Me & Mitch Enjoying God Forever

After blaming atheists for the holocaust, Gov. Mitch Daniels (the brightest Indiana politician since Dan Quayle) proclaimed his love for the Lord and declared his desire to "Enjoy [God] forever." I suspect a lot of the un-Jesused and Mormons have no idea what he meant by that, so I thought I'd provide a few examples of the ways I enjoy Him.

• Acting out all His smitings during family home evening.
• When a family member has acne or boils, I pretend he or she is Job and blame every misfortune on the son of a bitch..
• Re-enacting God's smiting the Philistines of Ashdod, Gath, and Bethshemesh with hemorrhoids by going down to the local laundrymat and adding a little fiberglass to the underwear loads.
• Watching His picture, waiting for him to wink or cry tears of blood.
• I peek into windows looking for masturbaters. When I find one, I pretend he's Onan and tase the bastard.

I also enjoy Him by feasting on his flesh and blood. Here are a couple of recipes:

Christ's Blood Spritzer

Ingredients:

communion wine
club soda or mineral water
lime juice
lime wedge for garnish

Preparation:

Fill the communion cup with ice.
Pour in the wine to fill the cup half way
Top with club soda or mineral water.
Add a splash of lime (It cuts through the blood's overwhelming iron taste)
Garnish with a lime wedge.

Jesus' Flesh Pie

Ingredients:

3 cups communion wafers
3/4 cup chopped onion
1 cup grated cheddar cheese
habanero peppers (add to taste)
2-1/2 cups chili

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350°F.
Spread 2 cups of communion wafers in a baking dish. Sprinkle half the onion and half the cheese over the wafers. Pour the chili over the onion and cheese. Sprinkle the remaining communion wafers, onion and cheese over the chili.

Bake for 15 or 20 minutes until cheese is bubbly, but be sure to pull it out before jesus' flesh is gooey with cheese oil.

Serve hot.

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Into the Woo Woo Hole, Young Man

Maggie Gallagher
Institute for Marriage and Public Policy
National Organization For Marriage

Dear Mrs. Gallagher,

I've been a big fan of the Jonas Brothers since they began wearing purity rings. I must have been a hard decision--abstinence isn't the first word that comes to mind someone mentions Rock and Roll. They could have taken another path, a path into wickedness like that taken by Josie and the Pussycats and the DeFranco Family, but they chose righteousness. They kept their units in their pants and their hotel furniture in their rooms.

But, now Kevin Jonas needs to serve as a role model for marriage. His recent statement about his wedding night doesn't accomplish this. If you missed it, here's what he had to say: "After we did it, I was kind of like, that's it?"

How many of his fans will want to marry and have sex after reading something like this. They might as well stay single and continue engaging in fun, non-sexual acts like floating, gobbler gobbling, and spelunking in the cave of shame. Why go to all the trouble of getting married, if, in the end, it's like waiting in line three hours for a Big Mac.

I suspect his problem is ignorance. We don't teach kids the mechanics because it only encourages them to have sex. I bet no one sat him down and told him he needs to put his little unit into her woo woo hole. Without that knowledge, sex is just the weeping and vomiting--who enjoys that?

Someone needs to teach Kevin what to do. We can't wait for him to figure it out on his own; it took me 7 years. We need to fix this now. You're in charge of defending marriage; it's up to you set him straight.

Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

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Der Popenfuhrer und der Ziegenjungend

Satan knows it takes a lot to prod the pope into sinning. Sometimes, it's Gucci. Other times, it's Prada. This time, he dressed an altar boy up like a sheep.

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Chicken Genesis

11 And God said, Who told you that you were uniformly cracked egg shells? Have you eaten of the chorizo that I commanded you not to eat?
12 And he said, The woman You gave to me as a mate (which was a nice gift, don't get me wrong, especially knowing that you didn't really have to get me anything) she gave chorizo to me and I ate.
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13 And God said, What have you done? And the woman said, "Sheesh, what haven't I done? Maybe the next time you get a gift for Chicken Egg Leg over there you could stay the hell out of the red light district, know what I mean? You want some submissive little virgin, get yourself a teenage Mormon still living in the compound, okay?"
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14 So the Lord said to his pet monkey, Because you have done this you will be cursed more than any creature, and you will crawl on your belly and eat dust the rest of your life. And the monkey said "I had nothing to do with any of this. There was supposed to be a talking reptile here, but he opted out of his contract and is working with a snake charmer in India. He's very happy, I am told. Thrilled, actually." And the Lord said "Why am I always the last one to know?"
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(snip)
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16 To the Ovum God said, Your anguish in childbirth will increase, you will bear sons in sorrow, your longing will be to your mate, and he will be your boss. To which she replied "Fuck you, you miserable excuse for a creator. You are petty and malevolent. What a big man you are--ready to mete out horrible punishment at the drop of a hat. You should be ashamed! Schmuck!"
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17 To the Egg Leg Man God said, "She's got quite a mouth somewhere on her." And the man replied "You have a gift for stating the obvious." And then God smashed them to little bits, and thus began work on His greatest Creation: The Universe.2 And lo, it looked awesome in Blu Ray!
~

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion "I have decided to no longer believe in Santa Claus" died for an entire holiday season when I was seven years old. The Opinion, having been arrived at through careful and thoughtful rumination (combined with a creeping suspicion that the entire story of Kris Kringle was a cynically orchestrated sham) lay in ruins on the morning of December 25th, 1965, due entirely to two distinct boot prints that lay in the ashes of the fireplace of my family home. The sight of those boot prints, which could only belong to St. Nick, was a visual and visceral shock to my youthful sensibilities, a stark refutation of my nascent reasoning faculties, and it both excited and deflated my delicate intellect.

On Christmas morning that year, in addition to the boot prints, a brand new banana-seated gold-flecked-faux-fiber-glass Stingray Schwinn bicycle with my name on it awaited my arrival. It stood shining like a child's supernova just off to one side of the family Xmas tree: it sealed the deal of my belief as it was irrefutable proof of the existence of a magical gift giver who flew through the night to deliver toys and wonder to children all over the world, or so I was convinced that wonderful day. With a wide, slick rear tire and handle bars that drooped down like Dumbo's ears, I had gained the next level in life, the place where freedom and and speed combined to leave skid marks all over the neighborhood sidewalks. I jumped curbs, vanished into the farmlands, defied gravity for a time before I proved that gravity was actually quite patient and could never be denied for long. Crash! I had that year the best bike that I could ever possibly have, and Santa had brought it to me, even though I had gone past doubting his existence and had planted a flag in the Land of Outright Denial. No matter: I rode off that morning like some newly born idea, ready to explode in all directions at once, newly planted flag be damned.

The Opinion came back the next year, but it was too late. I had been disabused of my reason, and punked before it was even called that. Many years later I struggled through another Xmas Eve, this time assembling a bicycle for my son. Not long after that, I went with him to the local school, and ran alongside him and steadied his ride on the black top until he sailed away on his first solo launch. I was now leaving black boot prints in the ashes of another memory. I soared, my eyes tearing, my love indescribable, my joy unbounded. I flew with him, right up to the moment he started screaming "Help! I don't know how to stop!"

Today, the Opinion is at peace in a small, unremarkable urn I keep somewhere next to the stardust that I know falls in the lands between my mind and my heart. It is from this place that I wish you all the Merriest of Yules, and fresh boot prints to guide you there, should you require proof.



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The Opinuary Column appears on Fridays at Jesus' General.

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Happy Birthday, Jesus

A tip of the ol' helmet to toddtyrtle.

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Don't forget your Christmas smokes

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Mormon's Gubernatorial Run Could Result in Creation of Perfect Jello Salad

Rex Rammell
Candidate for Governor of Idaho

Dear Mr. Rammell,

I think it's wonderful you're excluding gentiles and women from your campaign events. It'll be great for the sisters. They can spend the time away from us exploring the use of various combinations of cottage cheese, shredded carrots, and green Jello to pursue their highest calling: perfecting Jello salad. Imagine it, a Jello salad so good, even the sons of perdition will scream, "Oh my heck!"

As for the Non-Mormons, they'd add nothing worthy to the discussion. I'm tired of them asking questions that make me feel silly and uncomfortable. How many times do I have to tell the story about how Uncle Lavere's sacred undergarments saved him* from being emasculated by a hay bailer before I finally find a gentile who doesn't shriek with laughter upon hearing it? It's best they're not there.

I can't wait for the rallies. It'll be just like General Priesthood Meeting, but without some ancient elder telling the 12 yr old deacons and 14 yr old teachers to think about worms when they're tempted to pound their rameumptoms. Hopefully, there'll be a lot of anointing with oil while we're denouncing homosexual acts, because sometimes garments don't offer all the protection against temptation one needs. I'll bring a couple of gallons just in case.

One last thing. Rexburg can be very cold this time of year. It's hard on car batteries. I don't want to buy jumper cables if I don't have to. Will the Three Nephites** be on hand to provide jump starts to those who need it?

Heterosexually yours,

Gen. JC Christian, patriot

Elsewhere: Rex Rammell, Master of Elk

*Stories about LDS underwear (garments) saving lives are common. Here are a few examples:

To this day, stories abound of Saints who have been miraculously saved from harm by the temple garment. Perhaps the most famous example comes from a 1996 feature on Mormons for 60 Minutes, in which hotel magnate Willard Marriott told Mike Wallace of a boat fire that had consumed his pants yet left him unscathed above the knee, where his garment was. As a missionary, I read a typescript account about an elder from that same mission who had been the victim of a drive-by shooting a year before (during the 1990 Gulf War): according to his mother's account, bullets shredded his shirt without piercing his garments, while the only wound he received was from a bullet that hit him below the knee.

**The Three Nephites met Jesus when he came to America after his crucifixion. He took a liking to them and gave them eternal life. Now, they wander the earth providing emergency auto care for the faithful.

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God raises Inhofe from dead in time for next vote

Sen. Coburn needs to clear Sen. Ensign's stories from his head and focus on what he's praying about.



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Giving the Gift of Death This Christmas

Long time readers may remember that although the Confederate Yankee went AWOL during God's Chosen One's Glorious Eternal War to Resubjugate the Brown, he's served admirably in the War on Christmas. Who could forget his past Christmas efforts to punish Google for committing the algorithm-based blasphemy of listing Baby Jesus butt plugs first on its search pages.

Now, it's Christmas week again, and our favorite defender of Confederate values has come up with a new way to Celebrate our Lords birth: calling for the death of a senile old man. Here's what he has to say:

Robert Byrd has been around a very long time, and his many decades of service have made West Virginia a wonderful state in which to manufacture methamphetamine or frame the locals for murder. But it's time for Senator to do the right thing, and expire.

It's an idea that seems to be catching on. Sen. Tom Coburn wants to put a dead Byrd in his creche as well:

At 4 p.m. Sunday afternoon -- nine hours before the 1 a.m. vote that would effectively clinch the legislation's passage -- Sen. Tom Coburn (R-Okla.) went to the Senate floor to propose a prayer. "What the American people ought to pray is that somebody can't make the vote tonight," he said. "That's what they ought to pray."

It was difficult to escape the conclusion that Coburn was referring to the 92-year-old, wheelchair-bound Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.V.) who has been in and out of hospitals and lay at home ailing. It would not be easy for Byrd to get out of bed in the wee hours with deep snow on the ground and ice on the roads -- but without his vote, Democrats wouldn't have the 60 they needed.

Others, like HARDING of Patriot Force wish Wise Men would give the gift pestilence to the Speaker:

Wish I could FedEx the black plague to Pelosi's office for the satanic holiday she prefers while we celebrate Christmas- HARDING

But one doesn't necessarily need to commit murder to honor the birth of the Christ child. More squeamish patriots can buy tee shirts and bumper stickers proclaiming their desire to see someone else murder the President.

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The Navi meet Animal Planet

A band of sushi-eating testicles save Avatar from Egyptian censors.



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