Top o' the mornin', guvnah!

Okay, NEW PLAN. Oh… hello! How's it going? Good. Anyway, NEW PLAN. Today I decided that instead of never going back to the Victory Baptist Church again, I would go back to the Victory Baptist Church again. AND NO, IT'S WASN'T TO STEAL MONEY FOR A NEW iPHONE. I am so over that invention. The reason why I went back is because I'm still pretty miffed over not being physically kicked out of the church once, but TWICE. (Check out the last few blog posts for details. I'm too tired to recount those particular adventures.)
The way I saw it? If I could get through just one of Rev. Sparkle's (he's the reverend) sermons, then I WIN. (Don't ask me what I win. That's not the point.) Anywow, I came up with a devilishly clever plan to infiltrate the church. I would go… IN DISGUISE. So Karen (that's my lamb) and I went to the local costume shop, where I found us the most perfect disguises: An English Bobby (that's a policeman) and an organ grinder's monkey. (I was the Bobby.)
It was a perfect plan—or so I thought.
When we arrived at the church, people were filing in for the Wednesday evening sermon, so Karen and I attempted to blend in with the crowd. That's when that same mean Deacon who threw me out the two previous times saw me.
"Oh, for the love of… what are YOU doing back here?" he asked.
"Cor' blimey, guvnah!" I said in the British accent I'd been working on all afternoon. "Have you gone all wet in the knickers? I don't know you from the Queen!"
"You're that guy who dresses up like Jesus."
"No, I'm not, guvnah! I'm that guy that dresses up like a Bobby!"
"And what's your lamb wearing?" he asked.
"Have you gone snackers? Any bloomin' idiot can tell that's a lam…a MONKEY!"
"All right. That's it. You're out of here," he said as he grabbed me roughly by the arm.
"Now see here, my good man," I said haughtily. "Can't a bloke and his monkey visit the religious institution of his choice and bid your Lord Christ a fine how's-yer-mum?"
"Sure… a real English Bobby could—but you're a weird, crazy person who dresses up like Jesus if he were a Bobby. SO GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR CHURCH."
"PMF, guvnah! PMF!"

That's when he picked me up, and aimed me toward the street.

"WAIT! WAIT!" I yelled in my real voice.
The deacon put me down.
"OKAY. FINE," I said. "I'm not a visiting English Bobby with his monkey. I'm Jesus Christ, and this is my lamb Karen, and I don't understand why I'm not welcome in your church."
"Well, for one, you tried to mug our pastor, and for two, you scared the vacation bible school kids with a fake hook."
"Yah, yah, yah, besides that."
"Because," he said, closing the door behind him. "You're obviously a homo."

WTF? (PMF!) What is wrong with these church people? Besides the OBVIOUS fact I'm not a gay person, they really shouldn't be throwing people around who look like Christ (whether they also look homosexual or not). That's IT! I knew there was a reason I hated going to church, and now my suspicions have been proven correct. They are all a bunch of homo-Jesus-Bobby-phobes!

Don't judge, Judy.

Hello, and stop judging me. Lately I've noticed some comments on this blog wherein the commenter is totally judging my actions. Now, admittedly, I don't know much about this blogging business—but isn't it my job to write honestly about how I feel, and the things I do, and YOUR JOB to nod approvingly? NOD. NOD. Good, I'm glad we're in agreement. That's why I'm going to say some things right now, and I don't want any lip. This is all I want to hear:
NOD, NOD, NOD.
1) I'm dumping the whole iPhone idea. I know, I know. I've been moaning and groaning about the iPhone thing for two weeks, and have even threatened to rob a local church in order to get the money. But I changed my mind after reading a news report today that said Apple will be producing cheaper iPhones—WITHOUT THE PHONE ATTACHMENT. Now, PMF, but what the EFF?? An iPhone without the phone? That's like a Chick-o-Stick without the stick! (Or the "chick" for that matter.)
2) I'm thinking about wearing Axe Body Spray. So things are going better between me and Trudy (the bank teller, right?), but I think it's mainly because I'm no longer taking anything for granted. Now I know she's no longer dating Damien (that big dumb jerk who was mean to me for like, forever) however, there must have been a reason she was dating him in the first place. That's why I'm going to try wearing some Axe Body Spray, because that's what Damien wears. Hey, the girls on the commercials really seem to like it!
3) I no longer like Will Smith. Yes, I've written a lengthy post about how much I enjoyed the raps of Will Smith, and anything else that's done "Big Willy Style." However, I recently heard another of his rap songs, and hoo-boy did it stink. It's called "Just the Two of Us," and it's a really weird song about him and his new baby. First of all, DON'T RAP ABOUT A BABY. It's not right. Secondly, I don't understand what's going on—he talks about taking care of the baby all by himself, and never mentions the mother? Did she die in childbirth? If so, he doesn't mention it! Maybe he just left her there in the stirrups or something. Anyway, it's bogus, and he should write another great song, like "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It."
4) People shouldn't let roosters run free. So I was riding my bike (with Karen, that's my lamb) to check out the new rollerskating supply store in town, when out of nowhere suddenly these two roosters started chasing me! And we weren't near a farm or anything! They were just outside somebody's house! WHAT'S UP WITH THAT? Having roosters running loose is like having pit bulls with knives tied to their noses. Those things are VICIOUS! And from what I hear, they like to sneak up behind you, stab you in the back with their sharp beaks, and drain out all your spinal column fluid. Look. Roosters do not belong in an urban environment. And I'm sure the neighbors don't appreciate the crowing at 5 am in the morning. (By the way, do you know why roosters crow? Because they're gargling some poor victim's spinal fluid!)
Here's the part where you NOD, NOD, NOD.

Come to vacation bible school.

Hello! How are you? I am EXHAUSTED! Another exciting day for ol' "J.C." (See, I was watching Magnum, P.I. and I really like the character "T.C." so I've decided I want people to call ME by my initials, too. Also, I think I'll learn how to fly a helicopter.) So I woke up this morning with a real "hankerin'" for a Chick-o-Stick, right? But as I was riding my bike to the 7-11, I heard this busload of kids approaching, and they were all singing out of the windows, "COME TO VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL, COME TO VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL!"
So I yelled back, "NO THANKS!"
And they yelled back, "WHY NOT?"
And I yelled, "BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE THE BIIIIIIIBLE!"
Obviously tired of yelling, one of the kids said, "Ehh, there's not so much bible. Mostly it's just arts and crafts and games and cookies and Kool-Aid."
"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?" I yelled. "I'M IN!"
"YAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!"

So I hopped on the bus, and guess where it took us? To the Victory Baptist Church! (See Friday's post for the ridiculous story of that.) I was about to take off, but I figured two things: 1) I might find some money lying around I could use to buy an iPhone, and 2) I love cookies and Kool-Aid. I was following the kids into the classroom, when the teacher approached me.
"Oh, my goodness! You're dressed up like Jesus," she giggled.
"Ummm… yeah."
"Did Reverend Sparkle send you?"
"Mmmm… noooo… I'm here because of the kids, actually," I said.
"Oh, that's why I'm here, too," she said. "It's so important to introduce them to Christ at an early age."
"Well… HERE I AM!"
"Indeed you are! And you're a dead ringer, I might add. Would you tell the children a Jesus story?"
"Ummm… sure. It's the only kind I know."
"You are funny. OKAY CHILDREN!" she announced. "We have a very special guest for you today, who will be sharing with us a Jesus story. So gather 'round."

After the kids settled down, I said, "Oh-kay. So what kind of story would you like to hear?"
One little boy piped up, "How about the one where you fed the multitudes with one loaf of bread and a fish?"
"Actually, it wasn't a multitude. It was around 8 people. And it was a potluck, so in reality there was plenty of food. Too much, actually. We threw a lot of it away."
The teacher said in a rather stern voice, "Well… JESUS. Why don't you relate the story of how you calmed the great storm and saved the disciples. OKAY?"
"Ugh. I hate that story," I said. "Totally bogus. It was barely raining, and those guys in the boat were so drunk, they started to panic. So I yelled, 'PEACE! BE STILL!' so they would stop rocking the stupid boat. They did, and eventually passed out I think. I don't really remember. OH! Have you ever heard the one about 'the hook killer of lover's lane'? It didn't happen to me, but it totally happened to some friends of some friends of mine…"

At this point, I noticed the teacher running out of the room, but I just thought she had to go to the can, or something. So I kept telling the story, and eventually I got to the part where I was showing the kids my fake clothes hanger "hook" sticking out of my sleeve, and saying, "And the hook looked just… like… THIS!!!"
Everybody was screaming and yelling, and that's about when the same deacon who threw me out on Friday ran in and he threw me out again! (Does this guy ever sleep?)

This getting "thrown out of church" business is starting to get BORING. And twice in one week? And I didn't even get a dad-darned sugar cookie! (PMF!) What's wrong with my stories, anyway? Maybe I should've told them the one about Trudy (the bank teller) sticking her finger in my mouth.

Churches creep me out.

How are you? Me? Creeped out. That's because I actually went to a CHURCH today. EWW!! Those places are so gross. Seriously, they're worse than hospitals. They play terrible music, you have to be all "reverential" and crap (PMF), and you can't even say the word "crap" (PMF). And as it turns out, they don't allow lambs! I took Karen (that's my pet lamb, btw) with me to the Victory Baptist Church that's close to my house, and they actually whispered to me that Karen would have to wait outside! Last time I heard, Christians were supposed to go ape-poop over lambs (PMF). UNBELIEVABLE.
Sorry about my PMF-ing all over the place. There's something about churches that brings it out of me.
Anywhoop, the "Victory Baptist Church." What a dumb name. What am I supposed to say, "Yay! Baptists win!"? And it's all fancy inside, with stain glass windows that picture me in a variety of nonsensical situations—AND right in the center of the back wall, there's a huge cross with me hanging off of it! THANKS FOR THE REMINDER, JERKS. Yeah, that day was a great "victory" for me, all right. (I'm being sarcastic.)
But I digress. As mentioned yesterday, I became intent on purchasing an iPhone after seeing my "friend" Jerry the vegan butcher waving his around. Unfortunately, I have no moolah. That's where the Victory Baptist Church comes in. I figure if they've been making money off my name for years, it was time for my tribute.
Unsurprisingly, the pastor was obese.
"I'm the Rev. Richard Sparkle. How may I help you, young man?"
"Hi, I'm Jesus Christ, and I'd like my money, please."
This took him aback, I think.
"Ummm…" he laughed, "… what?"
"You've heard of me, right?" I asked.
"Well, of course I've heard of our lord and savior. He died for my sins, and…"
"Cool. Then $500 ought to do it."
"Do what?"
"Pay for my iPhone."
"Wait… what??"
"Ohhh-kay," I said, as if I were talking to a THREE YEAR OLD. "Let's slow this way down. I am Jesus Christ. I want an iPhone. It costs $500. I died for your sins. You owe me. Is your 'eternal soul' worth at least $500? Then give me $500. Please tell me you understand."
He started looking pretty scared. "Are you mugging me?"
"NO, YOU…" I stopped myself. "Okay… look. How much does this church make per year?"
"Well… much of our money goes to charitable organizations and…"
"YAH, YAH, YAH," I said. "How much? A LOT. Right? And the way you get all that money is by dropping my name. Am I right?"
"That's a very simplistic…"
"YAH, YAH, YAH," I said. "Look, this is a free country. And you can continue to say whatever you want about me, but from now on, I want my cut. I'm not a greedy Christ, but I'm going to take what I'm owed. Jesus wants an iPhone. SO GIVE ME MY $500."

That was about when four burly deacons came running in and tossed me out on my patoot. PMF.

"Don't ever come in here blaspheming our Lord's name again!" Rev. Sparkle screeched as I dusted myself off.
"You don't want an iPhone anyway," said one of the deacons. "Their service plan stinks."

HOW DOES HE KNOW WHAT I WANT? What a bunch of hypocrites. And no, I can't call a lawyer because they're just exercising their rights to religion and "free speech." STUPID CONSTITUTION! I'm really at the end of my rope here. I MUST GET AN iPHONE. But how? Tell you what: Let's take the weekend and think about it, but at this point, I'm seriously considering going back to Victory Baptist Church on Sunday and making off with the collection plate!
That'll be me running down the street yelling, "VICTORY IS MINE!"

Jerry the vegan butcher has an iPhone.

Hey, what's going on? For me, two things: 1) Can't hear so good, and 2) Jerry the vegan butcher has an iPhone. Turns out my fireworks display from last night was a bit too successful, and all I can hear right now is RING, RING, RING, RING. I can't even understand what Karen (that's my lamb) is saying. I see her mouth move, and it looks like she's saying something like "Ahhh! Ahhh!" But I don't know what she's talking about.
Speaking of Karen, remember a couple of weeks ago when Karen got herself into quite a spot when she stumbled onto a rooster fight and a botched drug deal? No? Well, she did. (You know, it really hurts my feelings when you don't regularly read my blog. Anyway.) Luckily, Karen escaped by dashing into a vegan butcher shop. Actually, the shop isn't vegan, just the butcher. His name is Jerry, and he was nice enough to bring her home. And I made a new friend! Sometimes I'll drop him off a tofurky sandwich, just to show my gratitude.
Anywow, today I dropped by his shop, just to say hi, and he yelled (because he's the type of person who always yells):
"JESUS, MY GOOD FRIEND! HOW ARE YOU TODAY?"
"What?"
"I SAID, 'JESUS, MY GOOD FRIEND!! HOW ARE YOU TODAY??'"
"Not so hot, Jerry," I said. "My ears are ringing from all the fireworks I shot off last night."
"THAT'S GREAT, JESUS. LOOK. I GOT ME AN iPHONE!!"
He pulled it out from behind the counter. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"How did you get an iPhone, Jerry? I heard they were all sold out."
"MY BROTHER! HAROLD! HE WORKS IN THE TECHNICAL INDUSTRY! HE GETS ME ALL THE GADGETRY FOR FREE!"

Now, up until this point, I wasn't sure I even wanted an iPhone. But now was different. Jerry the vegan butcher had one, and I'm Jesus Christ. And I didn't.

"LOOK AT WHAT IT DOES. IT PLAYS MY KENNY LOGGINS. LOOK AT WHAT IT DOES. IT SURFS MY INTERNET. LOOK AT WHAT IT DOES. IT PLAYS THE POPEYE CARTOONS."
"That's great, Jerry, does it make phone calls?" I asked rolling my eyes.
"HMMM. GOOD QUESTION. I TRY THAT NEXT. BUT THIS iPOD IS PRETTY TIGHT, NO?"
"Yeah, Jerry, it's wicked tight. GOTTA GO!"
And I stormed out. Maybe I slammed the door. I don't know. I couldn't hear.

This iPhone situation is complete horse hockey. (PMF!) I don't ask for much in this world. I don't go around to churches asking for my cut of their weekly tithes. (Though I should.) I'm nice to people and I barely ever mention the fact that I was strung up on a cross and had two huges spikes hammered through my wrists. And I've still got the scars! They're gross! And yet, for everything I do and have done in the world, Jerry the stupid vegan butcher gets an iPhone, and I can't. HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO USE IT. And what's a butcher doing being a "vegan" anyway? Jiminy Crickets, this world is fudged up!
OOPS. Good thing I couldn't hear myself say that. In fact, I can't hear anything but the constant RING, RING, RING of the iPhone I don't have!
Well, that's it.
I'm sick and tired of this stupid world kicking me around. I'M GETTING ME A DAD-DARNED iPHONE (PMF!) IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO!
Tomorrow, I think I'll pay a little visit to the local Baptist church. Me thinks SOMEBODY owes Papa Jesus a little moo-lah-lah! (That means money.)

Happy 4th of July.

Hey! My head finally stopped hurting! YAY! And just in time for the 4th of July. Oh… how are you? Fine, I hope. Anywhoop, I won't be writing tomorrow, because I'm taking Grandma Christ to the rodeo. It's something we like to do every year. We watch the parade (which is good, except there are always too many tractors. What is it with country folk, anyway?), and we go to the fair (where we eat elephant ears, and tamales, and ride the bumper cars), and then we go watch the cowboys rope cows. Yeeeee-HAW! It's always fun, and a good excuse to wear my cowboy hat, my big belt buckle and my bolo tie with the dead scorpion in the middle.
THEN, tomorrow night I'm going to sedate Karen (that's my lamb) and shoot off fireworks with Trudy (she's a bank teller). Ordinarily, I don't approve of sedating animals—however, Karen is a psychological wreck on July 4th because all the loud fireworks wig her out. Two years ago, I came home from a night of fireworks, and Karen was hiding in the stove. NOT GOOD. This way, she'll sleep through the entire thing.
Anyway, as it turns out I am quite an expert at recreational fireworks, thanks to my friends at the Indian Reservation who have taken time to train me about the best lowgrade explosives. Here are my top five picks:
1) RAIN OF FIRE: This multiple repeater shoots one hundred incredibly loud balls of fire into the air, and then they explode, raining molten debri down upon the entire neighborhood. Might want to move the kids inside for this one.
2) BLACK CAT MAGNUM VELOCITY MISSILE: Light this one, and for the love of Dad, GET AWAY. With a loud kaboom, flames burn everything in a thirty yard radius as this missile catapults into the air, and turns the entire sky white with its explosion. (It's not nuclear or anything… I think.)
3) BULLET BOMB MORTAR: Picture a six-foot tall tube loaded up with 40 explosive shells the size of grapefruits. Seriously, if you light this one off, that's all you really need. It'll still be exploding in three days.
4) WAKE THE NEIGHBORS: This is what's known as a "Super Cake" and creates a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors in the sky. The downside is anyone not wearing earplugs within a one-mile radius will most certainly suffer permanent hearing damage. AWESOME!
5) SHOCK AND AWE: These beauties really live up to their name. Do you happen to have an asbestos suit? I like to wear one for this particular firework, because they have a "trick quick burning fuse" that causes a teriffic explosion within 1.2 seconds of lighting. (Sometimes sooner.) That's the "shock" part. Then, roughly 200 white-hot scrambling missiles fly no higher than five feet off the ground attacking anything that moves like a swarm of burning bumble bees. But that's not the "awe" part. The "awe" part comes after the stinging missiles explode, shoot shards of glass into your eyes, burns your clothes off, and emits a concussive BOOM that can fairly easily collapse a small structure, or shatter the windows out of an entire apartment building. So pretty, though.

Anyway, those are my favorites. But! If you're going to be around anyone shooting off fireworks, be sure to be careful. Some people aren't as conscientious with explosives as I am.
Happy 4th of July, everybody!

I don't feel good!

UGH. How are you? I DON'T FEEL GOOD. My headache feels extra achey, and my joints feel like someone is jabbing them with pins (which I suppose is an improvement from spikes in the wrists). And what's even worse? NO ONE CARES. I've called up all my friends—even the vegan butcher—and just because I yell, "I DON'T FEEL GOOD" right when they pick up the phone, they don't want to be very helpful. All I ever hear is, "Have you taken any aspirin," or "Are you drinking a lot of water," or "Are you keeping bundled up?" or "Have you gone to the doctor?" Of COURSE, I haven't done any of these things! I'm Jesus Christ! If Jesus Christ is achey all over, what in the world is a doctor or aspirin going to do??
(Trudy—my very good friend the bank teller—brought me some chicken soup on her lunchbreak. That was super-duper sweet. Even though it tasted like poop. PMF—BUT I DON'T FEEL GOOD.)
Another thing that really annoys me about NOT FEELING GOOD (which I don't) is that people are always giving me that knowing look, like "Well… it could be worse." What they mean is that I could have a bunch of Roman soldiers beating the crap out of me, and nailing me to a cross. Well, yes… I suppose that would be worse. However, just because I still have spike scars on my wrists, and I went through a significant trauma on the cross, that still doesn't negate the fact that right now I DON'T FEEL GOOD.
Can't I NOT FEEL GOOD and have a previous traumatic incident? Is that OKAY with you people? I DON'T FEEL GOOD. Jiminy Crickets! Why is that so difficult to understand?
AND ANOTHER THING. What's up with the 7-11 NOT selling Ginger Ale? My stomach DOESN'T FEEL GOOD either. And yet, 7-11 doesn't stock any Ginger Ale because they quote, "don't sell enough of it"?? Tell that to my roiling tummy—WHICH DOESN'T FEEL GOOD.
Ginger Ale is delicious, AND it's a homopathic remedy. A lot of people think homopathic remedies are just for the gay people, but they help everybody. Especially the gays.
UGHHHHHHHH… I DON'T FEEL GOOD.
Alright. I'm going to lay down with Karen (that's my lamb) and see if cuddling her will make me feel better. Of course, I'll have to find her first. She slinked out of the house earlier, because whenever she entered the room, I would inform her…
I DON'T FEEL GOOD!

Kaaaaa-ren! I DON'T FEEEEEEEL GOOOOOOOOOD!