If God Says I’m OK, Then What Are You?

 

So. I told you about my visit from God in yesterday’s writings. Wait, let me attempt to clarify. Yesterday, in my bloggie posting, I told you that God had paid me a visit.

I told you about the visit only to fulfill my promise to tell you about anything interesting that happens in my life. It wasn’t to impress you nor was it to recruit to the Church of the Full Rising Mooner. I don’t care if you think I’m nuts, because I am, and I don’t care if you don’t care.

Some of my best buddies have disparaged me (Streaker Jones and Squatlo), some right-wing religious fuckballs have called me a heretic, and my Gram has spent hours telling me stories about when the Big Guy has visited her.

Some of my Gram’s stories are disturbing.

“Have I ever told ya bout tha time I was down ta Aggie land this one time?” Gram giggled, as she popped the top off a cold Carta Blanca at dinner last night. “Funniest thing ya ever did see. Had me a engineer an his roomie tied to tha bumper a the one fella’s pick-up, an me an tha P-cubed was duin a dance fer um afore we sexed em up.”

Gram took a big slurp of her been, and went on, “Yes-siree-Bob, we was going in fer poontanger a sixth time. Wait, now, it mighta been seven. Them boys was saying no, but we knew better. I’d dosed em with my Party Potion Number Nine, Mooner, an I knew they had another couple runs left in um.”

She had to go on.

“But where does God come in to this story, Gram?” I asked.

“Oh yea. Tha one young fella was seeing stuff an said God was wavin him on ta Heaven. Mighta dosed him with a tad too much mushroom juice.”

Yes, I suspect she might have.

Streaker Jones told me, he said, “Mooner, you talk too much.”

He’s right, I know I do.

But I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me. Never have. I especially don’t give a shit if you’re a Baptist shitwad and you’re pissed that I would have the audacity to say that God paid me a visit. You rotten right-wing Republican mother fuckers had better pray that I imagined God’s visit. If I read the Big Guy right, He told me to keep doing what I’m doing– that He approves of me.

So fuck you.

And before I forget, Little Ricky Perry was re-inaugurated today. I refused to listen to that shit brain’s speech, but I caught a sound bite before I could change the channel. That brain dead moron made us Texans another promise. He promised to balance the budget shortfall without creating any new taxes. He promised to do that by cutting wasteful spending.

Which means that he will be cutting education, health care and any other meaningful budget items. I don’t know about your states, but here in Texas the only meaningful activities our state government manages to participate in are social in nature.

Everything else they do is a cluster fuck. And for the last twelve years, even our social programs are fucked clusters. The Republicans have seen to it.

People keep asking me if Rick Perry is really such an asshole as I say. Find a copy of his speech today and see for yourself. I heard just the one little bit that speech, but I can promise you that any reasonable man can see through that little fucker’s thin veneer of right-wing hate and straight to his black heart.

But don’t take my word for it, go to a higher authority. To quote God His very Ownself, He said to me, He says, “Mooner– Fuck Rick Perry.”

“And drink Carta Blanca beer!”

Amen, Lord. Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “If God Says I’m OK, Then What Are You?”

  1. But if our sex would but well consider and rationally ponder, they will perceive and find that it is neither words nor place that can advance them, but worth and merit.

  2. Undendege says:

    I was the least Pop of all the Pop artists.

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