been acting a tad cranky lately, what with sending V-5 tornadoes to the red states, rudely refusing to rapture the righteous back on May 21.

A brief sidenote on that whole rapture business. We were bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Heck, we'd happily endure a magnitude 10 earthquake and a year or two of pestilence if it meant all the folks who fancied themselves rapture fodder were suddenly yanked off the planet. Not only would it have made life on earth infinitely pleasanter on the whole, but our total average weight would have dropped by at least 300 pounds. Speaking of which, perhaps Jesus (despite his Superman strength) was simply unable to budge their fat fundamentalist asses off the ground. Pity, that.

Where were we. Oh yes. Our favorite showtune-humming homo-hating Governor, Rick Perry, has decided that praying to Jesus is the only viable Republican solution to the deficit problem. And if we ask real nice, he might send tornadoes to Greenwich Village and San Francisco, where they belong. But just like the whos in Whoville, we gotta get thousands of us together and pray and weep REAL LOUD so that Horton Jesus will hear us.

So on August 6, Perry will host a spectacle called "The Response," where tens of thousands of evangelicals will get all gussied up in their Sunday stretch pants so they can pray and cry at a stadium in Houston. Because who doesn't love going to Houston in August, especially if it means wedging themselves into an arena crammed to the rafters with fat crying Jesus freaks?

After all, as Governor Perry states on the Response website:

"I sincerely hope you’ll join me in Houston on August 6th and take your place in Reliant Stadium with praying people asking God’s forgiveness, wisdom and provision for our state and nation. There is hope for America. It lies in heaven, and we will find it on our knees."

Attaboy, Rick. Not only have we zero doubt you do your best work on your knees, we're also quite certain that you frequently find what your looking for in that very position.

But we do have our doubts on the efficacy of the scheme. Because every Texan prays and cries nightly. And when the dawn comes, they wake and realize their prayers have fallen on deaf ears: they're still in Texas.

xox
WAM

Governor Perry sez: "I'll get down on my  knees for a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

Texas is History

Texas is a beans-and-weenies, varicose veins, big hair, polyester stretch pants kinda town. Most Texans claim to be patriotic, blissfully ignoring the fact that their retarded state has tried to secede three times (side note: we wholly support Texas secession, if only for the fact that it would render future Bushes ineligible for president).

The fattest people in the world (see: Baptists) live there. It's the destination of choice for those who like dragging Negroes behind their pick-ups or shooting their buddies in the face with a shotgun. Texas is not, however, the kinda town through which Democrat Presidents should ride in a convertible.

The Wikipedia entry on Texas is long as your arm, but the section on "culture" consists of exactly one sentence about the breakfast burrito.

And now, a suspiciously effeminate Texan named Don McLeroy (fundamentalist, dentist, school board chairman, fat person) is re-writing the history/social studies books. And because text book publishers aren't in the habit of issuing state-specific editions, this could affect every classroom in America.

Why is this 500-pound sack of cat barf in a bolo tie doing this? Because current text books were written by hell-bound libruls. They rudely suggest that McCarthyism was a bad thing, that Mexicans are people, that the founding fathers intended to create a free, secular nation, and that Jesus didn't write every word of the constitution (except for the establishment clause, which was written by a n*gger-loving homosexual devil worshiper named Thomas Jefferson).

Texas text books (Textas books?) expunge the word "capitalism" for the more patriotic-sounding "free enterprise," because "capitalism" has a bad connotation. Of course, the Jesus Inc/"corporations are people too" Republicans are the ones who gave capitalism its bad rap in the first place, but why quibble? (aside: if you changed the word "syphilis" to "freedom cooties," every Texan would dash out to bone Jenna Bush).

Be that as it may, our covert band of ninja spies has gotten its mitts on the new Texas-style history book, complete with expurgated pinko commie passages destined for the trash bin. We've provided snippets below. You're welcome.

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS:

Four score and seven years ago Once upon a time, our fathers Jesus brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty church, and dedicated to the proposition that all men  Baptists are created equal heterosexual, and their wives should shut their yaps and fry up dinner. Now we are engaged in a great holy civil war freedom spat, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure own a fella named Sambo. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. Support our troops! Woo!! It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate...we can not consecrate...we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living  unaborted and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract set the stage for endless civil war re-enactments by alcoholic sociopaths. The world Democrats will little note, nor long remember re-write what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here they're all a bunch of homos. It is for us the living Christian white folk, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced Jesus. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion Jesus—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom Republican fear-mongering—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people Jesus, shall not perish from the earth vote to send a certain uppity Democrat negro to the White House for a second term.

THE FIRST AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech of homo libruls, or of and their homo librul the press except for Fox News; or the right wing of the people peaceably to will assemble, and to petition threaten the Government for a redress of grievances with their guns.

THE SECOND AMENDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES:

A well regulated Christian militia being necessary to the security of a free State the Republican Party, the right-wing of the People to  will keep and bear arms a butt-load of fully-automatic assault rifles shall not be infringed.

DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR'S "I HAVE A DREAM" SPEECH:

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children. Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring—when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children—black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics—will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last I'm doin' the hippity-dippity with yo cracker-ass daughters! Sho-nuff, bitches!

xox
WAM

Don McLeroy sez: "Does this blog's feed make me look fat?"

God Beat with Jeannie Bladdersham: Pope Floats

Glory! It seems ages since I, Jeannie Bladdersham (devout Baptist, mezzo soprano with the all-girl gospel choir The Peducah Praise Singers, ferret hobbyist) filed a report on all things divine and Jesus-y (and, by necessity, all things icky and satan-y). The reasons for my long absence from that nice (though hell-bound) Mr. WAM's bloggy thingy are varied and plentiful.

Suffice it to say that two months ago, The Peducah Praise Singers found ourselves up cock-a-doodie creek without a you-know-what. We were giving a free concert at the Pentecostal Temple of Signs Appearing on the outskirts of Port Au Prince, and were only ten minutes into our crowd-pleasing medley of hits ("Jesus is a teabagger/Christ loves a Fetus/Hell is for Homos/Ride Me Home, Jesus") when God sent an earthquake as punishment. Whom He was punishing and why is still being hotly debated; Tammy Sue Plotz swears it's because our audience was rudely texting satan during the performance, but I remain convinced God got all seismic on us because Trudy Plank (coloratura, whore) started doing the robot dance during her solo in "My Fanny is an Exit (Since Jesus Entered My Heart)." It was tacky.

Anywho, we spent the next few days shoving Bibles into the rubble so all the trapped negros could read Leviticus before going home to glory. When a representative from the Red Cross complained to the authorities (note: to tart the cross up by coloring it red gives the baby Jesus vertigo), we decided to help three or four dozen orphans come to America so they could get jobs as janitors at various Baptist Churches in greater Peducah. Long story short, we suddenly found ourselves imprisoned! Just like the Jews! Praise! We weren't in our cell for five minutes before Wanda Mae Flapp and Eloise Porchnik started acting like lesbians, humming "Sweet Jane" and fondling each other's sin zones. The rest of us distracted ourselves by singing "I'm Saving My Icky Parts For Hubby" (now number 53 on the Pentecostal Hit List!). We hadn't even finished the first verse when we suddenly found ourselves loaded onto a plane bound for Tallahassee. Glory!

In ferret news, Princess Penelope Prancypuss (my adopted ferret) started having anxiety attacks every time I spoke in tongues (the spirit always seems to move me during commercial breaks while watching CSI: Miami), so I took her to the vet. Imagine my shock when I discovered she's not a ferret at all, but a wild Yemeni Mongoose with rabies! Was I ever furious! It's not very Christian of a Yemeni Mongoose to masquerade as a ferret! Having decided Princess Penelope Prancypuss is an enemy combatant, I've wisely rendered her to my own little Gitmo: a hamster cage in the attic, next to the jar of formaldehyde that contains the pickled remains of my still-born twin Janet.

But enough dawdling! Let's get to the business of disseminating God news!

• PAPAL PROSTIES: At the Vatican, where Cathy-lick men put on dresses and flounce about swinging burning incense purses, there are two pals: Papal Aide named Angelo Balducci and a negro Papal Choir member named Chinedu Ehiem Thomas (heavens, a woman who names her boy Angelo is asking for trouble, but Chinedu? Why didn't Chinedu's mother just tattoo "hell-bound savage" on his patootie?). Well, as it turns out Angelo and Chinedu were were running a hummer-seckshul prostitution ring, hiring out impressionable seminarians and choristers to do that thing that makes Jesus cry. Pope Benedict, who used to be a Nazi until he wasn't, and who wants to make war-time Jew-ignoring Pope Pius XII a saint, knew nothing about this nastiness, of course. Speaking of things the Pope knows nothing about...
• THE POPE AND THE PEDO: Pope Benedict, who liked to goose step hither and yon as a boy and talk lovingly about der Fuhrer until he stopped, used to be the top cheese at the Archdiocese of Munich. One day, he learned that one of his priests was spending rather too much time underneath altar boys' robes. So just like Hitler used to send homos on lavish vacations at Auschwitz and Treblinka, Benedict sent his pervy priest to therapy (because pedophile therapy is so effective). So effective, in fact, that the little bugger returned to the priesting racket, where he resumed ministering to sensitive boys in unorthodox ways. While the Pope had direct involvement in sending said priest to Club Ped, he totally didn't know anything about his return to the priesthood.  Because if he had, it would take a little of the bite out of his strong rebuke of the Irish Cathy-lick bishops who did exactly the same thing. But of course that's a bunch of silly fiddle-faddle!  Not to worry, all is right in Popeville. Oh, except for the inconvenient fact that...
• THE VATICAN IS CHOKING ON "SATAN SMOKE": The Pope is a lovely old man who used to follow a dictator who called for the execution of homosexuals until he saw the light and became the boss of a religion that calls for the execution of homosexuals. But why him? Why does this pale oldster get to wear expensive dresses and prance from room to room in a big old castle? Who on earth does he think he is, Queen Elizabeth? Well, every time a Pope gets yanked home to Jesus, a bunch of bishops lock themselves in a papal conclave, where they scurry about in floor-length gowns. After gossiping like schoolgirls for few days they have a pope-vote and burn the ballots. The color of the smoke tells the anxious lay folks waiting outside whether or not someone's avoided being "aufed" and gone on to win Project Popeway. But there's a different kind of smoke in the Vatican these days. According to the Chief Papal Exorcist Father Gabriele Amorth, the "smoke of the devil" wafts abundantly throughout the Vatican, and that Satan likes to "make fun of him." Honestly, why doesn't that silly man just open a window? No wonder the devil makes fun of him. It doesn't sound like anything that couldn't be solved with a little carpet fresh and maybe some febreeze. Praise! Hey, maybe Benedict is hiding in his chamber smoking devil doobage! That would explain his silly hats!

Jeannie Bladdersham sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed until I realized WAM smokes devil doobage!"

Uganda, Mon Amour...

In 1994, three Rwandan dudes with annoying names (Jean-Bosco Barayagwiza, Ferdinand Nahimana and Hassan Ngeze), took to the airwaves. Encouraging the use of machetes (in order to save bullets) they called all Tutsis and moderate Hutus "cockroaches." The Rwandans listened. The ensuing hackfest was the efficientest genocide ever; 800,000 slaughtered in 90 days. Evench, the three radio dudes were convicted of inciting crimes against humanity. Flash forward.

Ten months ago, three American dudes with equally annoying names (Scott Lively, Caleb Lee Brundidge and Don Schmierer) decided to go to Uganda, where they got all evangelical at a conference about how the dreaded "gay agenda" was threatening the "Bible-based values of the traditional African family." The Ugandans listened. A month later, the dude who sponsored the conference introduced a bill that calls for the execution of the gays. It's expected to become law soon.

Bitch, Stevie Wonder could see the parallel. 

Think we might have something to say about this? Um, yep.

First, to Africa in general:

Dear Africa,

What exactly crawled up your butt? Aren't you busy enough, what with running from hyenas and ebola monkeys and walking 75 miles to market every day with jugfuls of zebra scrotums on your noggins? Where do you find the time for all your pirating, raping and genociding?

Yadda-yadda-yadda. Fine, we're making xenophobic generalizations. Fine, you have no history of bloody dictatorships.* Fine, you aren't constantly at war with each other. Fine, your children are well-fed. Fine, you don't hack off girls' clitori  because you think it makes them sexy, or steal penises to make ooga-booga stew.

Need we remind you that Africa is the AIDS-iest town in the universe? These days the "traditional African family" you're so hell-bent on protecting from Lance Bass consists of four malaria-infested AIDS orphans crouching in a mud hut eating crickets. Furthermore, if your "straight" men could resist having unprotected buttsex you'd be a lot less AIDS-y. Feel that.

We are unafraid to tell you to your face what the rest of the world has been thinking for ages. Your retarded behavior as a continent grows increasingly tiresome. Shape up or the other six of us are going to vote you off the planet and sell you to Uranus.

xox
WAM

*P.S. We actually have a negro president who isn't a neurotic despot (if the birthers ever needed proof that he wasn't born in Africa, that's it).

Next, to Uganda:

Dear Uganda,

Idi Amin. Milton Obote. The Lord's Resistance Army. You do have a hard-on for violence, don't you?

True, the Bible you revere is also violent; it instructs folks to throw rocks at homos until they're dead, but it instructs us to do the same with sassy children and prostitutes (you know, the women who help you give AIDS to your wives). Moreover, Jesus once told the Philistines (with whom you've got plenty in common) "prostitutes and tax collectors are entering heaven before you," so we would advise against looking to the old testament for ethical guidance.

Howev, thank you for creating the kind of country that our evangelicals are trying to create right here in America. Because since our tedious constitution prevents them from having homos executed, they might very well all decide to move to Uganda. We can only pray.

Furthermore, it's good to know that if white folk come to your country you'll do whatever they say. We'll book our flight tomorrow. We'll be the keynote speaker at our own conference, called "Uganda: go f*ck yourself." Punch and cookies will be served.

Finally, if you really want to protect your Godly families, we might suggest that you stop sacrificing your children.

xox
WAM   

Finally, a note to the Hague:

Hi Hague,

Pssst. Listen, here's the deal. In 2003 your International Criminal Court indicted Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army, who, while trying to force Uganda and the D.R. Congo to live by the Ten Commandments, conveniently exempted themselves from commandments 6 and 7 as they raped and murdered the populace by the thousands.

With that in mind, should Uganda enact its homo-hanging law, we'd be happy to deliver Scott Lively, Caleb Lee Brundidge and Don Schmierer to stand trial for inciting genocide and crimes against humanity. As a matter of fact, seeing as how anti-gay violence is escalating right here at home, we might also deliver Rush Limbaugh, "Dr." Laura Schlessinger and Michael Savage while we're at it. They regularly spew hate on radio just like the Rwanda dudes.

Sure, you probably won't be able to convict them, but we'd be happy to have them out of our country for a while.

Thanks in advance.

xox
WAM

Idi Amin sez: "Hell would be such a dreary place without my subscription to this blog's feed."

Delight Your Children This Christmas With Religious Toys!!

As we all know, two thousand years ago a young Jewess got knocked up by a dove. Nine months later, she waddled into a barn where our messiah plopped from 'twixt her bloody thighs. Today, to celebrate, we trample Wal-mart sales clerks to death in our race to purchase playstations. We chop down douglas firs by the millions and tart 'em up like hooker-trees and display them in our living rooms. Sometimes we get groups together, tresspass onto our neighbor's property, and start caterwauling at the top of our lungs about how silent the night is.

Of course, Christmas is all about the lil' tykes. Yet have we allowed crass consumerism and greed take root in our impressionable young 'uns' heads? Gone are the dancing sugarplums (we are happy to report we've never had a vision of a dancing sugarplum; except that one time in college we experimented with acid, except it wasn't a sugarplum it was more like a Snickers Bar). No, today we can expect bitter tantrums if our precious angel rips our lovingly wrapped gift to find grandma knitted some gay sweater instead of a fresh copy of the World of Warcraft.

So instead of encouraging our children to indulge in selfish materialism, why not delight them with super-fun religious toys? We've picked out a few suggestions. You're welcome.

• THE "JESUS LOVES YOU" BOOMERANG: Jesus loves us, this we know...for the Bible tells us so. So why not encourage our darling tots to spread the good news by hurling hard plastic boomerangs at each other? Watch their surprise when the boomerang circles 'round and takes out their eyes. Laugh.
• ARMOR OF GOD PLAYSET: Jesus is the prince of peace. Nah, just joking! He wants our children to prepare for battle! Start 'em early with this totaly rad six-piece armor collection, including the "Helmet of Salvation," the "Breastplate of Righteousness," the "Belt of Truth," the "Sword of the Spirit," and our personal fave the "Shin Guards of the Preparation of the Gospel of Peace" (because the Gospel of Peace has a habit of kicking us in the shins, doesn't it?). The sooner they learn this bitter lesson, the better. March your lil' Christian soldiers off to war!
• BIBLE BORED BOARD GAMES: First, we have "Bibleopoly!" These days it makes no sense to teach our children to earn money through real estate. Instead, make them play this fun game in which they build churches by the dozen. Laughter ensues when fellow players land on on a church and have to pay hefty "tithes." Just don't draw an "abyss" card! Perhaps you prefer "Bible Land." Are your kids are too fat to play "Candyland?" Force them to roll their dice and traipse through burning bushes, locust plagues, whore stonings and the passover bloodbath. Yay!
• WOODEN HANUKKAH PLAY SET: Aw, are you a hell-bound Jew? Kids feeling left out? Cheer them up with this darling play set. Bask in their squeals of joy as they pretend to cook wooden latkes! They'll be fascinated with the dreidels and pieces of geld for seconds on end! It's not depressing at ALL!! 
• BABY MOSES PUZZLE: Is your child retarded? Fret not! This puzzle only has twelve pieces. It could be assembled by Terry Schiavo. It also teaches them that should they grow tiresome, you might send them on a super fun basket ride down the river!
• "WASHED BY HIS BLOOD" T-SHIRT: Do your snotty kids whine about how they only wear Abercrombie and Fitch or Calvin Klein? Make them wear this ultra-rad t-shirt that looks like it was designed by the Manson family! Because Jesus died so our sulky teens could wear gore-drenched casuals! Hey, does that come in a onesie??!!
• BIBLE MAN ACTION FIGURE: Is your little boy just a tad fruity? Does he skip hither and yon whilst humming selections from "Mame"? Butch the little fairy up by giving him the Bible Man Action Figure! His purple-clad, muscle-bound physique, his amply stuffed codpiece and long hard sword is bound to ensure you're lil' faggot-in-training will outgrow his unpleasant "playing-with-dolls" phase. And a phase is just what it is. A phase. Shall we freshen your drink for you? 
• CRIB MEDALS: Babies are so cute. When they sleep they're just like little drooling pooping angels. Every Christian parent (unless they're flirting with crib death) simply MUST adorn their cribs with these darling crib medals, an assortment of choke-sized guardian angels. Because if our babies must to choke to death, a pewter guardian angel lodged in their lil' windpipes will guarantee their entry into glory!

xox
WAM

Baby Jesus sez: "Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, and subscribe to this blog's feed."

Spamtasm: Whupassa Stuart Masterson Responds to Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo

Like you, dear readers, from time to time WAM's gorgeous spam-box is stuffed to the gills with kindly letters from totally well-meaning Nigerians who are simply DYING to help us deposit a gazillion dollars in our checking account (if we'd just be a dove and provide them with our banking information and social security number). Known as the 419 or "Spanish Prisoner" scam, it's really the oldest trick out there (not counting Madonna). We're not the first to have fun at their expense (Ebola Monkey did it first and best), nor will we be the last.

But our most recent Nigerian business opportunity was so unique we couldn't resist resurrecting one Ms. Whupassa Stuart Masterson to respond to his heart-wrenching and florid query.

You may read the original spam here, in PDF (alas, it's too long to repeat in this post). The short version goes something like this: The Reverend Ojegbekilo of the dazzling Okuhuke Community Church would like us to know that God is busily blessing Nigeria. But while the good reverend is saving simply oodles of negros from the oily bosom of lucifer, for some reason, most of his converts are too old to read normal bibles. Would we care to help him purchase 20 large print King James versions? Oh, and please help his negro orphans. Got it? 

Take it away, Whupassa! 

Dear Reverend Kabuki Bukkake,

Gosh, I was so thrilled to get your email! It's such a coincidence! I just got back from church. Today, Pastor Mike Huckabee (of the Greater Tuscaloosa Pentecostal Church of Signs Appearing) told us that Jesus wants us to spread the gospel to everyone, even negros and rag-heads. Then he handed out the snakes.

I would love to help you buy Bibles for your old people! My mom, bless her heart, is an old person. Last spring she crashed her Dodge Dart into a cow and ever since she thinks she's Eydie Gormé. So now I keep her chained to the couch.

Anywho, I've got lots of money to send. Back in 1993 I got my eye poked out by an excitable IHOP waitress (who had very strong feelings about not putting ketchup on waffles). So I sued and got $50,000! Unfortunately, half of it's tied up right now because a nice man from your country named Buttfungi Cowabunga wrote to me last month because he's trying to get $10 million out of your country (something to do with a dead oil guy), and all he needed was $25,000 and my account information! So soon I'm going to have even more money to send you! Praise Jesus! In the meantime, I'd be happy to send some casseroles. I could send my famous Lime Jello Marshmallow Cottage Cheese Surprise! Or how about my world renowned Weenies-Velveeta-and-Doritos Yum Pie? I made both for our Annual Fourth of July White Power Picnic and they were both great big fat hits!

But I have some questions. First, what kind of Bibles are you giving to your old folks? I don't want to pay for any homo version. If King James was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me! Also, how come you don't want Bibles on tape? I have a Bible on tape read by Sarah Palin and it's just super!

Nigeria sounds beautiful. Is it in France? Do you like french fries? I do, especially with maple syrup (but don't tell that to a certain cranky IHOP waitress who shall remain nameless).

Yours in Christ,
Whupassa Stuart Masterson

We sure hope Reverend Ojegbekilo responds. This could be fun.

Pastor Paul Ojegbekilo sez: "Please send money to Nigeria so our orphans can subscribe to this blog's feed."

Introducing: The Confess-o-Matic!!

Confessing is in. It's the thing to do (rehab is SO 2007!). These days it seems you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some celebrity, politician, or chat show host in the midst of a very public mea culpa, dazed spouse at their side, disclosing sordid details about their private lives (which is precisely why we gave up dead cat-swinging for Lent).

It was fun at first; Jimmy Swaggart's tearful I-paid-a-$50-hooker-to-pee-on-me-in-a-Motel-6 "I've sinned against you" speech was hilarious. Likewise, Jim McGreevey's I'm-being-blackmailed-by-a-Jewish-boytoy-and-now-it's-time-to-come-out-to-my-stunned-wife "I'm a gay American" press conference really should be set to music and recorded by Clay Aiken.

But now it's quickly becoming tedious. David Letterman, Mackenzie Phillips, John Ensign, Mark Sanford, Sam Adams, Elliot Spitzer...the list grows daily. Everyone's jumping on the bandwagon without giving the slightest thought as to where the bandwagon's headed. Nor do they seem the least bit concerned about that last shred of good taste being crushed under the bandwagon's cruel wheels. It's like Crocs. 

Cathy-licks, who have never been accused of good taste (see: The Blessed Virgin's frequent appearance in chalupas, the pope, et al.), at least confine their confessions to where they belong; in a dark closet, whispered to a cross-dressing pedophile. We're begging future confessors to reconsider the press conference. We'd really rather not be subjected to the inevitable, constant loop on CNN.

Instead, why not simply fill out our New Confess-o-Matic™ form below and fax it to Wolf Blitzer? The world will thank you.

THE CAN O' WHUP-ASS CONFESS-O-MATIC™

I, (your name here), after a great deal of:

1. prayer,
2. crying,
3. advice from my attorney,
4. gonorrhea,
5. subpoenas,

Have decided that the time has come to disclose:

1. The woman trapped inside my body.
2. The eggplant wedged inside my rectum.
3. My torrid affair with sensitive yet virile Brazilian florist named Cadela Feroz.
4. The subterranean lair I've constructed under my house, where I keep a growing brood of albino incest babies who feed on worms and were born without eyes.
5. My Celine Dion record collection.

The burden of keeping this horrible secret for so long has led to a shame-spiral, culminating in an unfortunate incident where I:

1. Eloped with a cocker spaniel.
2. Banged a retarded broad.
3. Ran naked through the Piggly Wiggly singing "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from "Hello, Dolly!"
4. Subscribed to Esquire.
5. Got wasted and repeatedly screamed "F*GGOTS!" during my keynote address at a GLAAD-sponsored convention of Liza Minnelli impersonators.

I would like to apologize to my long-suffering:

1. Wife
2. Fans and/or constituents
3. Breasts
4. Pet leprechaun
5. Stable of randy rent boys

For causing so much:

1. Pain.
2. Embarrassment.
3. Bowel obstruction.
4. Sperm stains.
5. Fibro Myalgia.

I hope everyone will find it in their heart to:

1. Forgive me.
2. Re-elect me.
3. Put my publicist on speed-dial.
4. Overlook my hobby of giving hand-jobs to passed out alcoholics under the viaduct.
5. Give me one last rusty trombone in the men's room, for old-time's sake.

In the meantime, during this time of healing, I ask that you respect my family's privacy so that we can:

1. Prepare for our appearance on Oprah.
2. Ink a book deal.
3. Bicker and hurl expensive breakables at each other.
4. Consume the last of the human flesh still cluttering our freezer.
5. Have one last S&M felching orgy before setting things right with The Lord. 

Thank you, and:

1. May God bless America.
2. Does anyone have any crank?
3. Signed copies of my memoir are available in the lobby for $35. 
4. Remember to follow me on Twitter.
5. Seriously. Does anyone have any crank? Just a little bit? 

xox
WAM

David Letterman sez: "Subscribing to this blog's feed is 1 through 8 on my personal top ten list."

God Beat With Jeannie Bladdersham: Man-Pants

Glory! Happy end-of-summer, God-Beaters! I don't know about you, but I'm pooped! The Peducah Praise Singers (the all-girl gospel choir with which I sing second mezzo-soprano), just completed a marathon, two-day concert at the spectacular "Healthcare is for Homos" Labor Day Picnic and Bible raffle in the outskirts of gorgeous Tuscaloosa. Everything went smoothly, except for that awkward moment when Fanny-Sue Butz started speaking in tongues during the second encore of our newest single "Jesus Is a Teabagger." Fanny-Sue's eyes rolled back in her head and she started flopping about on the band stand like a catfish as the Holy Spirit supposedly spoke through her. I say "supposedly," because I instantly recognized her gibberish as the theme song to Petticoat Junction in pig latin. I know from experience that Fanny-Sue Butz is an obnoxious attention-whore a lovely woman who enjoys the spotlight. Who can forget when we went to see "The King and I" at the Clap n' Chow Dinner Theatre and they stared singing "Shall We Dance?" We were all slightly taken aback when Fanny-Sue climbed up on stage and tried to cut in. In her defense, she had downed thirteen sloe gin fizzes. On the bright side, the Peducah Praise Singer's single "Christ Loves a Fetus" has shot up to the number eight spot on the Pentecostal Hit List! Praise!

In ferret news, you'll remember that my latest critter Baroness Betty Bounce-a-lot tragically expired in a bathtub electrocution mishap while in the care of my beloved Aunt Betsy (an advice columnist in Headcheese Oklahoma). That makes three of my ferrets to have been sent home to Jesus over the last year (Lady Hildegarde Hoparound was decapitated by a leaf blower and Lord Skippy Scamperpants caught fire and hid under the gas tank of Trudy Plank's Buick Skylark, causing a spectacular explosion). So I decided that The Lord's plans for Jeannie Bladdersham do not include ferret ownership. However, if you recall, Millicent Stump (our choir's coloratura) was conscripted by Somali Pirates during our command performance at Mogadishu's dazzling Allah Akbar Soccer Field and Wife-Stoning Arena. And as it turns out, Millicent's ferret Princess Penelope Prancy-puss needed a new home. She's a joy, but I had to put her in her quiet time cage for shredding my "Fetuses are People Too" throw pillow.

But let's dispense with that flapdoodle and get to the God News! Glory!!

• When godly South Carolina governor Mark Sanford took a wrong turn on the Appalachian Trail and ended up in the arms of a raven haired Argentinian succubus, there were those who believed he was going about honoring the sanctity of his marriage the hard way. This caused tasseled loafer wearing Lieutenant Governor Andre Bauer to call for his resignation. Since then, professional gaydar operator/blogger-for-Satan Mike Rogers has rudely suggested that what Mr. Bauer really wants is to hop astride the governorship like a sweaty stallion so he can turn the governor's mansion into a den of mansex, disco music, and Project Runway parties. So now Mr. Bauer (the most sensitive-looking homo-condemner since Ted Haggard) has launched a whirlwind "Don't Call Me A Pansy Or I'll Scratch Your Eyes Out" publicity tour and press junket to accuse Governor Sanford of masterminding those dastardly fibs. Because as we learned from the Republicans when Clinton was being impeached for mistaking a zaftig Jewess' shame hole for a humidor, Jesus cries when our politicians fib about carnal oopsies. 
• In Sudan, a lovely nation where folks ride camels through villages so they can get stabby and rape-y with folks who rudely insist on breathing, Lubna Hussein was recently sprung from jail after having been arrested and sentenced to 40 lashes for wearing pants. Because in the hell-bound "religion" of Ismuslimism, it's a sin for a gal to sashay hither and yon wearing something that can't be tossed over her head for convenient raping. Of course, gals who get raped also typically get 40 lashes for being in the company of strange men, but that's neither here nor there. If you're a Sudanese female, you must wear a dress. Just like the men.
• Greg and JaLea Swezey, members of the Church of the First Born, are avid practitioners of faith healing. So when their 17-year-old son Zachery fell ill of a tummy ache, they prayed. Then Zachery got worse and they prayed some more. Suddenly, something occurred to Greg and JaLea (who really ought to change her name to something Jesus recognizes as remotely Christian so he doesn't ignore her in the future). Their son was acting all blue and deadish. Zachery actually had a burst appendix. Natch, this has led to Lucifer-worshiping "Doctor" types to condemn faith healers. But as we all learned from Peter Pan, if you don't clap hard enough, Tinkerbell dies.    
• Today, the President of the United States/servant of Beelzebub Barack Hussein Jihad Taliban Ass-sex Stalin Obama made our teachers dismiss their students from their studies so he could tell them not to let anything distract them from their studies. Of course, most godly parents excused their lil' angels from attending, as the text of his speech clearly contains subliminal indoctrinations into sordid concepts like anal penetration and socialized medicine. Although this thinly-veiled "fist bump" exposed millions of youngsters to horrific concepts like personal responsibility and hard work, one hardly expects to hear the word "fist" and "our children" in the same sentence. Not at school anyway. That sort of thing belongs in our churches. Glory!

Greg and JaLea Swezy say: "If we pray hard enough, maybe everyone will subscribe to this blog's feed."

A Sex Prayer for Catholic Couples (PLUS: A Letter to Miss Lisa Newsome)

As we all know, Cathy-lick priests are experts on everything sexual. Of course they're all celibate (wink-wink), so hippity-dippity is pretty much all they ever think about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue. 

This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.

Dear Lord,

We ask, in Your Infinite Grace, to guide us through the proceeding ickiness. May the miracle of Viagra pull a "Moses" by transforming the limp snake into a staff. Let us not enjoy it, for a grunting middle-aged alcoholic's pasty rump piston-pumping a long suffering cellulite-afflicted baby factory is hardly an occasion celebrate. Have mercy, O Lord; for although You instructed us to "be fruitful and multiply" we've multiplied quite enough, having been blessed with eighteen insufferable children who sass us and smoke pot. To that end, please make the army of sperm about to spew forth get lost in the shame cave and wander about like a bunch of Jews in the desert. And speaking of being fruitful, while the husband has found many opportunities to defy Leviticus by placing ads on Craigslist for randy truckers into watersports, help us to avoid the temptation of using a condom. For as the Pope said, condoms spread the AIDS, which is our punishment for answering the urges you put in our heads to test us. And please help us wrap it up during the commercial break so we don't miss any of CSI: Special Victim's Unit. In Jesus Christ's name we pray,

Amen.

***

Dear Lisa Newsome,

We were enchanted by the heart-warming story of your recent brush with the law.

As the story goes, one day it occurred to you that you might enjoy a nice cold beer. So you sauntered into a liquor store in the dazzling Louisiana metropolis of Zachary, hiked up your house-dress, and stuffed a twelve pack of Miller Light up your tuchus.

We appreciate the kind of gal whose hair pie doubles as an ice box. Moreover, it's the only way you could conceivably compel us to reach betwixt your thighs. However, while we always like our brew with a nice healthy head, that's hardly what we had in mind. And although we shudder to contemplate where you might have stored the pretzels, we'd be much more impressed if you did the same trick with a keg.

At any rate, thanks for the suds. You can pull your dress down now. By the way, do you have a bottle-opener? Oh. We see.

Nevermind.

xox
WAM

WAM sez: "Have a great Labor Day Weekend! And subscribe to this blog's feed."