My response to the vile bastards who are trying to destroy America by destroying me

I've received billions of the vilest, most hateful emails imaginable over the last 24 hours. They've attacked virtually every aspect of my life, even going so far as to theatening to shear my dear little sheep, Sheila, and use her wool to commit unspeakable acts of debauchery.

Why have they chosen to attack me? Well, apparently the Francosphere is in an uproar over the first installment of my series A Story About Two Places. They are accusing me of lifting it from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

I won't argue with them. They're correct. I lifted the whole thing. But what they fail to tell you is that I had permission to do so. You see, I met Mr. Dickens at a Promisekeepers rally last summer and asked him if I could pass off his work as my own. He said, "sure, you look like a nice young man [everyone looks young to a man his age] have at it."

So tell me, who's the villain now?

Red State Jesus

A god-fearing Red State moderator hopes that another smiting spree will avenge His Holiness, The Bishop of Box Turtles:

Should the entire American Left fall over dead tomorrow, I would rejoice, and order pizza to celebrate. They are not my countrymen; they are animals who happen to walk upright and make noises that approximate speech. They are below human. I look forward to seeing each and every one in Hell.

And a patriotic Red State commenter agrees:

My support of the death penalty is based upon the concept that certain offenses against society are worthy of forfeiture of the offenders life. Unfortunately, that concept has become limited to the taking of anothers life. I, on the other hand, am quite comfortable of including acts that denigrate the society as a whole. Traitors easily are included in my parameters as are character assassins, abortion practioneers and their apologists, and those who would lie to gain power to corrupt.

Other Red Staters applaud Bishop Ben's heroic sacrifice in the epic struggle against evil:

In combat great people (we call them heros) sometimes get injured and have to be withdrawn. Before you (and your family and the Post) were further injured you were able to drag yourself away from the battlefield.

In Christendom great people (we call them martyrs) stand for truth and get killed for it. Your voice in a dark world was a threat to the darkness and it felt compelled to silence you.

At RedState we have great people (we call them family) who yearn for truth, love of country, and a philosophy that we are all in this epic struggle together.

Republican Jesus mugs and shirts available here

Republican Jesus Archives.

Hannicatch of the week

Ladies, this Sean Hannity fan is looking for a woman less intelligent than himself to bring him beers while he's watching wrestling on the tee vee. If you have big honkin' hooters and needed help reading this post, you might be the not-man of his dreams.



Previous Hannicatches:

No Coloreds

Republican Fundraiser

Kentucky Thoroughbred

Headlights of Morality

Joe Lieberman: Loves Our Leader; Hates Grandmothers

Sen. Joe Lieberman
United States Senate

Dear Sen. Lieberman,

You've received a lot of criticism for saying that those who express opposition to Our Leader are harming our nation's security. You're not alone. Nearly every patriot who stands up and calls out The Chosen One's detractors for their seditous speech receives the same kind of treatment.

The reason they scream so loudly when we level such accusations is because they doubt our sincerity. They suspect that we don't really believe what we're saying--that it's all empty rhetoric.

I pray that the recent revelations about the good work our State Security Apparatus is doing will turn the critics into believers. Certainly, the news that the FBI has the Seattle Raging Grannies under surveillance should give them pause. Heck, I bet if you ran ads about how the State Security Apparatus is shutting down the granny threat, you might even silence your own critics.

I put together this storyboard for just such an ad. Please feel free to use it.








Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

I want to blog for the Washington Post

Now that I've learned the Box Turtle Writing Method, I've decided to publish a series of posts that will knock the Post's socks off.

I call it A Story About Two Places. Here's the first installment:

IT WAS the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of "the Captain," gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, "in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:" after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fir on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures- the creatures of this chronicle among the rest- along the roads that lay before them.

Update: Maybe the Box Turtle Writing Method isn't the way to go.

Another stinking update: here's the resignation letter.

On the pride parade pastoring circuit with Sen. Allen

Sen. George Allen
United States Senate

Dear Sen. Allen,

In a recent speech, you mentioned that you had witnessed the arrest of a group of Christians at a homosexual pride parade in Philadelphia. What were you doing there? Philadelphia is a few hours away from DCand Virginia. Are you on the pride parade missionary circuit? If so, I'm surprised I haven't run in to you. I've been witnessing our Lord Jesus' message of eternal damnation on the circuit for years.

Perhaps you could help me overcome a couple of the biggest obstacles I face in my pride parade pastoring. For instance, how do you keep your butt from getting sunburned when you're walking around in those chaps all day? Sunblock is out of the question. It seems like every time I ask someone to help me apply it, I end up on one of those fundraising films Rev. Falwell is always shooting at these events.

How do you go about picking up the men to whom you're going to witness. My method of showing prospects a shaved gerbil isn't very successful. Three out of four of the guys I approach laugh and say, "You're an undercover pride parade pastor, aren't you." And the fourth always turns out to be another undercover pride parade pastor who starts witnessing to me the moment we check into the hotel. Sure, after we sort things out, we have a laugh comparing sunburns and gerbils, but by then, we've wasted the whole weekend without saving a single homosexual.

How do you do it? Can you share a few tips? Have you ever used a ferret? Are they hard to shave?

Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

A helmet tip to le Dentiste de Rotation.

More mockery of our most cherished Heartland values

David Brooks
The New York Times

Dear Mr. Brooks,

Once again, the coastal elitists are mocking one of our most cherished Heartland values. Two of the frenchiest bloggers on the internets, Lafayette and LacDeChienDuFeu referred to a television program in which Washington Post Blogger for Our Leader Ben Domenech discussed his homeschooling experience. The object of their derision seems to be a quote that could be creatively interpreted to be an admission by Mr. Domenech that he went all the way with his mother.

Now, while having such a relationship with one's mother is not as common in the Heartland as "marrying" one's sister or cousin, it's pretty easy to imagine the circumstances that may have brought it about--you're kicking back with mom, watching your worn out copy of Red Dawn on the betamax, and at the part where Patrick Swayze brings down a Soviet Hind-D chopper with an RPG, you notice that his hips move in the same way they moved in the final scene of Dirty Dancing. The thought of Swayze gyrating wildly to pop music awakens something very primal within you. With a quick glance toward your mother, you see that she is also obviously having similar thoughts. At that moment Swayze yells "Wolverines!" mother and son are overwhelmed with passion.

There's nothing wrong with that. It's something very understandable to those of us whose hearts live in the Heartland. Such patriotic, family-oriented reactions are encoded in our moral DNA. We cannot resist them.

Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

Thanks to Darryl

I suddenly had to fill in for a sick colleage at an out of town meeting..Ok, I sinned and I'm i Seattle searching for redemption. The man who spanks people for money is all booked up, so I'm praying that that there's another mighty spatula of redemption somewhere in this town.

Thanks to Darryl of the always terrific Hominid Views for pinch hitting. I didn't know how late I'd be tonight.

A proper Last Breakfast

Governor James Douglas
109 State Street, Pavilion
Montpelier, VT 05609

Dear Governor Douglas,

I was horrified to learn that there was no genuine maple syrup for breakfast during your trip to Iraq. So, I’ve decided to do something about it. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon, and I am told there are now serious murmurings about a full congressional investigation into this outrage.

Who is to blame? I don’t think we can blame the President. He has made it amply clear that he relies on his Generals in the field to make menu-level decisions. The Secretary of Defense has already said “You go to war with the menu you have, not the menu you might want or wish to have.” Okay…fair enough!

No…the blame lies with the minority party in Congress. When pushed about funding for more maple syrup to support the troops, they change the subject. They rant on…something about body armor and they make silly suggestions about Humvees. They raise stupid ideas that would make the damn things so heavy and slow that the troops would never get back from a night raid in time to enjoy a wholesome breakfast with pure maple syrup.

So, something must be done, Governor. There have been about 22 Vermonters killed in this war. I shudder at the inhumanity of those proud soldiers getting killed without a proper maple syrup-laden Last Breakfast. And the solution is so simple--syrup just isn’t that expensive!

The only bright spot in this, Governor, is that you are physically safe from harm after your horrific maple-syrup-less breakfast in the Gulf. I mean, just imagine the national outrage and collective bereavement if you had met your demise in the Persian Gulf--without a proper Last Breakfast! I submit to you that the backlash would become a serious threat to our War on Terror®.

In fact, this is the hook I recommend you take to convince Congress to cough up the funds for real maple syrup for use in the Iraq division of our War on Terror®. When troops don’t have maple syrup, the terrorists win!

If that hook doesn’t work, Governor, get back to me. We’ll have to get tough and start throwing around terms like “menuocide.”

Yours verily,

Darryl
hominidviews.com

Sorry, the General's muse has left the building

If it's good enough for brown people, it's good enough for our own children:

The state's highest education-policy board is considering a proposal to stop sending New York school children to out-of-state facilities that use electric shock to treat psychological disorders.

A staff report to the Board of Regents yesterday targets the Judge Rotenberg Center a week after a Freeport mother who opposes the therapy announced she would sue her local school district for sending her son to the Massachusetts school. Experts say no other school in the nation uses mild electric shock to modify students' behavior.

Of the 151 New York state students at Rotenberg -- including those from New York City schools and more than 20 Long Island districts -- 77 are now receiving the controversial "aversion therapy." The report expresses concern that the therapy is not only used on students who are most "cognitively impaired" or severely "self-destructive," but also for those who are "higher functioning," with emotional disabilities, attention-deficit disorders and problems such as truancy and aggression.

[...]

The aversion-therapy device -- the Graduated Electronic Decelerator -- is approved by the Food and Drug Administration as a neurological therapeutic device. Students wear it as a backpack, and electrodes are placed on their arms, torso and legs. A transmitter controlled by staff emits a shock that lasts no longer than two seconds.

The bastards did it to me again

Once again, the Koufax people are trying to marginalize my important conservative message by making Jesus' General a finalist in the Most Humorous Blog and Most Humorous Post categories.

Meet the new Biblical Administrator for the Puget Sound and the Willamette Valley

Rabbi Daniel Lapin
Toward Tradition

Dear Rabbi Lapin,

I'm sorry to hear that your organization is facing hard times. I guess that's to be expected now that your friend Jack Abramoff is no longer laundering money through it. I wish you luck in finding a funding source.

Have you considered selling phony honors? The "Scholar of Talmudic Studies" title you bestowed on Mr. Abramoff seemed to work out well for him. From what I understand, he used it to meet all the Nobel winning members of the Cosmos Club. A title with that kind of clout has to be worth quite a bit of money. Heck, you could probably pull in a few million alone from Our Leader's political appointees who have only their mail order degrees to tout on their resumes.

I'd be glad to help you think of new honors to give out. All I'd ask for would be a great sounding title for myself, perhaps something like "Biblical Administrator for the Puget Sound and the Willamette Valley." That sounds pretty cool.

Heterosexually Yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

A helmet tip to Carl at the Washington State Political Report.

Three Years

Where are they now: the alleged Convention Kicker

Scott Robinson
Masculinist Hero

Dear Mr. Robinson,

I, too, am outraged by Penn's decision to invite Jodie Foster to speak at graduation, and I'm in total agreement with your statement that "the pomp and circumstance of my graduation ceremony should not be a forum for your half-baked social theories about the plight of women."

After all, why should the men of your graduating class be subjected to another lecture about "violence against women, parent-child relationships and the challenges faced by women in traditionally male professions." What good will it do? Penn fraternity members, as you point out, have already been forced to sit through the "don't rape women or put drugs in their drinks speech." That should be all the feminislamist propaganda any one man should be compelled to hear.

Penn would be much better served by enlisting you to speak at graduation. Who better to speak about gender issues than you, the man who allegedly employed his boots of masculine superiority repeatedly against a woman at the Republican National Convention and then later intimidated female voters on election day.

Of course, feminislamist Penn President Amy Guttmann would never allow you to speak, so I guess you'll have to do the next best thing: jump up on the stage and kick the shit out of Jodie Foster.

Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

Number 8...

...in Google Godliness.