What Would Jesus Hate?

Jesus. I got tired of dragging my pipe organs everywhere so I asked dad to get me an iPod. It’s become the hottest thing in heaven lately. Even Einstein, the biggest dork up here, was making fun of me for not having one.

Since dad told me “thou shalt not pirate Ace of Base”, I ended up downloading iTunes. Plus, if RIAA will sue dead people, I’m sure they will sue the sun of God, God himself, and even God’s grandma (even though there is no such being in existence) for even thinking about pirating music.

So I installed iTunes, which annoyingly made me install Quicktime (which I also hate, not to mention it sounds whoreish, like “Paris got chaffed from all the quicktime” ). My iPod is telling me, the sun of God mind you, that I can’t disconnect it while it just sits there not doing a damn thing. I am seriously getting ready to crack this thing with a rock and bestow my vengeance upon it like i’ve never bestowed vengeance upon any other small electronic device before. iHell is more like it.

One more thing, don’t believe the hype. iTunes is no better than ye olde record companies. The artist gets an average of 6 cents per dollar download. Read more.

Jesus. Anyone who’s been watching Headline News has seen this dad-awful commercial. It keeps repeating “Head On: Apply directly to the forehead” about a hundred times and shows a woman UHU’ing her forehead. Now - I’m no stranger to smearing waste on my forehead - I do it every ash Wednesday. But this is ridiculous.

Head on is just a stick of UHU paper glue. It’s meant to prep your forehead so you can stick a “world’s biggest moron” sticker to you head for having spent $6 dollars on a tube of snakeoil. Now they’re also advertising Active On for elbows and Freedhem hemroid cream for your a**. But you know where to stick the last one so they don’t actually need to pound it into your head a hundred times.

Plus the commercial never wants you about the dangers of overusing the product: (click to enlarge)

CNN is going to hell for airing this damned commercial so much! If you want the same the placebo effect, you might as well rub a Jesus figurine from the Dollar Store on your forehead. And you’ll only be out a dollar.

Glenn looking like Dieter in one of his headshots. Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance!

Jesus. I thought Nancy Grace was the only ambulatory bag of trash CNN could find in the Devry Journalism Program trash bin. Imagine a skinny Rush Limbaugh*, talking to you like you’re five (but more condescendingly), and yelling about the end of the world like his cue cards are being scribbled by a half-drunk homeless man. But even armageddon-prophesizing hobos don’t begin their rants with “I don’t think anybody in their right mind is going to say this out loud…” and spout off such ignorant and racist remarks.

Now, this isn’t very becoming of a savior, but I gotta say - I kind of want to chew this guy’s face off sometimes. Am I alone in this? Maybe I should have more tolerance for raving bigoted douchebags with syndicated prime time news shows. I guess if Hitler brought in the ratings, CNN wouldn’t mind giving him his own show just before the Hollywood gossip hour. What the hell happened to “news” on news channels?

*By the way, in case you missed Rush’s “bone voyage”, he was caught a little while ago sneaking boner pills from the Dominican Republic under his doctor’s name.

Jesus. I’m so sick and tired of hearing about “Mary sightings” in anything from a sandwich to a broken ass window to a drippy chocolate mess. For ME’s-sake, people, not everything that’s oddly misshapen or has been splattered somewhere is my mom. Hell, anything can look like my mom if you squint hard enough, even a soupy pile of wires. (By the way, I don’t see Roy M. calling up CNN.) How did I find this miracle? Do me a favor, go to Flickr.com and type in ANYTHING in “find a photo of” and see how many pictures you have to go through until you find the general outline of my mom in it (mine was the first photo for “mess” - 2 seconds). Then, call up Headline News, ask to talk to Robin Meade, and tell her that you want your story featured right after she’s done shamelessly flirting with the sports guy.

I once pooped something that looked like Moses. Looking back on it, I think I could have sold it on ebay for $25,000. But back then our ebay was called “the market” and I’m pretty sure I would have gotten arrested by the Romans if I was walking around town square trying to hock poo to stupid people.

Jesus. Ok, so I loved him in Top Gun even though I know they made him wear platform shoes so nobody would notice he was 5′ 2″. He was also pretty good in that one where he rides around in a cab with the guy from Booty Call. But ever since he joined that cult, he’s been going downhill. And now that he’s a daddy, he’s going even more googa-mental than Eminem (when he started whining about Haley in every song). Apparently they recently invited Posh and Becks to come behold the baby, but laid down some crazy ass rules like “don’t touch it or talk to it”. I remember when I was born, Joe was like “just don’t let your camel eat it, but other than that, whatever.” Hell, one of the wise men totally spilled some hot myrrh on me when he tripped over one of the sheep. Even though his gift was way lamer than gold, I let it go. Such is the way of Jesus.

Jesus. What’s with the fat man at JFK asking me to take my sandals off at the gate and frisking my robe like it’s some sort of creepy Government-Mandated Frotteurism Program? I mean nailclipping people to death hasn’t been done since back when I was a baby, my Dasani bottle won’t blow anything up, and old lady slippers can’t be thrown hard enough at the flight attendant to cause anything more than a few weird stares? Confiscating nail clippers, forbidding water and Starbucks on airplanes, and shoe inspections aren’t going to keep the air safe - prayers and accepting me into your heart are.

Jesus. Now I was pretty pissed off at Mel for throwing all that ketchup on me in The Passion. And he totally left out the good dance numbers. But now he goes and has a little too much of the bloof of me and belligerently yells some Hitleresque s#%! at a cop. Hey, I have a lot of friends who are jews, and only some of them run the media (which surprisingly covered this story 24 hours a day. hmm.) And jews are not responsible for ALL the wars in the world. Hello? Ever hear of The Crusades? By the way, Mel, I’m still waiting for that royalty check from the Passion. These spinnin rims Jesus has his eye on ain’t gonna buy themselves. You better pony up before you fall even more off your rocker.

Jesus. Showing “Titanic” as the onboard movie?!?!? No wonder your Martha-blessed sea monstrosity went on a fat people in sweat pants tossin’ spree! My Dad says that there’s nothin’ like 16-18 degrees of tilt to remind his children that He is not fond of fate tempting… or Leo.

Jesus. Granted, 99% of the “injuries” could have been treated with a dollop of “Stop Faking it Like a Little Girl, its Embarrassing” topical ointment (a product not yet available in Portugal, Brazil or Italy), but, not blessed was anyone who had a real injury and was left in the hands of these sideline witch doctors. I swear I saw one of them put leaches on a guy. Armed with advanced techniques like water soaking, hand rubbing and “magic spray” (shockingly and inappropriately applied to an Italian man’s rumpus during the USA match), these medieval medicine men had players longing for the dirt floor operating rooms of Guadalajara, Mexico. As for ye shameless fakers, be thy warned: nothing makes my smoting finger itchier than someone exceeding the “One Barrel Roll of Agony per Injury” rule.

Since when did it become cool to wear sandals made out of rubber? You never saw Steve Erwin or Ghandi donning a pear of neon waffle stompers. And one of them actually hunted crocs! In my day, we made sandals out of reeds, cowhide, and Elmer’s glue. And they chaffed like the Dickens. “Raw feet make good penance,” my dad always said. Did you know you can make your very own crocs? Find a tire, or take if off the nearest Hyundai, put it on the oven, throw in a few condoms and melt them until they looks somewhat like shoe, poke some holes in it with a skewer. Take it out, put it on your feet. Voila! Now you can walk down the street until I strike you with a lightning bolt for looking like a fashionless douchebag. Preach on, brother!