Anarchgay in the USA

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Every time a gay thinks about marrying, God gets punched in the taint by the Devil and a kitten sucks a dick.

Footballman Tyree, famous for holding ball to his head doesn't want two men to legally do same under God.
Footballman Tyree, famous for holding ball to his head doesn't want two men to legally do same under God.

A same-sex marriage bill is currently working its way through the New York state legislature which can only mean one thing, Jesus is warming up his wave machine while solemnly shaking his head in disappointment with us all. How do I know this? Because the Wide Receiver of the Apocalypse has deliver unto us our one and only warning.

You see, in a video released Wednesday by the National Organization for Marriage, former super bowling footballist David Tyree pleads for our continued discrimination against a people solely because we think the way they touch parts is icky, not just because God says so, but because God says so and, you know, for the children.

“You can’t teach something that you don’t have,” Tyree said in the video. “So two men will never be able to teach a woman how to be a woman.”

To say the statement by this ball hugging man in tight, tight knee pants is ignorant on the surface of it would be a disservice to the additional ignorance below the surface. The obvious implication here not only slights the ability of same-sex couples to raise a child, which as I’ve chronicled recently is nigh biologically impossible, but it also automatically implies that single parents raising a child of the opposite sex of them are doing it wrong. UNLESS of course, this statement is only meant to say that two parents of the same gender automatically negate any teaching they are attempting to pass on to their child, simply by the power of their reproductive organs not interlocking like Voltron limbs in the manner in which this ex-group man showerer deems Biblically correct. Because unless that’s the case he’s making, all children of divorce or any other single parentage should automatically be taken from their homes the second it is not populated by two alternately gendered parental figures, you know, for their own well being.

But the other bit of ignorance about the statement that probably bothers me more is a more stereotype based bit of observation. Two gay men would likely raise a better woman than a hundred straight women and two lesbian women would undoubtedly raise a better man than a dozen dozen hetro blokes. Or maybe that’s my ignorance clouding his ignorance in a hot, steamy ignorance sauna, so foggy from the drippy steam, just groping for answers, hands, grasping things that they might not normally if they could see clearly, it may be wrong elsewhere, but right here, right now, there’s nothing more right in this entire world!

What was I saying?

Ah, right, former professional sweaty man who was paid millions of dollars to run from the grasp of larger, heaving sweaty men and his hatred of amateur sweaty men’s want to be sweaty together…

“Marriage is the only relationship that actually mirrors the relationship with God,” he said.
Our Father, who art a total Top...
Our Father, who art a total Top...

Which, if you really wanted to be a dick, you could say SOUNDS a lot like him saying that as a believer, he is married to God, as generally depicted as a large, burly, bearded man in all artistic representations, which makes his statement sound kind of hypocritical. Feetball catchman Tyree can be married to what the community would call a “bear” but other mortal men can’t marry similarly mortal men. That’s kinda unfair really.

Let’s also just gloss over the ignorant hypocrisy of another statement of his objection in the article that:

it is not justifiable to alter a long-standing institution “because a minority — an influential minority — has … an agenda,”

Says the millionaire man of non-caucasian ancestry whom without the agenda of an influential minority not sixty years ago couldn’t buy a sandwich in many establishments owned by proprietors who hated his ancestors simply because of how they were born and the lifestyle they lived.

But the main thrust of his argument is that allowing dude one to buy a piece of paper that says he and dude two are going to be able to put each other on their health insurance and allow them to visit one another while in the hospital, that it could only signal for this great, man on woman bonded nation:

“the beginning of our country sliding toward … anarchy,” he said

Now, “anarchy” as defined by Susan Merriam and Alouicious Webster is:

a : absence of government
b : a state of lawlessness or political disorder due to the absence of governmental authority
c : a utopian society of individuals who enjoy complete freedom without government
a: absence or denial of any authority or established order
b: absence of order
Anarchy is so gay...
Anarchy is so gay...

It’s probably safe to say that Mr. Tyree didn’t mean it in the “utopian society” sense of the word, so I can only assume “catchy runny yay” believes that allowing two ladies to scissor the night away as legally recognized wife and wife will somehow bring about the total collapse of the United States government. I’m not sure if he thinks this will come about by gays sucking up the steps of the capital building and ousting our elected leaders by force, or if he thinks that knowing fellahs would be out there sword fighting with their two married dongs would drive all of our countries legislators to mass suicide, leaving no one left to not pass laws out of petty childish gamesmanship or blind incompetence and or intolerance.

Why what two people do in the comfort of their own home bothers so many people is beyond me. If you think two hunky slabs of beef getting married on court house steps somehow delegitimizes your own legal bonding, it seems like you’ve got insecurity issues that have nothing to do with who sticks what in which where. Nobody is screaming at you about the failed experiment that is heterosexual marriage where more than half of these holy unions end up in do overs. So how about we just give marriage to the gays for a while, see if they have any better luck with it?
“We’re doing God an injustice by not making his heart known to our country. “
The bible’s a big book, how about we focus on more than just your favorite sentence or two and try living more in line with the teachings on the whole, you know, peace, love and forgiveness. I’m no theologizisit, but I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would do.

VFoC Video — "May 21st, 2011 … It's Rapture Time Sinners"

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Ya'll Gonna Burn In Hell ... Me? Well I'm Goin' To Heaven Because I Am Nostradamus Jr.

Well as most of the world knows, tomorrow is the second coming of Christ, The Rapture, Judgement Day. Well … according to Harold Camping. Ya’ll ready? Better get repenting real quick like because only about 7% of us (dead or alive) are going to get floated up to Heaven tomorrow. The other 93% of us are gonna live in “hell on earth” for another six months or so. Sounds fun. If I were a bettin’ man, and I am, I’d bet that the Van Full Of Candy flies through the air tomorrow with flying colors.

May 21st, 2011 … It’s Rapture Time Sinners [VIDEO]

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Ya'll Gonna Burn In Hell ... Me? Well I'm Goin' To Heaven Because I Am Nostradamus Jr.

Well as most of the world knows, tomorrow is the second coming of Christ, The Rapture, Judgement Day. Well … according to Harold Camping. Ya’ll ready? Better get repenting real quick like because only about 7% of us (dead or alive) are going to get floated up to Heaven tomorrow. The other 93% of us are gonna live in “hell on earth” for another six months or so. Sounds fun. If I were a bettin’ man, and I am, I’d bet that the Van Full Of Candy flies through the air tomorrow with flying colors.

Kirk Cameron vs. Soviet Russia vs. Stephen Hawking vs. Space Aliens vs. Sense of Any Kind

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In American culture, there are two widely accepted sky myth stories.

The first of which being that a a giant bearded dude who lives in the clouds said one day “This shit is dark yo, BOOMSHACKALACKA!” and then everything that is happened. Then he made people in his image and decided he didn’t like them and washed them away and started over and sent his kid to check out how it was going and he got stapled to a fence post before floating back up to home until he collected enough crowns and a horse to ride back down from the sky on.

The other popular yarn is that a half dozen decades ago some little space mans in an intergalactic circle were taking in the sights of lovely, scenic New Mexico when they ran out of illudium Q-36 explosive space modulators and broke down on the side of the road. The United States Military was then kind enough to construct them an airbase that they deny exists and built us iPods out of the wreckage.

Each crazy belief system has it’s ardent, devoted followers, and each were under attack this week by nerds.

Crashed turtle person or Nazi mutant?
Crashed turtle person or Nazi mutant?

A new book, “Area 51” by Annie Jacobsen claims that the craft that didn’t crash in Roswell was not in fact a group of drunken, joyriding frat aliens, but instead, a remote control Soviet Russia spy saucer built by Nazi scientists and filled with genetic experiments cooked up by Josef Mengele. Naturally. So we have gone from alien crash landing, to USSR Nazi crash landing “hoax” intended to freak us out “War of the Worlds” style.

Now, I understand that we and Russia were doing some crazy things back in the good ol’ days of black and white, and I get that Nazi’s had a whimsical sense of humor that was often a little heady and it was sometimes hard to see how throwing a Banana cream pie filled with genetically mutated astronauts at Nevada might be hilarious. The main problem with this argument though is trying to replace one fantastical, difficult to believe story, with another story that sounds like was left scribbled on a napkin by Quentin Tarantino after polishing off a plate of crystal meth and Draino lady fingers.

Since we’re clearly not being serious anymore, I’d like to offer my explanation for the Roswell Incident: a race of subterranean turtle people attempting to make contact with the surface world for the first time since sending their lone emissary nearly 2000 years prior with disastrous results, fashioned a land ship which burrowed up to the surface only to burst into flames and explode once being exposed to the atmosphere of the surface world. Fearing that no one would ever believe such a ridiculous story, the United States government, in co-operation with all other world leaders of the day decided it would be best to just tell the world aliens crash landed so as to not send the world’s population into a hysteria trying to dig down into the turtle people’s home and throw the planet into chaos.

Son of god, or misunderstood, murdered turtle person?
Son of god, or misunderstood, murdered turtle person?

Then we have Kirk Cameron. Some of you may remember Kirk as the dreamy Seaver boy on America’s existingest 80s sit-com “Growing Pains”. Since then he’s found god and wants you to know all about it. Oh, and he’s also kind of a lunatic. But he knows what he’s talking about, like most lunatics, and not just because he talks to god like, every day, or because he was already in the pretend rapture in the “Left Behind” movies, no, it’s because he’s not going to give jokes like Stephen Hawking a free ride like everyone else who’s afraid to stand up to him.

“To say anything negative about Stephen Hawking is like bullying a blind man. He has an unfair disadvantage, and that gives him a free pass on some of his absurd ideas.”

Now, to the first sentence, I’m not sure if Kirk thinks that blind people can’t walk, or that he’s also calling Mr. Hawking lazy for riding around in that chair all the time just ’cause he can’t see. And really, to say anything negative about someone else seems kind of un-Jesus like, and counter productive to a reasonable intellectual discussion. But what do I know? I just usually like to interact with human beings who exist in real life rather than spending all day sending telepathic love letters to a character in a story book.

But I think the more entertaining part of Kirk’s insult is the second half of that statement, that because of Mr. Hawking’s hysterical, debilitating blindness which has taken from him the use of just about everything but his eyes, he believes that because of his “unfair disadvantage” nobody calls him on his shit. Kirk Cameron is telling us that the scientific community has just accepted this man’s theories and lauded him as one of the most brilliant minds in the history of the world, because they don’t want to hurt his feelings.

This fountain of crazy continues:

“Professor Hawking is heralded as ‘the genius of Britain,’ yet he believes in the scientific impossibility that nothing created everything and that life sprang from non-life. Why should anyone believe Mr. Hawking’s writings if he cannot provide evidence for his unscientific belief that out of nothing, everything came?”

Always one of my favorite arguments. In this case Kirk calls into question Mr. Hawking’s beliefs, asking how anyone could buy his blind gibberish if he can’t prove any of it. What I don’t think Mr. Cameron understands is that, the bible, for all of it’s nice words and well meaning thought, is not a receipt for the universe. It’s a book. Unless I missed something, it’s as much proof of the existence of god and an afterlife as Mr. Hawking’s assertion that the afterlife is a “fairy story for people afraid of the dark”. Kirk saying it is doesn’t mean it is and his argument is that since Stephen Hawking can’t prove definitively exactly how the universe came into being that makes anything he ever says on the subject nothing more than the ravings of a perpetually pitied blind asshole. And when that’s the position you’re going to start this discussion from, where the hell do we possibly go from there?

So in the end, what do we have? We’re left with the choice between Alien visitation gone wrong or Soviet Nazi prank and the views of the existence of the universe as proposed by Stephen Hawking or not unproved sufficiently to Kirk Cameron. Who wins in any of these arguments? I mean, besides me that is, ’cause I can write about these kinds of crazy all day long.

Beware: Exploding Babies

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I don’t do a lot of flying, I have my reasons. One of them, certainly, is the fact that I don’t do a lot of traveling. I don’t think they have a lot of destinationless flights, and if they did, why would they? But when I do go somewhere, which as I’ve stated, I don’t, I usually don’t fly. And when ever someone asks me, trying and failing to mask their contempt and disgust like I just told them I don’t own a TV or that I’m literate, “Why don’t you fly?” I like to first joke with them “Because I wasn’t born on Krypton, a dying planet whose inhabitants my desperate father tried to warn of its impending doom. But in their arrogance they cursed him a fool and refused to listen to his pleas. Then, in defiance of the planetary council, he built an escape craft, large enough only for a tiny infant, I, their third choice for occupants, to be rocketed to the safety of a distant planet, this planet, this Earth. Though if I had been born there and had been sent here, my alien physiology would surely be fantastically affected by the radiation of this planet’s yellow sun, imbuing me with great powers, not the least of which could quite possibly be the gift of unaided personal flight.” And we laugh. And by we I usually mean me, because most of the time the people I tell that joke to will wander off midway through. Undeterred I always finish the joke, because it’s so whimsical and outrageous, it gets me every time. Krypton… where do I come up with these things?

The other reason I don’t fly is because of the ever-present threat of exploding babies.

Now you may say “Well, how big of a threat could exploding babies be? I’ve never been exploded by a baby.” To which I would say, that makes you one of the lucky ones. A statistic that I just now made up shows that three in every two people in America have been exploded by a baby. That is a true made up fact!

So when I hear of the “uproar” stemming from a photo taken by a busy body priest in Kansas City over the weekend, of brave air port security personnel putting their very lives on the line for the air faring general public by thoroughly patting down a suspicious, potentially explosive packed 8 month old, I just want to say “You shut up, you shut right the hell up before you set off that ticking baby!”

Did someone make a boom boom?
Did someone make a boom boom?

You see, Saturday the right Reverend Jacob Jester took a dirty picture of a felt up baby after he passed through security in the Kansas City International airport. The first question one might ask of course is, “Why the fuck was it any of this asshole’s god damned business in the first fucking place?” Which, despite the somewhat excessive use of vulgarity considering we’re speaking of a man of the cloth, I think is a fair question. This wasn’t the parents having a problem with it like the six-year-old from a little while back. This was a literally holier than thou air traveler who decided it was his job to make sure the world knew how he felt about baby security.

But moving past the obvious problems of a Reverend taking snap shots of child touching, we arrive at the question of “Is this TSA screening gone overboard?” An excellent question. Wait, did I say excellent? I meant dumb. A dumb, stupid question. The reason this toddler-erroist was being given the smooth hand was because it’s stroller set off an alarm during a screening for explosives (or so says the TSA). Now, the world that we currently live in necessitates us screening things like strollers for explosives. Whether or not that’s a world any of us ever imagined we’d be living in or not is another question for another day, but that’s the cold hard fact of where we are. And in this world, where people are tucking C4 under their balls and trying to light it with a Bic between peanuts and beverage service, if something sets of a “Go Boom Boom” siren, that something gets wiped with a rubber glove, no matter how adorable it might have been before we thought it could explode.

The parents, who were either trying to smuggle explosives onto a plane through very clever baby based means, or simply accidentally bought a strolled constructed from bomb, were said to be “very cooperative and the process was completely without incident” and apparently didn’t have a problem with the proceedings. They did what they had to do, which then included allowing their infant to get a little bit of the “‘ol rub ‘n tug” and then they went on their way, being transported in mid-air from where they were to where they went. End of story for them. They had no idea that footage of their child’s federal massage had become a Twitter sensation. So then the next question becomes, if the family didn’t have a problem with it, and they weren’t taking cupcake snaps of their off spring getting digitally manipulated by the deft fingers of justice, then why the fuck is it any one else’s business?

Reverend @JacobJester wants YOUR plane to be filled with exploding babies!
Reverend @JacobJester wants YOUR plane to be filled with exploding babies!

The TSA, whom everyone seems to have no problem beating up for trying to do what they’re tasked to do in what may largely be a system of mostly symbolic gestures but is still designed to protect people as best they can, said that while children are not excluded from security screenings, that they are reviewing ways to improve its procedures for “low-risk populations.” But Reverend Your Business is My Business told the Kansas City Star that “An 8-month-old doesn’t pose a threat to airplane or national security. I am grateful for TSA’s willingness and desire to protect, but I believe in this instance that was extreme,”

But I for one couldn’t disagree with Acting Home Land Security Chief Jester more on this point. Any parent will tell you that a small child is just one squirming bag of biological explosions, barely contained by thin layers of disposable absorbent pull ups. Most home-made explosives use bags of fertilizer, essentially “doodies”. You stuff a fuse up the pooper of one of these things, wire it up just right, you’ve got a craptastrophe on your hands. And then where will your moral authority be Reverend? Plummeting 40,000 feet in a Pampers packed ball of smelly flames! That’s where!

So I say keep feelin’ up those babies air port security personnel. I’ll not fly better knowing that the skies are being protected from the clear and present, imminent threat, of air traffic’s new public enemy number one: exploding babies!

Van Full of Easter Candy

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Easter is traditionally celebrated for two things:

a) the brutal shit kicking of Jesus Horatio Christ, culminating in his being affixed to a tree and propped up in Rome’s front yard like a pink flamingo that’s been kicked in the face for an hour. You know, for you and your stupid sins.


2) delicious seasonal candies.

We here at Van Full of Candy, naturally, spend a good portion of our day talking about the former. But we’re not monsters, after all, “Candy” is either 1/3 or 1/4 of our name, depending upon whether or not you personally count the “of”. So it would stand to reason that we at VFoC love candy at least as much as commemorating your personal lord and savior’s unholy beat down.

So with that in mind, Van Full of Candy will be transformed for this weekend into the Van Full of Easter Candy, and present to you a showdown of delicious and not so delicious treats that mangy Spring Rabbit might crap into your pastel hued Jesus basket!

The orange colored dye is good for your sight

Whitman’s Marshmallow Carrot

Easter just keeps falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. As time continues on and the real reason for Easter keeps getting pushed further and further away, we’ll have more time to ignore the brutal crucifixion of Jesus, and focus on the happy happy fun time Easter bunny and all that comes along with him. Like eggs, and little pink & yellow birdies, and jellybeans, and now … carrots? Are we just completely running out of rabbit associated candied paraphernalia to avert our eyes from the grandeur of Christ’s suffering? Oh wait, they’re made out of marshmallow? Ok then never mind, these are cool.

– versus –

Chock full of escential vita-yums!
Chock full of essential vita-yums!

Reese’s Pieces Carrot

It’s Reese’s Pieces, already, a win. Only the orange ones of course, because if they had the yellow and brown ones it would look like Maze, and this isn’t Thanksgiving, so get back to being a conveniently forgotten national shame, “Native Americans”. And all of these orange tasties are all wrapped up in a pointy baggy with green edges. It’s a peanut butter carrot. If “real” carrots tasted like this, I would shit rabbits. But they don’t, so I’m legally blind. Fortunately I just have to follow the orange, peanut butter scented blur to my daily allotment of beta caroyum!

Don't eat too many, we're going to McDonald's for dinner

Weight Watchers Chocolate Mousse Eggs

Nothing says “sorry kids, we’re horrible parents and fed you to obesity” more than getting one of these super yummy Weight Watchers mousse eggs in your basket, and it’s ONLY 1 POINT per egg!! So eat up kids!! I’m sure it tastes just like real chocolate like all the other kids in the neighborhood got, and I’m sure there won’t be any teasing when everybody is comparing what they got in their baskets. Thanks mom!

– versus –

They also sell individual eggs in a uranium shipping container.
They also sell individual eggs in a uranium shipping container.

Marshmallow Eggs by the Carton

Okay, I get what you’re doing here. A carton of eggs. Cute. By all rights, this should be a solid treat, the idea of chocolate covered marshmallow is a sound one. It’s chocolate, it’s marshmallow, there’s nothing not delicious there. But somehow they seem to find the worst of both elements, make them unreasonably small and store them in the worst possible way, selling these miniscule chalky marshmallowesque lumps slathered in a dry, crumbly chocolateish shell in a full sized styrofoam egg carton that could easily accommodate three times as much “candy” as it’s asked to foster. And I’ll give you six to one, in a decomposition race the marshmallow egg dances on the styrofoam’s grave.

God, Chocolate, Government ... The Easter Trifecta

Bunny Money

If you can find an Easter candy that embodies religion, government, chocolate and poor taste as much as this sweet little gem from the horrible people at Whitman’s does, then I’ll actually eat a piece of any Russell Stover “chocolate” of your choosing. My mouth just did that pre-throw up watering thing. “In God We Trust” takes a whole new meaning for the kids when they find this edible currency in their Easter basket. Not only do they get to associate the importance of the almighty dollar with a tummy ache, they also get taught that Jesus’ death symbol (the rabbit) is as important as a US President and tastes like sweet chocolate death.

– versus –

Please hear my prayers, for nummy treats.
Please hear my prayers, for nummy treats.

Palmer Hear My Prayer Double Crisp

Palmer is science’s answer to candy. While mostly relegated to dollar stores (I can only assume to protect the general populace from excessive delicious), a lot of Palmer candies do still make it out into the “retail” world. Their fudge cups are one of my personal year round favorites, and I love any sort of holiday shaped confections they churn out throughout the year. But you see, the thing I love most about Palmer candies is that they don’t bullshit you. They come right out and tell you that hey, we’re chocolate FLAVORED. They make no claims of being actual chocolate and I respect that. I don’t know what exactly it is that I’m eating, but it tastes like yum to me. And with these sinfully delicious crispy chocolate prayer hands the good people at Palmer sure know how to put the Christ back in Christ-Easter-mas. I’ll tell you what I’m praying for… MORE!

Happy Spring Rabbit Festival everybody, have a big ‘ol tummy ache for us.

Wednesdays Are: Messiahs Eat Free

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Science: most of the time it’s telling you how cute the thing threatening to eat the galaxy is, how it could travel through time if it could just discover the thing that would be able to travel through time, or telling our penises things they already get. But now, science has decided it’s its job to tell us when Jesus ate dinner.

And lo, he did befit it with transwarp drive, and it was good...
And lo, he did befit it with transwarp drive, and it was good...

I didn’t realize there was a controversy over when the last supper happened. But then, I know that there are entire message boards devoted to Star Trek ship registry databases and the in service lifespan of an Excelsior class starship. Some people take their favorite fiction genres very seriously. I just assumed that Easter fell on a Sunday, because we all had the day off and would have plenty of time to find any eggs that the kids didn’t discover so that the yard wouldn’t start smelling like a semi-pro fart competition by Wednesday afternoon. But naturally, as with just about anything pertaining to this two thousand year old Tolkien novel, even Jesus’ last sit down nosh is surrounded in controversy. And I’m not talking about the Da Vinci kind, this one doesn’t center around the painting (the original which, if I understand correctly, was painted on the back of the Declaration of Independence) but about, brace yourself, contradictions in the bible itself! I know!

So Paul, George and Ringo apparently said  in their respective chapters that the meal took place during Passover, while Davey Jones said it was before. And since it’s so damned important to know exactly when Jesus had his last bagel and lox, some damned Professor at Cambridge decided to figure it out with damned science. He will of course be damned as a heretic only to be forgiven a few centuries from now, because that’s how the church rolls.

"Did everyone get enough to eat? Luke, eat something, please, fer me."
"Did everyone get enough to eat? Luke, eat something, please, fer me."

I think the least important detail of the entire story of the Last Supper, is PROBABLY the day on which it took place. But apparently this contradiction of when they tucked into a nice brisket makes it hard to take the Gospels as… gospel. But in a book full of giants, talking snakes, eight hundred year old men and a guy on horseback, flying down from the sky wearing a stack of crowns, I think I can let a simple confusion on exactly what day Matt last passed the basket of knish to JC, go.

I, personally, wish Easter wasn’t a holiday. Not because I hate brightly colored egg searches or hollow garden critter shaped chocolate flavored treats. I wish Easter wasn’t a holiday, so that I could see the kind of insanity that would ensue if someone proposed to make it a national holiday, today. It would be magnificent! Imagine, in this day and age, trying to get a nationally observed holiday celebrating the execution of a major religious figure from a big book of Godly sword and sorcery. I guess it would be a lot like trying to get anything NOT Jesus related to be observed by anyone. Remember when Muslims wanted to build a place of worship on the same hemisphere as “Ground Zero”? Imagine them trying to get a dirty A-rab holiday recognized in God’s America!

Oh, how I wish I could see something like that. The parade of stupidity that would certainly bring out. The disputes and arguments, all of which would directly contradict which ever arguer’s book almost entirely. The world is so horrible, so many people are idiots enough on their own, why do we feel the need to spark up a holy book club bitch fit just to come up with some other reason to be dicks? But as much as Team Jesus whines and cries about people calling Christmas vacation “Winter Break” or Easter egg rolls “Spring Oblong Circle Tumbles”, imagine if anyone would dare to tell them that they couldn’t have a new holiday celebrating the ass kicking of a lifetime that their son of God took, as Mel Gibson so lovingly chronicled on film.

And you know, on a mostly unrelated note, it seems odd how much Mel hates the Jews when he made so much money with his movie about the most famous one… Oh well. Where was I? Oh right, Jesus got the shit kicked out of him… You know, for me…

Have a pastel egg. It’s what Jesus would have eaten.