Losing My Flapdoodle

 

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I wrote the following after receiving a rejection. 

Then moi conceived a magnificent plan.

Here’s my ‘brilliant’ plan!!

I’ll write some stream of consciousness, totally woke prosepoemsmear and submit that to X submission opportunity! It will be lacking in actual grammar, structure and paternal literary merits! It will have no merit. None. Not a whiff of merit. I stayed highly aware of my own wokeness the entire time I typed that below. Did North Korea just flippin’ BOMB US?? Where is the vodka? 

If I consider ‘murica right now…I’ll start eating my bad hair. I won’t bother with a mustard chaser this time.

 

 

Flapdoodle sexbugs of Ganderv55

CarLISLE gives nothing and I rot like a dream as we rut in the leaves beneath the tree of his mother. She brings us old toast and new coffee her hair on fire from daddysexjuice and we smell her burning but she pours us coffee and scolds us about jesus who is meek and mild and full of corn. mother moother you are old news and mother directs us like traffic cones into the river of my lovers who slap me with morality. i screamed could not find my way but my carLISLE advised me to take three aspirin and stuff them in my sexbug and oooooh i discovered the sands of my own breasts and i wept because i am not awake.

we went on the sidewalk found a cup and a dead idea, took both back in our backpack and put them in a cage because it’s all we know of high heels. dream on screamed moother and we dreamed on

until father gave us gum that smelled like cinnamon whores at low tide which created ghosts in our intestines that we farted out as ironic statements of purpose for ivy schools that never considered us contenders. I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and nobody told me I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and I wondered why no one told me because i posted the bread pictures and everyone hit the yes button and told me yes yes yes and squirted yes juice into my burning eyes. I tire to be brilliant but the diamonds turn to rodents in my kneecaps where slime shops for canned meat and mark down cancer drugs. WHY WON’T U SLAP MEE mmmooother asked as she sliced smelly lettuce for the eternal meal

and sister, my sister is dead yet sits on my right hand better than god or allah because she gives me pink gummy bears for my sexbug slit and doesn’t need them back to glue in her scrapbook where she once glued a live frog that begged her to traditional marry it and she told it no, it wasn’t fresh and that she wanted a turtle to lay eggs in her vast pulsing worldwomb. My sister puts her hair out to be sliced and my mother slices it slices and my sister marries the frog and glues herself in the scrapbook that’s how she died and yet how she lives because i can cut her shape from the pages and stick them to my eyes so she stares at me as i paddle over the rainbutt and into the dirk

but CarLISLE won’t say. Theres nothing there and I MADE HIM UP because father asked me to and we all obey we all obey

except the cat but the cat lives on some other plane thats not here at all poor cat.

77 oh 5 hump my leg like naughty poodles of elves left in the jupitor rain and all the numbers confuse me with yearning

so i dig up the cat and the cat doesnt scratch me because mooother

cut off its soul and used it for a suncatcher but the sun stays captured in my father who hangs strips of his love on the wall like narrow rewards won at turkey shoots.

run brother run

u hav no bro says car and i curl up and shud at it all but the Ganderv55 invasive me so i sigh thru the orgi and use vanilla soap and my cookie smell sells stocks so great men can shit with ease

 

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Molly enjoying a snooze

 

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DRAGONS FOR HIRE

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I knew taking all this pics in Shenyang, China would eventually be useful for something! Dragon!

 

Now, I received a rejection for, gulp, five poems. From a place that claims it’s a feminist haven for all things feminist. That might just be me adding zest to a dry story. M’kay. Normally, I react to rejections with tears, sobbing, why me o God screamings and a cross-country search for that perfect goat to sacrifice to Satan so I can cross that little threshold from unknown, obscure, nobody reads her shit writer to WRITER WHO DOESN’T GET THE FORM REJECTION LETTERS GOD FUCKING DAMN IT ALL TO HELL AND BACK ###$$$$$%^%^^^^^77&&*^%$&.

And then. I calm down about five minutes after that, ‘get over it’ and then cross that submission off in my book o’submissions. I keep a log of what I sent where because…I can’t recall why at this point, other than it seemed important to see all the rejections gathered in one place with the one or two YES THEY PICKED ME YES entries. I’m not a bookkeeper of any kind. I can screw up filling out forms faster than a jack rabbit on a date. Ha ha, shout out to Christmas Story.

“They” are doing a LIVE VERSION of this…with brand new actors. I. Wah. Why?? WHY HAS GOD DESERTED THE ENTIRE PLANET? Why would anyone think this was a good idea?? Just make a new Christmas movie! Hallmark does. Sure, their movies all seem like the same movie, but Hallmark is too smart to take on actual Christmas icons that should never ever be tampered with. That goes for that Jim Carrey travesty of the Grinch, too. WTF?? My eyeballs have never recovered. Hallmark, now…I’ll give them props for not milking the Christmas Story goat. [That was for you, Satan]

Yes, I am watching the Hallmark sugar-heavy fare. Shut up. You are, too. It’s like downing those Peep things. It’s the same thing. I don’t have to explain that, do I? You don’t even have to chew. Hallmark Christmas movies are like Peeps– no chewing involved. I should work in advertising. Go me!

Also–that super-feminist site found my stuff not feminist enough? What the…? I’m going to start writing characters that are…well, some vague threat about labeling my characters in the newest fashions and then actually writing about nice virgingals getting with shiny werewolves. Who brood. With nice hair. They brood and have nice hair. The girl/s fall down a lot and don’t think they’re pretty until the shiny werewolf fella…

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Because that shit sells. Yeah. Because it’s a familiar tale and the reading public really seems to like familiar tales, no matter what bullshit they quiver out about wanting something ‘original’. Bwhaha ha ha!!! As if!!

Where was I before I jumped into a lake of utter self-loathing full of sarcastic catfish?

Novel. Ah. My novel is nearly finished for that November challenge thingie. I have about two more chapters, I reckon. I have NO IDEA WHAT THE ENDING IS and my inner lit professors tut at me and make those faces lit profs make. You know that face. That one.

It’s roughly forty thou words.

Which is good! I, of course, have let it ‘rest’ a couple days. I started a short story called the Antifa are Due on Maple Street, which is, yes, a shout sent toward the Twilight Zone zone. If you have no idea what I mean, then you probably need to stop being in a feminist mist all the time and watch a television show older than 2017. It’s a famous ep of a famous ole show– the Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It echoes very well the paranoia and fear of the ‘other’ that so infected American society so long ago. It’s just so quaint now!

Yes, I’m done being a sarcastic catfish. Now…catfish has some sort of meaning, too. I’m not that kind of catfish. I mean an actual catfish swimming around near the bottom of a murky river being snarky. Rather like Spongebob if written as a George Costanza or a Chandler Bing. [I’ll be there for yo–ooo—uuu….!]

I should delve into the political shitshow that has become ‘murica. I just start writing curse words. I see where people are ‘jokingly’ looking into building guillotines. You know, so the American peasants can chop off the aristocratic DC heads. We’re waiting for that whole checks and balances stuff to save us from Rapey McPussyhands and company. Yeah, except…those in power have to respect and actually follow those checks and balances for those to work effectively. So far, we’ve [also known as The Resistance] have a few marches and posted some memes. I think America, to get America back, is gonna have to take it to the next step.

Dragons.

We’re gonna have to get some dragons.

We’re also gonna have to overhaul poor ole Jesus. Maybe even invent a new, improved savior of America. Jesus is pretty malleable when it comes to makeovers, sure. But. I think we Americans can invent some sort of truly American Jesus that will unite us all when we have to band together to go after those dragons we foolishly brought in to rid us of some other stuff.

Jesus fighting dragons…that is so my next BIG WRITING PROJECT. Maybe in between the Hallmark fare and the hatewatching of the live Christmas Cash Cow AKA Christmas Story…I’ll begin an epic tale of Jesus versus dragons. Maybe a children’s story. A cute, non-threatening Jesus and cute, big-eyed, cuddly, non-threatening baby dragons that decide to not fight and have cookies instead in a show of fellowship, diversity, love and some other virtues that seem popular right now. Popular but not practiced.

 

 

 

DOG DAYS AND HAZE

 

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Molly is not impressed with anything I write, sadly. 

Before I go any further…my play, Lady Judas, was a finalist for New Light Theatre Project–

The 2017-2018 finalists include:

Like Jelly by Jeana Scotti

Lady Judas by Ann Wuehler

American Tradition by Ray Yamanouchi

 http://www.newlighttheaterproject.com/new-light-new-voices

Onward!!!!

Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…

I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.

I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.

I’ve also been writing while Oregon/Idaho/Washington State/Cali burns. The haze, baby, the haze. The sun peeked out today!

It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.

What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?

Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???

Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.

I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.

Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!

Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice cooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]

I shall sludge ahead through the sludge, oh yes.

September is just around this hazy bend.

My book comes out.

THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD.

GO VOTE ON A COVER!!!!

http://www.kensingtongorepublishing.com/house-on-clark-boulevard-cover/4593976991

It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]

Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.

 

Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!

http://www.one-act-plays.com/dramas/free_range_chickens.html

 

UNICORNS! RAINBOWS! AUGUST!

 

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from Pinterest.

PART ONE: IN WHICH I DECIDE TO TAKE ON UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS

It’s hot. It’s smoky. There’s wildfires burning merrily away. Merrily for the fire, not so much for the men and women fighting said merry wildfire/s. Clownstick von Pumpkincunt lied about the Boy Scouts calling It to tell It what a goodly, bigly speech It gave to the Boy Scouts. Woot woot!

Um, Pumpkincunt and Racist Elfboy [Sessions] now say it’s white folks who are the real victim of discrimination. They are diverting money from actual programs set up to fight racism and segregation and etc, etc…to investigate the real victims of America’s racist climes–WHITE FOLKS! Oh my! I wish I had made that up; I’d win some goddamn writing prizes, for sure, for sure. Or maybe not. I’d have to use a different name, maybe Sally Houswifelady. Or Jellytits McFly.

I mentioned, casually and off the cuff, that I should write a happy post about…wait for it…wait….wait for it…

Unicorns and rainbows. Mostly because my last few posts have been in the Debbie Downer column. Politics. Depression. Writing about writing. Ugh! Gross me out the door already, right?

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from Wired. Medieval fun with unicorns and virgins. 

PART TWO: ECLIPSE, NEW MONTH, NOT YET TO THE UNICORN OR RAINBOW GOOD BITS

And it’s a new month.

A brand spanking new month. Where anything can happen. Like an eclipse. I have no actual interest in the moon eating the sun — science is a liberal plot to get free government cheese and free cell phones for illegal pretty-girl dismemberment teams. The eclipse– is that even an ENGLISH WORD???— is a sign that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to get gay married, that women should become livestock and that tax cuts for the wealthiest is one of the Beatitudes.

I’m kidding.

Apparently, if you say ‘just kidding’ after whatever batshit statement you make…it absolves you of all blame and responsibility for whatever happens/doesn’t happen. Yay!

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from Pinterest. Medieval Bestiary

PART THREE: BIG PHALLIC HORNED VIRGIN FINDERS

Unicorns. Mostly what I know about them is that they’re virgin-finders. A white horse with a big phallic ‘horn’ sticking out of its forehead goes about finding pure gals…yeah, can you say fragile male fanfiction about their own genitals? Weee.

I remember a tale about how to capture a unicorn– you find a virgin [good luck with that, eh, boys??] female and the unicorn will find her and put its head in her lap. Um. I guess if the girl is not a virgin, you find that out, too, when no unicorn shows up. A version of Medieval slut shaming, weeeee. Though, they didn’t have social media back then to slut shame, they had other methods. Like oh, burning them alive for witchcraft, woot woot, for one. We all know witches are sluts and should be burned alive, that’s just a given.

And unicorns are pretty! Big, pretty, white or golden [I’ve seen unicorns featured in other colors, with lion tails, etc.] horse-like creatures that have magical virgin-finding powers, among other gifts. What girl, with some mild or actual artistic talent, has not drawn herself an entire portfolio of unicorns? Are there any tales of evil unicorns? Mm…

 

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from Genius.

PART FOUR: GOD VERSUS EVERYONE ELSE OR THE HAPPY RAINBOW

Rainbows! God’s promise, in the Old Testies, to NOT KILL NEARLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET BECAUSE THEY WERE ICKY. Sinning. Whatever.

It’s the symbol of God saying, hey, I won’t destroy my own creation anymore but hey, I’m still gonna keep score, you fucks. That’s my own interpretation of those dusty verses, anyway. Ahem.

The rainbow is also the symbol of Gay Pride. We’re queer, we’re here! Love trumps hate! Love wins! Love love love! All of that celebration, parading and legislation to make ‘those’ into actual ‘citizens’. Which sets the Christian Right’s teeth on edge; not only on edge but shatters those teeth. [And to be fair…no, no, I don’t have to be fair. I don’t have to say Not All Christians blurgh blag bluk. They go low, I give them wedgies.]

That rainbow flag waving about versus some dusty verses in the Old Testies…that’s just good old-fashioned fun right there. If you’re sitting on the sidelines with no dog in this here hunt, that is.  [That’s an American idiom– no dog in this hunt. I understand it instantly, but I am from an actual hunting/farming/hillbilly/poor folks background.]

The rainbow is also some scientific thingie

to do with weather…or something.

But hey, let’s not bring anything so liberal elitist social justice warrior feminazi victimize the white folks into this here discussion on how the poor rainbow has been used to take down Jesus. Amen.

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from the Vanishing Tattoo. 

PART FIVE: CONCLUSIONS, MEANDERINGS AND GENERAL SMARTASS-NESS

Purity and visible evidence that God won’t take us out again for being sinners. Unicorns and rainbows. Cute fantasy figure and using the visible spectrum of colors to fight for inclusion of LGBTQ folks in all walks of life. An equine symbol of purity [sorry, gals, not even Mother Teresa can out-pure a unicorn. Even the Virgin Mary looks like a grubby pole dancer next to a one-horned horse.] and a symbol of God’s divine decree that even if we’re down here lining up puppies to debauch, God won’t send a heavy rain.

God didn’t say anything about earthquakes or other natural disasters. As people, to this day, equate a local/not local earthquake or some other fun Mother Nature-ish event, with some judgment they just know is being delivered on the heads of the local/global sinners. God punishes everyone they hate —It’s just great that God hates everyone I hate, ain’t it??– with a tornado.

It’s very convenient, random punishment by random earthquake or other disaster natural or otherwise, and such conclusions of divine justice involve no actual work or use of brain tissue. Earthquake equals suffering and death for sinners. And a few innocent bystanders who probably deserved it.

Yeah. I once had a carload of elderly ladies try to tell me that earthquake in Fukushima, Japan was God’s judgment on Japan for being atheists. My my my. We humans never seem to get away from branding all happenings, good or horrible or in between, with some sort of divine agency. Yes, I came to that conclusion all on my own…I amz smartie.

 

Back to the divine symbol of God’s forgiveness--I forgive you motherfuckers for being shitbirds, even though I designed you, but I ain’t taking any responsibility for how you fuckwads turned out, no way, no how! Have a goddamn rainbow, you sunsabitches!

So, God is reduced to striking small areas along fault zones or in tornado alley or in the path of hurricanes or…yeah, instead of punishing us all at once and just starting over with new models.

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Shenyang, China. Note the tequila there, kiddies? 

PART SIX: TEQUILA!

Why didn’t God just wipe out Noah and company, too, and start over? Other mythologies have just this– where the gods and goddesses had to start over and over and over again with humanity. So why didn’t the God in the Old Testies just do that with the obviously fatally flawed shits it created from dirt and probably a truly gargantuan cosmic-wide tequila bender? Yes, God created tequila before he created the sun. I know it, you know it, let’s get over it together, fellow babies.

Having been the victim of that truly evil liquid myself, I can well sympathize with God cataclysmically messing up humanity and forming them into such imperfect little shitwads of hatred, nastiness and so forth. Who hasn’t done stupid things while buzzed on tequila?? Hands? Hands? Yeah, okay then!!

Am I actually blaming the faults of humanity on God having one too many shots of demon juice AKA tequila? Yes. Yes, I am.

Oh that note!! August, it promises to be a super-hot crap-smeared slide into madness and further obscurity for yours truly. Hoooray!! If I start low, all I can go is high, right? Shhh. I think I hear a unicorn…nope, just my hopes and dreams being stomped to death by an angry horse with a plastic horn duct taped to its face.

 

I JUST. YEAH. UH.

 

 

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PART ONE:JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE USA, FOLKS

So, on the very date, back in 1948, Truman integrated US military forces…45 declares, via some fucking Tweets, that transgender folks can no longer serve in any capacity in the military.

Now, I just. Yeah. Uh.

Granted, there are some MAJOR SCANDALS AND TREASONOUS CRAP going on right now involving the Orange Clownstick of Fuckistan. Russia, for one, interfering in our election.

Allegedly, a’course. Pootie denies he allowed an army of trolls loose on our gullible ‘murikkans and Pootie never lies or kills journalists. Pootie also never headed the KGB. Nope! Pootie-Putin, sorry if I confused anyone.

Mueller and that onrushing crush of lawyers, testifying about who met with whom and if they spoke with a Russian accent, blah blah blah. Sessions now being told to stay put by the very people who told him to get his ass back to the antebellum South or wherever he actually slithered from. The Racist Elfboy is publicly ‘feudin’ with Clownstick, which is…probably another distraction. I’m losing track of which distraction I’m supposed to ignore and which distraction I need to like/hate on FB, or retweet/click that heart thing over on Twitter.

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PART TWO: FROM A DISTANCE

Jesus in a Toyota Corolla, this would be such an entertaining shitshow if viewed from the comfort/nice coffee house or friendly local bar/pub/place where they serve adult beverages… of a stable, modern country not trying to turn back time. Watching from a safe nice distance as some laughably now-awful country [USA! USA!] tries to hide emerging acts of treason beneath blatantly obvious LOOK OVER HERE FUCKERS tactics. An actual, in your face, public attempt at setting up a dictatorship. In the land of democracy, apple pie and some other ‘murican stuff. [USA! USA!]

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PART THREE: MEMES, MEMES EVERYWHERE

People have invoked the Handmaid’s Tale, Orwell’s 1984, uh…some other grim, humorless takes on what happens when it’s a very one-sided government. Just look at the memes, my dears! MEMES ARE EVERYWHERE.

With quotes on them! Dire, sour, clinical quotes lifted from dire, sour literature and reduced down for quick, indignant consumption. You can look them up yourself, of course. Listing them here will just bloat my already bloated ranty rant.

[Some are very accurate, so don’t get your long johns or pettipants in a roar, dears. See what I did there?] Oh– women, I read, in dealing with their Monthly Curse, way back when in olden times, the Victorian Age, for instance, might have just bled into their clothes. Yeah. We’ve come a long way, baby! Where was I?? Oh, memes and such and indignant quote mining.

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PART FOUR: HISTORY? TURN BACK TIME? 

As if…we’ve all failed history or never even heard of history. Gee, what happens when a single party rules an entire country, kids? What happens when that single party set of control freaks starts stripping rights from all others not in their special He-man Woman-Hater’s group? What happens when…??? Anyone? Anyone? Do I really have to write the names of those who took batcrap crazy to new and murder large swathes of people heights? Is your Google broken? Or your fucking brain?

Do I really have to write that shit gets bad, fast? Really?

Oh it can’t happen in America! We have checks and balances! Someone else, not me, will put a stop to that. I’m woke!

BWHAHA HA HA HA HA.

That’s my evil laughter, by the way. I produce it in my lower chest voice. Some people do that evil laughter with the M sound starting them off down the road of twirly mustache, maiden tied to train tracks evilness.

 

Nope. I’ll focus on Clownstick and the current GOP agenda to turn back time to some mystical man-only world where women existed to serve sammiches and make babies for wars.

Where there were no gay folks or transgender peeps or minorities OF ANY KIND trying to get all uppity. Where, yep, people knew their places. And they were happy in those places!

There were no single moms. Or women over thirty. No sluts or whores trying to get their lifestyle legitimized. Marches for rights were nice and sweet and that nice Dr. King never got in trouble. Schools didn’t teach that bad science stuff like evolution or that your gender is whatever you decide it is that day. People understood their place! Sob!! [Flag waves in the gentle breeze as Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA throbs from the speakers and orgasms in the ears of all red-blooded patriotic sorts before they settle in to watch an evening of bull riding, tractor pulling and Jeff Dunham’s puppets repeating easy to digest glurbs of comical gems.]

Hey, I’ve written something like the above before…that Glorious ‘murican Past where men ruled the roost and everyone else knew to suck it up and just let those manly men get on with it. Huh. Mm. My CD must b skipping today. My record has a scratch. Tee hee.

PART FIVE: POST-RACIST AMERICA ANY DAY NOW, DARLINGS AND DEARIES!

Yeah. I keep hearing this is the last gasp of that generation of overprivileged racist sexist knuckle-dragging sadsacks. Um. You sure about that, dears? Cause boy oh boy, is that same sentiment– whites only, shut up and go away the rest of you– quite strong in the younger set. That doesn’t dissipate.  It goes underground and hibernates and waits for White Spring. [I’m blurbing about America’s history of blatant racism and then the poorly not hidden really at all attempts to include those ‘others’ into the American fold.] That prejudice and hatred, it hangs on, like mold. Like ingrained, never gonna Lysol that crap away mold. That ‘nationalism’ goes into burrows and lairs,  then surges up when it gets the least itty bitty little chance, hello. History, anyone? Ugh. That’s right, history is a liberal plot to make us all turn into social justice wariors who hate Jesus and coal miners.

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PART SIX: CLOWNSTICK VON PUMPKINCUNT

I’m looking at the reason Clownstick Von Pumpkincunt gives for banning transgender folks from serving in the US military. Vague medical twistings about how you can’t be transitioning and fire weapons or something. That transgender folks cause morale problems and disciplinary risks. That people just join the armed forces to get the military to pay for ‘the operation’. Which, apparently, will and does cost the military BAZILLIONS OF BUCKS. Ugh? I think every vague prejudice against transgender anyone was trotted out in that series of tweets. And people are nodding along to it, going, yeah, we need to…ugh. If people can be kept out for a skin mole, then sure, yeah, we should totally, like, ban all those people from serving. Cause, MAGA. LOL.

 

There are already transgender folks serving, RIGHT NOW, in the military, in all capacities. So. That came up, too. What about those serving honorably and what will happen to them now? Do they lose all their benefits and rank and…? Will they be discharged and…? Does this blanket ban get a vote in Congress??

I get it, Pumpkincunt is super-jealous of Obama, who made it okay for transgender folks to serve openly in the military. So, Pumpkincunt and probably Pence the Secret Masturbating Wunderkind Who Gets Off to Tiny Animals Being Stomped to Death by Jesus, went after an actual step forward in declaring All Lives Matter. By stating, no, no, your life and your right to serve your country does not matter because I hate Obama who is more bigly popular than me and I should get all the love and my crowd size is super-huge and I grabbed pussy and she liked it! It’s just locker room talk, boy scouts. And did I tell ya about that orgy my friend had with young teenage girls that the animals we let in, disguised as humans, want to rip apart? Settle in, boy scouts! Settle in!

I feel like I need a shower today. I just had one, I feel the constant filthy tides in ‘murica right now lapping at my hairy calves and I just want to…scrape my fingernails across my skin until the dirt comes off. Even if I start bleeding. Which is gross, right, gentlemen? Girls, blood, eh, gross me out the door!

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PART SEVEN: NEARING THE END, MY FRIEND. 

So, to end this weird, wandering diatribe– what the actual fuck is happening to my country? I keep asking that. I was never afraid and angry all the time under the Bushes or even Reagan. That’s right, I remember Papa Raygunz and how scared we all were that batshit crazy grinner was gonna start a nuclear fuckwar with…yeah, the USSR. He’d fall asleep with a mouthful of jelly beans and push THE BUTTON. The Day After, anyone remember that TV movie? Red Dawn? I’m sure there were other macho Hollywood movies about what would happen if THEY invaded US and we HAD TO FIGHT BACK.

But I never actually believed ole Batshit Crazy Raygunz would, um, destroy us all and talk about his dick size while he did so. You know he was hung like an elephant. [Ha ha, feeble GOP shoutout. Ha ha…sigh.] Oh crap, now I have a mind movie playing Nancy-Just Say No-Reagan playing hide the sausage with Mr. Teflon. [He was called the Teflon President as nothing stuck to him. Everyone around him got charged, indicted, smeared in public, but he escaped, more or less, all that fun. Iran-Contra, etc. Yep.]

I never thought Bush Daddy or Bush Junior would actually destroy us while waving a flag and talking about their crowd sizes and why Hilary Clinton needs to be investigated for Pizzagate. [Before Pizzagate had been invented by Alex Jones, of course. I was trying to tie the Bushes to Pumpkincunt for a slight comedic hyperbole effect. Okay!] I thought, and still do, they were not the best presidents but that they actually did give a care, at times, for others not in their pockets. They had manners and a basic public dignity to them. [Am I putting on some rose-colored glasses here because the present fuckstick shitting itself in public in the White House is just such a clusterfuck? I’m going with yes.]

Stripping entire groups of this, that, the other…is not the way to govern. It’s never been the way to govern. Do I really have to write that down? Going after a tiny minority group– less than or about 1% of the population– and accusing that group of bloating the military costs…um. Yeah. I. Well. Um. Fuck. It’s rather like LBJ signing the Civil Rights Act and then Nixon coming along and un-signing it. Something like that. Yeah, makes me wish, all over again, that I could watch this from a foreign shore and laugh my ass off at those Krazy Amerikkkans ripping their country to shreds out of pettiness, jealousy, ignorance, masculine vapors and every day common ole spite. All righty, what next in the ‘Distract Those Motherfuckers So We Get Away With This’ collection of tweets? I know!! Women don’t need to vote. It also raises the costs in our military [according to Jesus-Stroking Pence and the ICR institute] and they should be home taking care of all the kids they’re not allowed to abort because of ‘safety’ concerns [TRAP laws, bwha ha ha ha].

Make America Manly Again. Woot Woot.

 

“Annual military spending on Viagra: $41.6 million Cialis: $22.8 million Trans medical care: $8.4 million… ”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2017/07/26/the-military-spends-five-times-as-much-on-viagra-as-it-would-on-transgender-troops-medical-care/?utm_term=.8868d56525b5

 

 

 

 

 

A Taste of Beastface Bay: INTERVIEW WITH FURBO D’FURR

 

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from Wiki

As July is coming to a rapid, hot as hell close, I thought, hey, why not one of the Beastface Bay tales to tide my lovely readers over until I snorgle out some all-over-the-place political rant on bagel dogs, slipper socks and houseplants, culminating in a last paragraph that attempts to promote something or other…ahem.

The following is not, I repeat, not an actual interview with a giant squid. I feel in these current climes of EVERYTHING IS FAKE NEWS ONLY I HAVE THE TRUTH WAH that I truly do need to state that, no, I did not, somehow, obtain an interview with a giant ex-pet of one Jesus. H. Christ. [H stands for Horsefly. I kid. I kid!] It’s just a fun little piece I wrote for this project I started a couple months ago. It’s a mixture of Faulkner, Twain, Euripides, Proust, and Stephanie Meyer. With a pinch of Louis L’Amour and a snip of V.C Andrews and a suggestion of Dickens. Also, some Thurber, and those people who write Positive Slogans for a living. Those people. Okay. I’ve hemmed and hawed enough. Here ya go!!

 

 

INTERVIEW WITH FURBO D’FURR

The following is taken from an interview with the author of Truth’s Rainbow. I have omitted the interview formatting, and if you like, you can read this in its novel-length entirety in the Obscure Writer’s Annual Review, back issue VII. “Furbo” is a squid, and one of the ex-pets of Jesus. She learned to talk but hid it, instead choosing to shout out ‘vengeance’ with the other squids. Bess, name protected to protect her from detection and lawsuits and smitings, dictated her story to a sympathetic aquarium worker, who then turned that into a novela, which, unfortunately, has not been selling that well. This squid prefers Bess to Furbo. She is also planning a graphic novel about zombie vampire squids who have to defend their underwater castle from attacking shape-changing whales. I have high hopes this new venture will take off. Having read the first few chapters, it looks like a blockbuster winner of epic proportions.

Jesus grew tired of us. That’s why Henny escaped and wreaked havoc there in Beastface Bay. If Jesus had cared at all, still, for us, Henny wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

After all, we lived in giant, all-comforts-provided pools. We had everything we could want. The best sea water, the best food, the best squid toys, like giant shells, floating kelp bundles and sailors to drown. They were not real sailors; they were animated by Jesus to fight us. Rather like a youngling’s toy, if you put those, um, batteries in it and it moves and acts real, something like that. Jesus, like so many, just grew weary of caring for pets. We’re a lot of work, we take up a lot of space, we’re constantly breaking things. That is the nature of pets. He tried to teach us all to talk, but only I learned. At least, I think it’s just me that picked up learning more than one word to parrot back. Sometimes I think all the others are disguising that they, too, can talk. It’s a sort of defense mechanism. If we’re perceived as stupid, no one much expects much from us. Also, we know quite a bit about Jesus and heaven and all that. Which is rather dangerous. No one would want to believe in Jesus anymore. As he’s rather awful and petty and small-minded. It might just be because he’s rather old and has lived too many years watching all of us. I mean, all who are in his jurisdiction.

Heaven? Oh that. Well, if everyone knew about it, they’d go elsewhere for service.

Well, it’s boring, for one. An eternity spent twiddling your tentacles. Well, thumbs or paws or whatever you possess at the end of your extremities. There’s nothing to do. You can walk around and look at the gardens, but you can’t work in those gardens or even go into them to enjoy them. You can look but you can’t touch, yes, exactly! Oh there’s the mansion of Jesus, but again, he doesn’t like to share his stuff. Or let anyone near his stuff. Since you’re dead, you don’t really need a house or even a bed; you won’t get a house or anything. You just wander about on the paths. Trying not to anger Jesus. There’s lots of signs put up, telling you what not to do or what you can do. Mostly you’ll just sit in the little designated areas and stare at the gardens you can’t enter for fear you’ll ruin them. Jesus has them all just as he wants them; he has no wish to garden further.

Jesus does not think of others, despite the propaganda. Sorry, the writings about him. He rolls his eyes at those writings, a lot, but does nothing to edit them. They serve their purpose, he gets praised, and he gets traffic past the Gate. Oh, that’s the name of the point of no return. Once you pass by the Gate, you can’t go back again. There’s like a force field there. A barrier. Many have tried, once they find out how boring and tedious heaven is. That you only get porridge to eat and tap water to drink. Porridge without cream, sugar, honey, berries, bananas, salt, boiled eggs; nothing is added to that porridge because Jesus likes plain porridge and so, apparently, does the rest of everyone in heaven. If Jesus likes something, everyone likes it. If Jesus hates something, then everyone hates it. He has no concept that others think or do differently than he does. Of course, he is an eternal deity and they are rare, few and far between.

Well, yes, you do eat in heaven. You might not sleep but you do need to eat. Nobody ever asked Jesus about that, as he’s a bit prickly. Or they did and he sent them away. He doesn’t like questions. He likes praise or just silence so he can talk.

Yes, there are other deities out there, to get back to that; they’re busy amusing themselves or napping to pass the time. They’ve worked out the boundaries out there and once in a while they all get together to have something like a party. A reunion? Ah, yes, yes, a reunion. They brag to each other, they talk about how hard it is to be a deity in today’s modern world, they stage contests like who can stand on one leg the longest. That is, if that deity has legs of some kind. Some don’t.

So yes, Jesus took us all in. We’re all from the same batch of eggs. I guess that does make us all brothers and sisters. Jesus had us all neutered, so none of that matters. He’s a responsible ex-pet owner. I’ll give him that. Oh it was painless. We were all put to sleep for a bit and woke mostly totally uninterested in all that reproductive business. Totally fine with me. It’s not like we need more monstrously big scarlet squids in the world or out of it. We’re monsters. Look at me! I’m a gigantic scary mess. Learning to talk brought a certain self-awareness, yes. Yes, I think that’s accurate. I’m very aware when others look at me and make faces and scream and then throw things like harpoons and bullets and missiles. It’s not a nice feeling when you’re so feared and hated on sight. It’s just not nice at all.

So, on the day Henny escaped, we all watched. Henny surged over the top of his tank and then pulled himself toward the Gate. Now, our tanks used to be right by the Gate. Henny and the others continued to feel, well, amorous, even though they couldn’t make any more little squids, so to speak. I found that I did not. But I also think the other squids were horrifically bored and it was something to do. I was busy teaching myself to talk and think, so I didn’t have to fall back on, um, other activities. A teacher worked with me, by the name of Carla Fay. She was quite patient and it passed the time for her, as well. Jesus, to my knowledge, didn’t know about Carla Fay coming to see me. Or if he did, he found nothing wrong in it or Carla Fay would have found herself in quite another place.

Oh yes, there is a hell. Jesus dug a pit and lined it with pulsing slug skin and lined the floor with dust bunnies. Always moving dust bunnies so that anyone sent there couldn’t sit down or find any rest but had to keep moving about, in the dark, trying not to touch the wall or stand for too long on any given dust bunny, as they tend to bite if stood on too long. Jesus sends those there he takes issue with, but only if they break too many of his rules while wandering about his heaven or if they just annoy him. It doesn’t matter what you do while you’re alive. You’d have to really catch Jesus’ attention, as in be a dictator out to beat the records of all other dictators for being truly awful. Then, Jesus would feel obliged to just put you in his hell pit. Without letting you wander about not touching any of his stuff or getting in his face or asking questions for a while or a long time or almost no time at all.

There were sixteen squid. But one, Stovetop, pissed off Jesus one time. Stovetop tried to, um, get friendly with Jesus. Jesus peeled poor, in love, Stovetop off himself and popped him in that pit. Stovetop is still there, as far as I know. So, not only would you have to contend with slug walls and a dust bunny floor but you’d have to contend with a lonely, confused, sorrowful squid who perhaps never understood exactly what he did wrong.

Ghosts, yes. Ghosts are very real. When someone dies suddenly or violently or just dies in general, one can become a ghost if one chooses. You can go right through the Gates or the Narrows or the Chasm of Chomping Fangs, whatever that point of no return is called in your area. But once through, and the deities are all in accord here, you cannot step back through and go back to where the living live. Now, as a ghost, you won’t be able to do much more than make yourself visible to the living. You can talk to the living, of course. You can spy on them, as you can keep yourself invisible at will. At least you’ll be entertained, for a while, wandering about among the living. A ghost is transparent. That’s the way you tell them from the living. You can see right through them. They also tend to float. They float about unless they purposely anchor themselves downward. They can’t touch anything or anyone. They have thoughts and feelings and get sad or bored or happy, just like when alive. They don’t have to eat or sleep or anything else, though once you pass by the Gates, you do have to eat a bit. Again, trying to ask Jesus why that rule is in place will get you a trip to that pit of slug walls and dust bunny floor. The real rule with Jesus is not to question anything he does. Ever. Act like another of his ex-squid pets is my best advice.

Platypus-science vibe.jpg
from Science Vibe. Jesus as a platypus.

A BAD DAY FOR THE DEVIL

 

 

quote-god-became-a-man-granted-the-devil-became-a-woman-victor-hugo-239177

 

First Part: Texas Preacher inspires a blog post

A Texas preacher was wailin’ and waxin’ large on how this is going to be a bad day for the devil. And naturally, on hearing this shouted from the next room, during the early hours… I had a thought of– is any day a bad day for the devil? It seems the devil gets a lot of shit done. Wars to petty little malicious gossip fun. Everyone’s getting devoured by that devil walkin’ around. The devil takes a stroll and checks things off her list.

What?? Her list??

Have I lost my gol-durn mind? Yes, I have, but that’s a whole other hysterical and barely readable blog post.

Part Two: Gender Politics

I have always wondered this. Why is the devil male? Other than patriarchal absolute control over everything from religion to nail polish choices, of course. Positions of power must always be filled with male figures! Even in legends, mythology, religion and tall tales. Women with power tend to be evil queens, evil stepmothers and witches. Or a combo thereof– an evil stepmother queen witch, such as Snow White’s dad’s second wife. Yep! There are ‘good’ witches but…they’re still suspect, because they have vaginas under those pretty princess-esque ensembles. And could go rogue at any time! We don’t get many tales of queens without there being some sort of ‘love’ story involved where she ends up secondary in her own story as a kingly sort steps up and ‘saves’ her from having to rule and make decisions or she falls into disgrace and gets tricked or…I’ll stop there. Ahem.

Other than that…why is the devil always portrayed as a male figure? We have witches, of course. But. They’re subservient and doing the will of their master…yeah. Witches went from powerful independent sorts to cringing, tricked, lied to servants of Satan. They went from enjoying their power and their relative sexual freedom to being puppets who just endured the cold sexual caresses of Hell’s Landlord. [Because why not strip even sexual enjoyment out of witchcraft, can I get an amen??] See Malleus Malificarum.

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Women and power, it’s makes people uncomfortable. I get it. There’s reams written here. The powerful woman getting reduced to evil crone who licks the devil’s bottom during ceremonies held beneath the full moon. Read all that stuff. Read about the witch craze and how midwives were suspect and…yeah. But.

Part Three: A Tale of Love Gone Wrong

That rebellious beautiful angel who went against God. That reads more like a love story gone horribly wrong than some servant acting up and getting spanked, big time, for all eternity. Actually, that fallen angel gets rewarded, by being made the Big Baddie who gets to pretend to go against God. [And here, you can start screaming I don’t know anything about religion, the devil, God or blah dee blurg. That my years in the Lutheran church apparently did nothing more than give me a curious case of soul rash.] After all, does it not say, in Revelation, that God wins?

It’s right there. That’s bad storytelling. You don’t invent this great villain and then say, baldly, that that villain is going to lose. We know the villain loses, we want to pretend some actual surprise. There has to be a moment when we think the Joker is going to squash Batman and yank his wings off. That’s just how good stories trot along. We want, maybe, to even believe, for a bit, that the villain, the Big Bad, will win the day and destroy the planet, kill the tied up girlfriend/love interest/wife/some random girl; uh, get that death ray to work, etc, etc. You don’t state that so and so will win while presenting some Big Bad as the ‘villain’. Unless you plan on springing a surprise on us. Like some super-villain in the wings. Maybe her name is Mary who wraps her holy thighs around the devil and God and devours them both with her girl parts and comes out the winner of it all.

I would so watch that movie. I would even buy the over-priced gold-plated popcorn to munch as I watched that movie.

You cannot announce that you’re the winner ahead of time. It’s insulting. Why do you need an adversary? Especially one that seems on the payroll? Why is he needed at all? Oh…because the devil has a case of bitter grapes and seeks to take down as many as he can before THE END OF IT ALL. [No, seriously, that’s the answer I’ve seen to this one. The devil wants to have a game of freeze tag before the End. Yep.] Cue evil laughter, ala Vinny Price.

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PART FOUR: MORE GENDER POLITICS AND EVEN MORE LOVE GONE WRONG MUSINGS

How bitter do you have to be to infect as many humans as you can before God yanks the curtains closed?? That’s female territory…that’s spurned lover territory. That’s…yeah. I’m marching out some rather tired female tropes here— the woman scorned, the bitter woman who wants to repay her ex in spades, the nasty woman who will do anything to smear her ex, etc. Entire industries chug along on that crap alone. There’s also the crazy ex who stalks the current Pretty Young Thang and there’s a catfight where boobies bounce a lot. That’s both a movie plot go-to and the newest ad campaign for Chanel Number Five. Petty revenge against a force that’s all-powerful and who announces they’re going to win no matter what happens…doesn’t seem like male on male catfighting. [Can men have catfights?? Mmm. Maybe tomcat fights? Because tomcats are both slinky and possess testicles? MMMM!]

PART FIVE: WHAT SORT OF DAY DOES THE DEVIL HAVE?

But anyway. The devil, in my opinion, always has a good day. The list of sins is long and people are stupid. You can’t even have naughty thoughts without making God’s I Saw That! list. You can’t lust in your head, your thoughts are on trial. God is literally the thought police. The devil wants you to run that hardcore dungeon daddy fantasy involving a Viking era cowboy-ish muscled up pretty boy who puts you through your paces with a small whip and a large donkey. The devil is saying, hey, baby, go for it. You say, okay! Good day for the devil. Or maybe, hey, you’re in charge of an entire country. And you’ve got pretty bombs and tanks at your disposal. Why not use them on something? Like Chicago?? Yeah, the devil doesn’t even have to do more than shrug and go, hey, baby, go for it. That whisper of permission to give in to your darkest or most silly little vices. Instead of living with your knees crossed and your mind full of amens and hallulujahs and notions that the world is burning alive.

So it makes sense, to me, to make the nemesis of the desert God who stalked about in the lands of Canaan and Judea and so forth…a girl.

And hey, if we keep the devil a boy, well…kettle of very LGTBQ fish, can I get a high five and a clobber verse, amen? [There are six, by the way, six. That’s it. There’s about six maybe references in the entire Bible about this issue. Uh huh.]  You can’t have women with power, after all and you can’t even entertain the notion of God and the also-male devil being exes…because how soon before we’re making bestiality and incest legal and letting people marry their own houseplants?? Hello!

A seductive temptress whispering, go for it, baby, as she picks your pocket and paints a target on your back. That, after all, is what women are…we’re either whores or good girls. That Madonna/Whore dichotomy. One fall from grace and we’re forever branded a sin-filled whorebeast, we gals. There’s no forgiveness for us if we tumble a bit or a lot or at all… We have to be kept covered and controlled and in our place otherwise…chaos. That’s the central core message of pretty much any major or minor religion…women are suspect. Big time. Beware. You give women any sort of freedom and they turn to the devil and become witches and try to become men and want to vote and shit. Gol durn it, not on my watch!

PART SIX: WHERE I FINALLY MENTION SOME WRITING PROJECTS OF MINE!! YAY!

Which leads me to…yes, my piddles in this area, writing-wise. Gotcha!! I wove a pretty web, I offered some sweet blasphemy and oh, viola…here we arrive at some stark PR for my products. Oh my!

Being a writer chick, I invented a character. It’s kinda what I do on occasion. She drives around in an old Caddy, seeking whom she may devour. I didn’t give her a name, other than ‘devil’. She’s a black woman riding the roads of America, offering deals. I was writing along in Alice in Oregonlandia and went, as you do, hey…what if the devil shows up.

What if the devil shows up.

And, sometimes, my mind-worms poop out some useful smeary images. One of those 50’s monstrosity cars with fins that get about three miles per gallon because gas was cheap back then. Flames painted on the black doors. An engine that can heard miles away, one of those big powerful V-8 take on all comers engines. And a woman at the wheel, a powerful woman, a woman to be feared, a woman of sadness and fierce laughter, the devil. With dark skin , a body that’s hers and hers alone, a confidence that her road trip isn’t gonna end any time soon. She suggests sins, doesn’t tell you to actively commit them. She knows you and maybe even loves you a little, but still wants to turn you inside out to watch you strangle in your own guts.

She also turns up in my third book, Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice. Which I’ve let ‘rest’ for a week, as other writing urges hooked me like a fly fisherman hooks one of those trout in a river in Montana. Must write this now! I’m mulling ideas for that third book, deciding just who and what Mr. Blue, Bong Bong and Mr. Peepers are. [If you have no idea who those characters are, it’s okay. I forgive you. Go in peace.] I’m inventing the mythology and reality of this world Alice, and her mother, Nancy, exist in. What happens if there’s devils within devils within devils? What happens if. It’s what writers do, after all. I’m not thinking Overall Literary Theme. I thinking, what if the devil is trying to fix her mistakes? What will Alice do when she finds out what Lysette is? What does Aaron know? I am thinking in terms of what comes next, not Man’s Inhumanity to Man.

The devil, after all, is in the details.

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PART SEVEN: BWHA HA HA

Bwha ha ha.

The devil always has a good day. She likes to keep busy and she’s a multi-tasker, as women have been since the time they lived out in the open scavenging lion kills. God will snap His fingers and the devil might very well not even notice. She’s bent over whispering into a susceptible ear to some sexually confused young Christian man to look up three-way twink and bear porn [if you have no idea what this is, boy, are you gonna have some fun with Google today] over on porn hub [a real site, in case you thought I made that up, my innocent sweeties]…whispering in that ear to go for it, baby. God will be saying, hey, I’m ending the game. The devil will look up, from whispering sweet nothings into various ears. You do that, baby, if you think that’s best.

And God will swell up and stomp back to heaven, with a hearty string of expletives for his Ex and the devil will smile. It’s always a good day for the devil.