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The Amerikan Dream
Long ago, Satan, my charming wife, was desperately lonely and bored—and that was a mystery to Me because she was married to Me, and I am God. Well, I had to do something, but what? I searched for poets, slaves and worshippers to entertain her, and found none, she laughed and said some nonsense about Me having the power to create good children.
“Oh, really?” I replied like a genuine know-it-all. “Have you ever tried creating life from nothing—nothing but this?” I grumbled as I swept a hand over my body. “I don’t even know where to start!”
She reclined on the bed. “Have you ever visited the amazing cosmic-universal vagina?”
“What? Me? Well, of course I have!” I lied and thought, “She’s joking. No such thing exists.”
She whispered, “Good. Now, let’s do the pro-creative deed and build a home for our children.”
I nodded with fake confidence. I had never done anything creative with anyone, and since I never trust a woman to do anything right, I left her with a guardian angel. Then, in a private place, I grabbed my big banger and tried to build a home from nothing. My frantic banging filled the universe with painful music, but no home. Well, in my defense, it was my first time building anything.
Of course, I patiently persisted, and while I struggled, Satan grew fatter and fatter. One day, Satan told Me that she had finished building the foundation. She squatted, spread her ugly legs and laid a pile of boiling magma.
“What the Hell is that?” I asked.
“It’s an egg, you fool!”
“That’s a joke. It’s the planet Earthome. Now, if you do your job, it will be a fine home for any child. Do you know what your job is?”
“Of course!” I lied and wandered away wondering what a god is supposed to do with a blasted planet. So, I put pretty lights around it in the hope that one day my children living in Earthome would look up at my beautiful face and worship Me. Of course, I had one problem: my children didn’t exist and I didn’t know the magic spells that make them. I looked at my wife for clues, but she feigned ignorance, and when I pestered her for help one of my angels showed Me how to masturbate.
I wasn’t offended. Being God, I do everything alone. And I’m a real perfectionist. At first, I was no good at masturbating, but after millions of years I got it down to a real art, and just as a cracked, pretty clay shell formed over Earthome’s pulsating mass of magma, I ejaculated a great stream of radioactive dust, salty water and nasty microbes all over it.
“Good job!” said my wife as she stirred the nasty ingredients and radiated her evil energy upon them. “At this rate, in another millions years our first children will have a wonderful home.”
She was right. My magical ingredients slowly evolved into trillions of children. Strangely, none of them looked particularly like Me. In fact, just by looking at them I grouped them into these distinct tribes: the wigglies, the woodies, the worms, the mollusks, the arthropods, the fish, the reptiles and others too numerous to name. I was extremely proud. I imagined a great future for our family, but that was wishful thinking! Those ignorant scoundrels refused to thank, work for, and worship their God and father! They wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence! I shook a reproving finger at them and angrily hissed, “How many more times must the Sun orbit your home before you thank Me for all I’ve done for you?”
Do you know what they did? They ignored Me and snuggled closer to their mother! I warned them about the dangers. I spent a few million years talking to them about their behavior, and during that time the Earthome cooled and grandchildren were born with feathers and later fur and warm blood. But my grandchildren were just as foolish as my children, and the worst ones were the great apes; they were genuinely stupid, for they worshipped their alpha males instead of Me!
One day I sat down and asked those hairy idiots, “Why don’t you recognize your father and ask to be my immortal slaves in Heaven?”
They refused to answer in my language, so I gave them the gift of speech. Well, I quickly regretted that favor. No sooner could they speak than they shouted, “Thanks, you old moron! Now we can insult you night and day and blame you for not giving us the brains we need to respect you!”
Can you believe such disrespect? Imagine blaming a parent for your bad behavior! Someone had to teach them a powerful lesson! So, one day I ate all their food. Then they understood, apologized, and said, “Oh grandpa, we surrender! We promise to be your slaves if you give us feet to run with.”
Being infinitely generous, I gave them human feet, but I quickly regretted my generosity. Thinking they could escape from Me, they fled the jungle and hid on a dangerous savannah! Of course, I followed them and told them to keep their promise. Why did I bother? They declared themselves free from tyrants and invented axes, cut down the trees and made fires and spears and dared Me to come near.
One night, while they slept, I entered their homes and gave them fleas. Revenge was sweet, but would have been sweeter with food in my belly, so the next night I returned and roared. They looked at Me, feigned fear and cried, “Oh ferocious nothingness, oh mighty ghost who prowls upon the savannah, are you going to bite us?”
I leapt and bit down on a dozen mockers and chewed their bones until they … laughed. God has no teeth! They laughed so hard I tried to strangle them, but their throats were covered with cartilage that felt too disgusting to touch.
“Oh grandpa, why don’t you kill yourself instead?”
“I wish I could, but I’m immortal!”
“Doesn’t life suck?” they taunted.
“I’ll teach you how much it sucks!”
One by one I grabbed them by the hair of their heads and sucked their bodies hard. They should have died; instead, their bodies straightened, their hair was mostly removed, their nostrils stretched into noses, and salty water came out of their skins. The worst thing was that they thought their new bodies made them more beautiful than any other creature, God included.
I was determined to teach them to be nice to Me, so I punished them with plagues of cold weather, war and famine, but just when their population began dwindling, Satan chose her favorite tribes, turned them into sex maniacs and taught them how to make love for hours. I wasn’t jealous. Not Me! I only pitied their stupidity and cursed them with women who could not cook, but that made no difference. Somehow, they still loved their damn women more than Me, and they reproduced like rabbits!
I desperately needed help. So, I sent my fiercest angels to beat the crap out of them, but you’ll never believe what happened next! My angels fell in love with them. Oh, they had quite a honeymoon with lots of cuddling and snuggling and kissing before the inevitable fighting began. Then, conversations devolved into racist arguments and my pet angels were massacred. The murderers celebrated. It was quite a party until they resumed dying like flies from diseases, lice, hunger, war and divine disasters. Life was so bad, they considered praying for help and respecting Me, but suddenly everything changed. They stopped caring about death and suffering. Do you know what their secret was? That’s right, they invented some damn thing called religion! Those liars believed they were immortal beings destined for a better world—even though they had no evidence!
Well, let them have their religion, I thought, it will only make my job more interesting. So, one day I drew this pictograph on their favorite cliffs and cave walls: “When you’re tired of suffering, come to Amerika, land of dreams, and while you are there work for Me, shop for Me, and follow my commands. Do this and you will be in Heaven.”
The geniuses deciphered my message, discussed it, and then danced and banged their drums and shouted, “Father, we’ll do whatever you want, but only after you eat mud, grow bananas from your face, make us giggle with your genitals, and make music with your ass!”
I guess those comedians didn’t know who they were insulting. So, to teach who I was and how life works, I struck them with a drought and another ice age. The smartest ones fled north, out of Africa, to look for the promised land of Amerika in the dark, cold regions of Eurasia. But there they found no food except my pet mammoth and other four-footed giants that could kill a man with their fearsome genitalia. Wise men would have hid underground, but do you think they were afraid of pain or death? Thanks to their religion, they ignored the threat of death and learned to hunt and eat the most dangerous meat, and they hunted and ate so well that their food became extinct.
Around this time, as hunger and cold loomed, a few hunters noticed their dark brown skins and black hair had magically turned white and blonde, and they imagined they were now gods like Me! I was embarrassed to even look at them, so imagine how insulted I felt. Well, I thought, a teacher’s work is never done, so I planned my final lesson and delivered it.
“My beautiful child-gods, your religion is correct. You deserve to live in a better place than Europe. To find it, just follow the Sun across the sea until you reach Amerika, land of the gods.”
They cheered and started to prepare for their voyage to Heaven! They cut down more trees, tied and glued a few together, and threw their lives onto the ocean. I was sure they’d drown, but damn it, a few washed up on Britain’s shores and conveniently declared, “Hoorah! We discovered Amerika! Here we can walk, hop and follow our leader on the path to eternal happiness! Hoorah!”
Then they waited for their leader to come. I let them suffer for a few centuries before I came to them in the form of the greatest leader to ever live, the great alpha male King Arthur. I taught them how to live with women and how to kill their enemies. At my command they conquered Rome, Persia, Russia and all the peoples of the world, and they cut down the forests and created pigs, cows, and vast fields of edible grass and bird seed.
Well, life was tolerable in God’s kingdom, but they were not yet in Amerika, the land of God’s freedom, so happiness was scarce, and as life worsened they accused God of having misled them. King Arthur explained, “Stop whining you wimps! If you want eternal happiness, you must get to work and create Amerika right here!”
The people cheered. Their king put the best British minds to the task. But all our hopes were dashed, for the best Britons were not clever enough by half.
Exhausted by my endless efforts, I begged my dearest queen for help and relief. She smiled, put my head on her warm bosom and sang a soothing lullaby. I shut my eyes and dozed and dreamed about a better life in Amerika.
The Pioneer of Love
Once upon a time a very naughty Queen of England slept around with the Emperor of Japan, the King of Arabia, the Czar of Russia, the Chief of Namibia, the Fuhrer of Germany and many other foreign rascals. The scandal was published, the case went to the Supreme Court, and there the Queen proved that she was innocent of adultery because, in her words, *n*l sex isn’t really sex. Well, I’m inclined to agree, and so is British law since it refuses to mention that disgusting deed.
But God works in mischievous ways. Despite Queen Sisy Holywhore’s sexual misconduct, she miraculously conceived a child in her buttocks. As the royal slut grew conspicuously fat, she blamed anyone she could and even executed her chef, her royal farmers, her beef cattle and all her dairy cows, pigs, chickens, and even her only apple tree.
Although her girth and her appetite continued growing, her husband suspected nothing. So, I sent him a dream. At first he didn’t understand, then he didn’t believe, but after the third time he woke and jeered over his sleeping wife, “GOD KNOWS YOU CHEATED SO YOU’RE GOING TO HELL! WHO’S THE WINNER NOW? HAHA!”
She said, “This is Hell, you idiot! And thank God for Hell’s devils! At least they know how to make love!”
Dressed in pajamas, the royal witch flew to the local Masonic Lodge and flaunted the evidence of her adultery. Soon rumors started spreading. In a desperate effort at damage control, the Queen’s doctors told the public that the bulging monarch suffered from an obesity gene, but witnesses glimpsed movements in her bulbous buttocks and guessed an unborn child was struggling to escape through the Royal Gate, for the public believed royalty were too polite to possess genitals.
The King, meanwhile, launched an investigation into the suspicious circumstances surrounding the queen’s pregnancy. A hundred detectives were commissioned, but the evil queen used her potions to turn them into horny apes.
The whole nation was scandalized. The court priests tried to save the country by blaming the mysterious pregnancy on God. This greatly impressed the English people; but God was not pleased to be implicated in adultery, so the priests woke one day to find their genitals so enlarged they had to be executed for decency’s sake, for God’s sake, and for England’s sake.
Finally, on the greatest birthday in the history of the world, Queen Holywhore was liberated from her burden. While she was squatting, she gave birth to George “Jesus Christ” Washington, the child destined to be England’s first prince of love.
The boy’s curious divinely ordained career began one day while the royal family picnicked and little George sat like an angel under an ornamental tree, practicing his 2-times table so that the good prince might be well equipped to rule England. His education was proceeding fantastically well until Satan brought ruin and destruction to England. The evil one arrived in the form of a bunny. It emerged from the deepest pit of Hell, hopped to George’s side and, in Latin, invited him to come along for a pleasant stroll through the English wilderness. The naive young prince excitedly followed the beast. Once they were alone, Satan, still cunningly disguised as a fuzzy rodent, violently raped the boy prince, stole his heart, and forced him to eat a weeds powerful enough to turn angels into devils. Hours later, he walked home with a weird glow around his eyes.
George was no longer himself. In his madness, he prepared and ate raw salads of dandelion, purslane and nettle, and he ate without cutlery and assumed no one needed cutlery, so he gave the family’s golden utensils to the poor. Other sins included kissing dirty servant women and setting the royal horses free.
Obviously, the royals were scandalized. Queen Holywhore locked the possessed prince up in the Tower of Horrors and threatened to keep him there until he forgot his evil ways and learned to sing hymns and prayers. So, five times a day George sang love songs that made even the hardiest Englishman sick. As for food, after several bouts of vomiting, he learned to eat the food his father delivered: nutritious sugar loaf and lucky rabbit’s feet. For the boy’s mental health, he administered a daily bottle of wine and math problems.
One day, George decided he was a scientist and conducted a careful experiment on his cell’s door. He pushed it, kicked it and screamed at it, but it did not open. Then he turned the handle and pulled, and he was amazed, for it opened. He literally danced into a miserable English rain. He nearly raced back, but he wanted to make friends, so he knocked on hundreds of doors and shouted, “The Prince of England wishes to have tea with you!”
Invariably, shuttered flew open and someone shouted, “Get lost and get some clothes, you pervert!”
He was too proud to pray for help, but I told him that good British citizens do not harbor escaped convicts—even if they are princes. But do you think he respected the law? No. He thought himself above it, and instead of running back to his tower, he pissed on England’s doors, shit on England’s gardens and went home shouting insults at all of England.
At home, he continued his evil ways. On his 14th birthday, the King announced, “Your talents are wasted on England. We’re going to send you to India. Its lonely people need someone who can sing love songs. You’ll be famous in no time.”
George was beyond enthusiastic. His huge canoe was loaded for the voyage with a barrel of gin, sandwiches covered in butter, jams full of sugar, and four pregnant domestic animals. The canoe’s captain, Christopher Columbus, imagined Earth was spherical and thought he could arrive at his destination by paddling in any direction. Luckily for him and his passenger, God blew his canoe to the province of India known as Premerika, which was the land destined to become Amerika.
Premerika was a terribly uncivilized country. Its godless savages captured Christopher and forced him to be their homosexual slave, and they stole Prince George’s clothes and jewels and laughed at his white skin, blue eyes and blonde hair. They seriously thought he was a clown and they asked him to do stupid shit, and, being a prince of love, he never disappointed them.
Despite everything, George was confident he could civilize the natives, so he mastered the crude, native language of the land, a language which was, by the way, mostly a lot of hateful cuss and swear words. Then he composed love songs in the native tongue and five times a night and seven times on Sundays, he sang about God’s love. During his first night of singing, a gang known as the Bloody Thieves told him to shut up. He apologized, but as they staggered back to their beds, he sang after them, “I love you! I love you! I love you all, and everything you say and do only makes me love you more!”
In the morning, George approached his enemies as they were eating Christopher Columbus. Those gluttons wanted to eat George, too, but he quickly traced the heart-shaped symbol of eternal love on his breast and bravely kissed their fearsome leader, Chief Talking Bull, and whispered, “I will love you even more if you tell your men to bury their weapons.”
The chief pinched his meagre buttock and said, “These little utensils? But, then how will we carve your meat?”
“My friend, because I love you, I tell you, God did not create you to eat meat, and white meat is the worst.”
“Then what should we eat?”
Then Prince George tried to teach them to suck milk from cows, to graze on grasses, lick nectar from flowers and chew on raw sugar cane. The Bloody Thieves never laughed so hard, but when he persisted in teaching them they declared him mad from dehydration and gave him foul water to drink. That day, George caught beaver fever. Then imagined himself a beaver, fell in love with the whole beaver tribe and tried to impress them by scratching trees with his teeth. When his enemies pursued him, he swam to a beaver lodge and clung fast until the Bloody Thieves came with their ships, captured him, tied him to a log, towed him downstream and sent him floating across the Atlantic, to his fatherland.
Back in England, George told his parents about his incredible adventure: “It was an incredible adventure! But I am not done. The savages were just learning to love me. But they won’t accept me until I improve my hygiene. Could you give me soap and a bathtub? I’ll repay you with grandchildren as soon as I get the chance.”
Queen Holywhore gladly provided the requested tub and soap, while his good father added children’s books, a globe, a telescope, a bag of wheat, a teddy bear, a bouquet of flowers and a headstone. Then he went out with the tide, and time passed quickly as the prince played with all his toys.
After beaching back in Premerika, God’s pioneer of love built the now famous House of Love on the Potomac River. He built it around seven almond trees. When the local women came to eat his nuts, George charmed them, saying, “Welcome one and all the House of Love! Abandon your caves of stone and human bones! Be baptized in my bathtub under a roof of flowers and join me in worshipping the holy petroglyph!”
I warned him against giving the gift of love to beasts of prey, but he welcomed his enemies into his home and happily let them rape and abuse him while he did their beds, baked their bread and cooked their turkeys. This continued for months before the Gang of Thieves found George with their women.
“You scoundrel! You’re gonna get a whipping!” yelled the chief.
“Go ahead and whip me with the whip of love!” George retorted.
They decided against whipping him. Instead, they tied poor George to his headstone, loaded him into a giant catapult, and said, “We’re gonna send you to Heaven! When you meet your good papa above, please kindly tell him to stop sending your kind this way.”
George sang, “I know you don’t mean what you say. Deep down inside, you love me more than words can say.”
Then George went flying through the sky and made a splash. The Bloody Thieves were sure he would drown, but they’d misjudged how well English fat floats. George spent two nights marinating in the salty brine before floated back up the Potomac. Chief Talking Bull arrested him and dragged him to court, where George was accused of trespassing on another’s continent. After presenting no evidence of any crime except love, Chief Talking Bull sentenced George to eternal marriage to a giant beaver.
Of course, George blessed his enemies for giving him a chance to prove that he is God’s true pioneer of love. Then, for weeks, he sang love poems to the biggest beavers, but this scared them away and infuriated the Indians who depended on beavers for their milk, clothing and meat. So, they dragged George back into court and sentenced him to grind flour and bake bread. George obeyed, but George’s love for his enemies only intensified.
A Change of Plan
Once upon a time Satan noticed that God loved George more than He loved her. Satan stormed out of Heaven and plotted to make George into an ordinary sex slave. When Satan told George that his destiny was to be her personal sex slave, he was happy about it, so God told him he had a much higher destiny and put the seed of his power in a mighty barrel-cylinder, put the thing in George’s hand and commanded him thus: “Hold this little cannon in plain sight so that everyone will know that you are King George, ruler of the Kingdom of Premerika. Then tell Satan and her savages, ‘Because you are ugly and disgusting sex slaves who refuse to work for and worship God, you will die if you do not earn God’s love build the civilization I shall name Amerika.’”
King George didn’t repeat this message word-for-word; like a good prophet, he communicated God’s message in beautiful sonnets and verses. The natives were spellbound by their beautiful sounds. If you doubt this is true, try singing George’s poems aloud and you’ll understand. Copies are provided below at no extra cost.
Oh sweet, sweet Civilization!
You are my inspiration,
My dedication, my motivation!
You make my heart race,
You make my feet race,
I know your surname, it is Economy.
We live in harmony, not like sodomy.
As my true wife, you deserve my life!
You are so fair—in all affairs!
God’s best creation!
You make my heart race,
Whenever we embrace,
You make me work,
And go berserk,
For you I sweat,
Oh, you make me wet!
Oh sweet, sweet, sweet Civilization!
You are my inspiration,
You are the reason I get out of bed,
For you I’ll work until I’m dead!
Since you are everything,
The reason I work and sing,
I read your love letters:
They are so legal tender,
So full of numbers,
Dullards call them dollars,
But they are so much more—
They are the true currency of love:
Kisses from the Boss Above!
Oh, sweet, sweet Civilization,
As your prophet I can see
You will save us from exhaustion,
Poverty and misery,
With robots and electricity!
With foreign slaves and electric chairs
You will make dying so easy
With coal-powered toothbrushes
And super-nuclear-powered vacuums
Even cleanliness will be a thrill
For which even God would kill.
Patience, my friends, and sing my song,
The road to luxury, leisure, and freedom
Might be long, indeed, too long
To hold your breath,
But if you can’t save money fast enough,
Don’t wait for Death
To lead you to the wisdom of true freedom;
Just put your trust in God’s good bankdom:
And the Angels of Bamboozle
Will rescue you,
From the sin of poverty,
The holy banker’s credit line
Continues for infinity,
Beyond the clouds so heavenly
God’s angels of most high finance
Never refuse to lend a loaded hand
For the poor, for the needy
They invent what they print
As God alone created Earth from nothing,
So they print money without accounting
And create credit from pure imagination.
They are so generous,
They lend what they do not possess,
And wait so patiently
While you work so honestly
To redeem yourself
From the sin of debt and poverty.
So, if I may summarize in song,
If you want God’s love,
Always take more than you need,
Give more than you’ve got,
And work, shop and spend on God
Make Him so full
His girth encircles Earth,
And none escapes His warm embrace.
An Economical Love Song, Part 2
My secret love,
Who knows her name?
The games she plays?
So sweet, so tantalizing,
Her mesmerizing glitter,
Her leather, gold and silver,
Her mansions made of sugar,
And daily dinners red with blood,
Legs and breasts and rarest meats—
Who can resist all this?
No one! So, get up, you lazy bums,
Dance to my lady’s drum!
Swing your tools, buy her jewels!
Swing your axes, pay her taxes!
Or King George, her true defender,
Will use his magic
And turn you into stew of rabbit.
Oh my lady, oh my lady,
Can you feel her heat?
Move your feet or join the dead,
Feed her fire-breathing dragonhead,
Fill her tanks, turn her cranks,
Stuff the Earth into her maw,
Give her forests to digest,
Watch her fires process and produce—
Endless products, profits, too!!!!!!!
And toil, toil, toil—
To build yourself a holy paradise
Of cut stone, steel, and ice.
Our Economy’s body is indestructible!
Behold, she’s made of asphalt and fables,
Piles of paper, wires, pipes, and plastic cables.
She eats flesh, time, and fossil fuels;
She exhales pure smoke and fire from her holes;
She sweats and pisses poisons on her enemies;
So no one dares to say she’s ugly
Because the mirror shows her beauty.
Besides, you know, she has rules, you fools
So obey her kings and pastors,
Lords and masters,
Bosses, merchants and professors!
Renounce your evil pleasures!
Wipe your smile from your face,
Bow before your mighty towers,
Worship your electric powers!
And pack your privates in your pants
And learn the wisdom of the ants!
Bend your backs or get a whack!
Respect the scepter, that’s the way,
To work towards our promised pay,
When trickling down from high above,
Comes your legal tender love.
Beavers, lamas, turtles too,
Every tasty beast will earn its love
From God above—
Learn to bend and pray,
Sacrifice the living day,
Toil and labor for my pay,
Selling lies or building bombs,
It doesn’t matter either way,
But evil love of being lazy,
Hedonism and fornication,
Will never be rewarded,
So, do your job religiously!
Feed our sweet Economy, feed her inner fire,
Make it grow, give her all your energy:
Wood, coal, oil, and radioactive carbs,
Geothermal and solar electricity,
Fire, fire, flame and fire,
Even Hell has pangs of hunger,
So feed His belly or be devoured!
Workers, slaves and managers,
Bosses, judges and governors,
Perform the civil rituals
Of the religion of Economy,
That leads beyond prosperity
To God’s love for you and me.
Amazing verses void of curses! These powerful, inspirational songs inspired the savages to quit Satan’s party and begin working for God’s love. They earnestly worked to turn their nation into an image of Amerika, meaning Heaven, so that God would feel at home. And they nearly succeeded, for they flattened woods, dammed rivers and built mills in order to make paper and churches, and they planted grass so they could collect the seeds and the stalks and feed their hungry livestock. And God was pleased with their progress, for the more they suffered the more they loved Him.
Satan could not sleep on account of the rise of civilization in Premerika filling the air with smog and hubbub. So, she invented and distributed pornography, and she emanated pheromones to distract the nation from the task of building a civilization. Fortunately, Amerikans had already lost interest in sex, so they continued full steam ahead.
But Satan was a stupid and stubborn creatures. She could not accept defeat, so tried to demoralize the nation. To this end, she dubbed herself “The Evangel of Love” and composed songs that mocked Premerika, satirized the great nation’s economy and promoted sharing, laziness, leisure and other sins most foul. Among her hateworthy songs were “Chuck Your Civilization!” and “You Make Me Vomit!” These depressing songs led millions of impressionable kids into unimaginable sin, so don’t read them—not unless you don’t believe in Hell.
Friends and foes, all tired,
Poor and nervous wrecks,
Let’s recognize our common enemy:
It’s not the foreign alien, it isn’t Satan,
Its secret name is Civilization.
You know it well, it is your Hell,
So let us all unite and chuck it!
Chuck that piece of shit!
And when we’re done,
Let’s build the new world order,
Free of leaders barking orders,
Brilliant green and without borders!
With courage and imagination,
We can create a better fate,
A warm and kind economy,
Green with love and harmony,
Free of bosses and professors,
Free of lawyers and employers,
Free of gods and governments,
Free of prices, clocks and rulers,
Free of fees and TVs,
And most of all,
Free of the fire-breathing beast,
The all-consuming and bipolar
Predator who sips its tea
And calls itself Civility.
You Make Me Vomit
Rise up, all lovers of the living universe!
Rise and be united, not divided!
Stop competing for your master’s curse,
For the pile of dust and sand,
And things much worse!
Stop slaving for the beast!
He charges you for everything,
And makes you do the very things
That make you curse and sick.
Rise up, all lovers of the living universe!
Rise up and now divorce
The life-destroying force
That always needs more energy
And suck the life from every body.
Rise up, all lovers of the living universe!
Love your bodies and the Earth!
Reject God’s wicked gifts!
Return his hollow souls to him!
Don’t place your trust in them!
They can’t buy eternal life above,
Any more than paper dollars,
Can buy an ounce of wisdom
Or a day of love.
Now if King George
Howls, “It’s time for war!”
Or calls you a filthy whore,
Plant love’s seeds and nuts into his eye,
And build a new world order,
Free from worry, debt and orders,
Full of summers filled with fucking,
Gags and clowning, very funny:
So sings the mortal of the future,
Who gladly gives her life and body
To nourish and enliven Nature.
Luckily, the early Premerikans only knew a few English words, so they didn’t fall for these slanderous lies and temptations, but their children were too damn educated. Those ragamuffins and whippersnappers happily traded both their money and their souls for so-called ‘organic’ vegetables, fruit, clean water and the idiocy of genital dab, jab and joust!
Thanks be to God, the people of Premerika wanted democracy so badly they dreamed of it. People simply loved the idea of voting for a special someone who would be their leader. But, they couldn’t decide whether to vote for Satan or George. So, Satan uttered her favorite lies. She guaranteed everyone free homes, healthy foods, real orgasms, year-long vacations and early retirements. Well, you can guess the disaster that occurred on Election Day: every American woman, child, slave and other criminal voted for Satan! So, God turned George into the rare dog-piss tree.
The nation’s uber-wealthy were not pleased with Satan’s election either. Thirty-three billionaires visited the White House with arms full of books of poetry, history, philosophy, anthropology, theology, scripture and economics. Their hope was that President Satan would read them and avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. Of course, she burned all their knowledge and swore, “Gentlemen, your books will keep me warm in the winter. Concerning the future of this great country, your God has inspired me to transform Premerika into Amerika, a giant Disneyland full of shiny stuff, fun jobs, great stores and hullabaloo!!!”
Luckily, no one noticed her sarcastic tone and everyone swore to give their unstinting support to their horned president. Thanks to their blind faith, Premerika became the civilized world that is, to this day, God’s crown jewel, his favorite resort and his most profitable creation. From dawn to sunrise, he enjoyed the great hullabaloo produced by the world’s greatest economic engine. Amerika’s economy literally made the world go round. Millions of tourists came to Amerika to gape at its amazing cloud-manufacturing factories, green parkways and nuclear missiles.
But all good things must end. After a century or two, President Satan grew bored of Disneyland and the new generation demanded less work and fewer bills and taxes. As the economy went to shit, God sent Amerika a better president for the future. He is the true Prophet of Love and the Great Illuminati the eternal hero whose awesome name is sung throughout the civilized universe. I don’t need to name him, for I know you studied him at school.
– THE INTRODUCTION –
If memory serves me correctly, Chuck was raised in the nation’s headquarters of sin, a church in Troytown, U.S.A. The Bollocks family had occupied the condemned, ramshackle building for a century. The town had shut off the supply of municipal electricity and water; eviction notices had been ignored, and intelligence reports proved that weapons of mass destruction were hidden in the baptismal tub and under the altar. Local authorities threatened to bulldoze the place flat, and my budding angel, young Chuck Bollocks, personally told his parents to change their evil ways or suffer a terrible punishment. They thought he was quite a comedian.
One Halloween, while Chuck’s parents dressed their boy in his birthday suit, I took pity on my child, came to his door and shouted at his parents, “LET FREEDOM REIGN, YOU EVIL DICTATORS!”
I waited politely. I waited until Chuck’s unshaven and shirtless uncle, Damn, stepped out, admired my costume, said I looked too thin and gave Me a handful of worms, maggots, fungi and composted humanure. “Here, for your health,” he added before quickly disappearing.
“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR INSULTS! say your prayers OR god wiLL BLOW THIS PLACE SKY-HIGH!”
Honestly, I always thought I was a good communicator, but this family made me doubt my talent. They didn’t answer and they didn’t call the police; instead, their evil daughter stepped out, complimented the ghost costume she imagined I was wearing, and said as she handed out these awful treats:
“Here’s a handful of Kava. It helps alleviate phobic, panic and obsessive-compulsive disorders. Here’s some Cannabis to help calm your nerves, and some Mulunga bark to help calm your nerves, and some Purslane and St. John’s Wort to help cure your upcoming depression, some Chamomile to help you relax, and Catnip to help cure your runaway schizophrenia.”
In all of eternity, I’ve never been so insulted. I was so angry, lightning shot out of my head and wind roared out of my body. I thought they would understand that I was not trick or treating, but they didn’t! Another, even more evil witch appeared in the doorway and sang, “Honey, I think you need some loving. Come in. Don’t be shy.”
That was the limit! I skedaddled and my prophet, Chuck, graffiteed these words on that accursed church, his home: “BEWARE! THE DEVIL LIVES HERE!”
The neighbors should have expelled those devils from their midst, instead they laughed and said my “graffiti” was had artistic merit! Well, since they couldn’t understand plain English, when they prayed for Christmas snow I deliberately rained thick, black, crude oil on their stupid heads. It was hilarious. I was sure everyone would understand that an oil storm is a sign that God is making them pay for harboring devils in their midst, but the damned nation just prayed for more free oil!
I’m not a quitter. I’m not! A million failures can’t stop me! I remained determined to protect the nation from Chuck’s wicked family. On December 24, my trusty megaphone, the popular news source USBS, broadcast the nation’s first declaration of war on all domestic sinners.
That should have scared the cockroaches out of my church. But, somehow I forgot Bollocks never listen to the news. Too bad for them. The next day thousands of heavily armed Blue Angels accompanied Me back to the Bollocks residence and there they sang like a perfect choir:
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU SHAMELESS DEVILS AND WITCHES! your HOME LOOKS LIKE HELL and all your neighbors WANT TO KILL YOU! GET OUT! THIS LAND IS SLATED TO BECOME WORLD RABBIT RESERVE A-21!”
This was followed by silence and, if I’m not mistaken, by the moaning of a woman having multiple orgasms! I was about to make Hell swallow up that damned church when the family pet bunny hopped through the doorway. I stood my ground, but the impertinent creature attempted to make love to my leather boot.
“DAMN BOLLOCKS! come out and face me like a man, you coward!”
A naked, unshaven horror danced from the church holding a shotgun as if it were his dancing partner, with the muzzle in his mouth! That idiot was using it as a marijuana pipe! Inhaling deeply, barely keeping his balance, the colossal fool smiled and crooned, “Oh, I wanna make love to youuuuuuu….”
“Damn Bollocks! Don’t you know how dangerous that herb is? You’ll go to Hell!”
He cradled his smoking gun and droned, “’Cause I’m your super man, baby, yeah, and I got super love for you…”
“Damn Bollocks! Shut your hippie crap spewing mouth! Put down that gun and follow Me to prison!”
He fled inside shouting, “No way! I quit Amerika! I’m joining Satan and flying to Mexico tomorrow!”
“Mexico is a no-fly zone.”
He fell on his knees. “Oh, God, can’t we just have a peaceful divorce? Can’t we just be friends? Can’t you love me a little? No? How about pity? I deserve it. Just let me introduce you to my so-called family.”
On cue, three shotguns smashed through a window. I though they intended to shoot Me, but more marijuana smoke curled up from each muzzle. I should have blown up that terrorist-infested, God-forsaken church! Oh, how I wanted to, how I dreamed of it, but I couldn’t because Chuck was there.
Meet the Family
Wanna know the truth? Chuck Bollocks is the only life I’ll ever admit to creating, but even I can’t understand how he’s related to his parents.
Chuck’s mother, Penny Bollocks, was an outsider who actually loved being outside. She was a dirt-loving economic terrorist and an awful vegetarian-polyamorist who never went shopping, or paid her taxes, or worked for money. I had an awful time protecting my boy from her perniciously evil influence.
In light of Penny’s abominable nature, you shouldn’t be surprised to learn that Chuck had many possible fathers, but for the sake of simplicity let’s call them all Damn Bollocks. And for the sake of accuracy, let’s say this despicable creature started life as an ordinary, four-legged pig and evolved into a two-legged pig. He thought his greatest talent was making women happy, so God put a curse on his inflatable thingamajig.
B*tch, Chuck’s so-called sister, was a freak of nature. As Supreme Author of this Universe, I wash my hands of her. She could have been an angel, but her foolish determination to be raised by her parents would spell her doom.
Now Chuckie baby, he was my boy. My orphan boy miraculously born from God’s ass. Granted, he wasn’t the sharpest toothpick in the box, but he burned brightly for justice and he believed in Me unconditionally. From a distance, he loved watching Me hurl lightning and move mountain tops. Every day, he had wet dreams about himself riding a tornado into Heaven, where he floated beside Me, enjoying virtual nurses in bikinis, prescription beer and Soothing Radiation™. Thanks to his lively imagination, he often prayed that an angel might abduct him and take him home. Well, he was nice enough, but until he earned his stay in Heaven he would have to be satisfied with my late night visitations.
One afternoon, after I endured hours of listening to him beg Me to save him from his evil foster family, I kindly enlightened the good boy with this instant message: “Chuck, I’m flattered that you love me more than your family. But here’s a reality check: no one gets anything from Me until they get a job and earn my love.”
Chuck was stunned. The word “job” throbbed in his brain and produced a dreadful moan. For his whole life he’d shunned his economic destiny. What now? That’s when his iGod received the following text message:
|WANTED: Adorable presidential apprentice and hero willing to lead the upcoming revolution and make Amerika the super power of love. If you have unconditional love, call 202-456-1117 to book an interview today!|
After Bitch read it to him, Chuck shouted, “Yahoo! This is super-awesome! You know what I mean? That job’s totally perfect for me!”
Bitch snorted trying not to laugh.
“What? Ain’t I quantified to lead a levilootion?”
“Didn’t you drop out of elementary school?”
“S’what? ’merika dun ca’e abow edjewkayshun! This the land of equal oppo’tunity, and I’m uncondishin‘l luff incarnate!”
“If unconditional love means you’re in no condition to love, then you’re the dude for this job,” his smartass sister retorted.
Chuck swallowed his candy bar and licked a hunk of grilled cow ass. Then he opened his golden iGod and asked Me to knock his sister’s head off. How could I resist? But hey, these days just about anyone can knock a girl’s head off. Besides, I’m supposed to be civilized on Sundays. So, I just sent a little metal angel through the church roof. I expected fireworks, but it fell harmlessly to the ground like the dud that it was. But Chuck, he had the right perspective. He pointed at the mess and shouted at his sister, “See! Dis is a sign from Gawd, so you better be ca-a-a-areful!!!”
“Right, it’s a sign that God needs navigation lessons,” she quipped while nibbling like a rabbit on a handful of green shit.
Chuck saw the new hole, then stared at the ruined drone and mumbled dreamily, “Wow. This is a sign that the job is mine. One angel falls and another rises.”
“What the Hell? Where did this crap come from?” Chuck’s mother spat in annoyance.
“God’s ass,” Bitch swore.
“In that case, he needs less fiber. We can’t even compost this stupid shit!”
Chuck was shocked and appalled. The level of disrespect for all things divine in his house was astounding. Once again, he asked Me to blow his family up. I was tempted, but I told him he was too deep in debt to afford it. So he asked me to strike his family with a violent illness instead. I told him it wasn’t my style, but he kept praying and begging so sweetly. He even offered his family jewels to cover the cost. What was I to do? Fortunately, I had biological weapons in my possession: plagues and more plagues. Well, them chronic sinners should have fallen ill and vomited a rainbow over their house, but only Chuck fell ill. To make him feel better, I said he was the cutest boy in the whole world, and for good measure I swore his evil family would go to Hell.
When Chuck’s ego was fully inflated, he boldly dialed the number of his economic destiny and was kindly told where to go if he wanted the biggest job in the world. You can imagine how he felt. He whooped and ran for the door.
“Don’t forget to take your father’s madicine!” his mother hollered as he left home. She meant take medicine to him, not take his medicine. But it was medicine, so the kid chugged half a gallon of moonshine, licked his chops and felt amazing.
Now the only trouble was getting to the interview. Public transportation wasn’t cool, his legs weren’t very good, and since his pothead mother poured good alcohol into the gas tank—the family car was dead. So, Chuck did the only thing he could do: he borrowed the neighbor’s car and drove straight through the east wall of the local church. Thereafter he continued due north-east and drove through east wall of the local school, and finally that car died in the abandoned front office of the local police department.
Chuck somehow survived, prayed to God for forgiveness, then got his first driving lessons from another neighbor who happily loaned him his car. Well, poor Chuck was so excited he drove the good Samaritan’s car straight through the pillars fronting city hall, terrifying a dozen politicians. Again, he somehow survived, borrowed a third car and drove into the nearest mall.
After stealing a decent pair of shoes, Chuck’s slow march to Washington became the stuff of legend. You see, in those days walking between cities was almost unheard of in Amerika, and people were mightily impressed to see Amerika’s savior wearing out his shoes tramping towards Destiny City. Beggars whistled, athletes inspired him, bullies egged him on, and vendors and home owners offered him whatever he needed, even alcohol, drugs, prayers, and—in one neighborhood—he was offered an electric pony.
Well, as you all know, some Amerikans are way too generous. So it happened that a cashier named Calypso slept with him. He could have slept with her forever and never fulfilled his destiny, but I made him impotent, so on the sixth day she sent him to a doctor—but, as was his habit, he got sidetracked and stumbled into one of those damned nudity shops! On the sixth day a squad of Blue Angels dragged him to his economic destiny.
Thank God, even though Chuck was a few days late, his job interview went amazingly. The interviewer began with this question, “Do you realize that without a job you will soon die of starvation, exposure, sickness or chronic and debilitating shame?”
“I did not know that.”
“Didn’t you complete high school?”
“Chuck, why do you want to work?”
Chuck proudly declared, “Because I love Amerika! I love it so much I would work for free to make this country even greater!”
“What qualifies you for the role of saving Amerika?”
Brimming with confidence, Chuck sang this divinely inspired song:
Buddy, I was born in a sewer,
But I never lost hope.
I failed every grade,
’Cause my mom smokes dope,
My experience sucks,
But I never lose hope
Because Amerika loves me,
And sooner or later,
By the power of God,
I’ll get this job,
U wait and see,
Sooner or later,
Will take pity on me!
The interviewer, who was also the CEO, was so impressed by this incredible display of musical talent that he awarded Chuck the revolutionary new title of “Lord FreeLuv Incorporated” and told him he could start doing the work of luv very soon, indeed, frighteningly soon.
Chuck raced home shouting, “I did it! Mom! Dad! B****! I got the BEST job IN THE WORLD!” Penny and Walter woke under the altar. “The best thing is,” Chuck continued oblivious, “they gave me a title! From now on, I’m Lord FreeLuv Incorporated! Can you believe it? I’m finally a corporation!”
They weren’t surprised. Nothing was impossible in modern-day U.S.A.; miracles were the norm.
Damn praised him. “Kid, I’m dreadfully envious of you. Hey, if you work hard, maybe you can pay off the family’s two and half centuries of back taxes.”
“I’ll do a lot more than that. They said if I stick to their diet and impress the Boss, they’ll promote me to President of the United States of the World!”
“Guys,” Penny interrupted, “hasn’t this fairytale gone on long enough? Damn, tell the poor kid the truth!”
Chuck stared in bewilderment.
“Damn, tell him,” Penny continued, “tell him you know about this job. Tell him what to expect.”
Damn sighed and grumbled, “Fine. I guess I should. Okay, listen to me, kid, your job is gonna be a safari picnic! You’ll do very little work except socialize with thousands of babes who will absolutely fall for your good looks.”
“Dad, tell me the truth or I’ll pray for divine vengeance!”
That was no empty threat.
“All right! Take it easy, kiddo. I admit, life was different in 48. As I remember, no one worked, everyone could afford a new home with just a few weeks of work, and everyone was wearing custom-made suits and crapping gold bricks. Money was growing on trees—I mean, people actually accepted leaves as money. They did. And the government was so rich it gave land away. And octogenarians were having amazing sex and –”
Chuck had heard enough lies. He started praying like the Devil. The women screamed and Damn was on his knees, begging for mercy, “Kid! Don’t be so impatient! I was just about to get to the juicy part!”
Chuck took a deep breath and let the old windbag continue.
“Years ago … well, okay, decades ago, I swear that same ad was in the papers. In those days, the Boss Above was a paragon of patience. He loved Amerika, but Amerikans refused to pay their bills. He warned us. He messaged us that Amerika was not the land of the free and that we must pay for everything: water, sunlight, air, mud, eyesight, everything. When we refused to pay, the country experienced 250 years of economic depression and –”
“Dad, shut up and tell me about the job!”
“Son, I was just about to do that. About a century ago, the Boss decided to give Amerika another chance to stop the depression and earn the love that makes nations happy. He said if anyone could teach him to love Amerika, salvation would be ours. So I took the job. For two bucks per hour, I became his personal love guru. Honestly, it was the worst job. He said if I failed, he’d curse me with a fool for a son.”
“Are you making this shit up?”
“Listen kid, lying is a lost freedom. The Boss’s got omniscience technology.”
“No kidding. So, did you make him love us?”
“I tried. I started with the same love lines I used on your mother. ‘Your eyes are like the moon and sun sailing through the face of darkness. Your nose is like an icy, craggy mountain –’”
“Wow, you were a great poet. God must have worshipped you.”
Damn paused. “Well, not exactly.”
“What do you mean? Was it a lukewarm relationship?”
“Not quite. Actually, I was fired on my first day. Yup, fired straight into Hell!”
“Holy shit!” Chuck cried and half fainted.
“Hey, don’t worry! You have more potential than I ever did.”
Chuck’s sister laughed. Irked, he rallied his energies to retort, “It’s true! I’m full of love! Thanks to a decade spent refining my love-making powers, I’m God’s gift to the world!”
The women roared with laughter.
“Don’t laugh at what you don’t know! My love isn’t ordinary love! My love is special. It’s spelled l-u-v. Ever hear of it?”
“Sure, B**** replied. “It’s the name of a brand of diapers, isn’t it?”
Chuck called out for help, but Damn was busy with Peggy.
“Chuck,” his sister began with all the gentleness she could summon, “don’t you realize it’s all a joke? The Boss created us for his entertainment. He doesn’t care about us or the economy. He’ll laugh his head off as he marches us all into such abysmal poverty that we will want to move to Africa, eat grubs, grow veggies and make our homes of sticks and mud.”
Poor Chuck had a seizure and feverishly prayed to prevent that awful prophecy.
The next morning our hero woke with fresh ideas about how to earn his place in Heaven. After feasting on crispy cereals and bubbly pop, the man who ran the scrap yard next door donated an old school bus to the lord’s noble cause. Thanks to good old fashioned Amerikan generosity, the lord began his new mission. Before he could kill anyone, God remotely drove the lord’s bus through the unpaved, bumpy and winding streets of Paradise Estates while the lord, with one foot on the steering wheel, projected his head through the side window and shouted at the streets:
“THE FREE BUS TO HEAVEN IS NOW ACCEPTING PASSENGERS! GET ON ALL YOU JOBLESS BUMS AND HOBOES!”
A dozen residents boarded FreeLuv’s bus. They had a blast until they ran out of biofuel in Baltimore. There the famously generous locals gave the young Amerikan revolutionaries their bicycles. So, the journey continued in slow motion. Years later, when they reached Disneyworld, Lord FreeLuv climbed to the summit of Magic Candy Mountain and shouted, “My friends, this is God’s shinning city in Heaven! I can feel God’s presence in this harmonious world! Look around! The animals, princesses and fairies are our friends, and everything is so cheap with a little work we can buy whatever we want!”
They saw armed security guards coming to arrest them, but they stopped and listened in wonder.
The lord continued, “God tells me this is the capital of Heaven. His voice is beautiful. I can hear Him speaking to me! He’s going to reveal the true constitution! Everyone, quiet!”
The crowd fell silent as they bore witness to a miracle. Powerful electromagnetic waves descended from Heaven, burnt the lord’s hair and communicated to his lordly brain the most beautiful constitution known to mankind. An hour later, the lord recovered and faithfully recited the beautiful constitution to his faithful followers.
OF THE UNITED ESTATES OF AMERIKA
- This is land ruled by governments and corporations that hunger for money and that you, the people, shall love, trust and support with your money and blood while they enslave, exploit, abuse, rape, rob, injure, poison and kill you.
- The government is God’s immortal incarnation on Earth, and the immortal corporations are his angels, therefore you shall obey your bosses and rulers, and if you don’t like this arrangement, you can go to Hell or to court.
- You must buy, lease or rent land to stand on, homes to live in, clothes to wear, and machines or animals that can move your bodies, and you must pay for iGods and angels to do your thinking, and you must buy drugs and menstrual pads and hire doctors, dentists and plastic surgeons to fix your bodies, whatever color or sex they might be, for they are all equally defective. If you don’t like this arrangement, try taking God to court.
- You will be screwed by the laws and by the courts, and you will learn to love it.
- If you cannot afford anything, work harder; if you can’t find enough work or work that pays well enough, you deserve to be in Hell.
- If you want to be a politician, a boss, or a priest, screw your brothers and sisters.
- The natural rights of powerful predators must be respected, for without them the poor would multiply like rabbits, consume our planet and create Hell on Earth.
- No may harm the economy and its caretakers by asking unauthorized questions, by imagining unauthorized images, or by using their body or mind uneconomically.
- If life’s getting you down, you can always go to Hell, whose sizzling fires you may imagine.
- Respect this Constitution and you will earn the right to kiss God’s ass, dance to his metronome and admire his ruler.
After hearing their lord recite this Amerikan Constitution, they felt cheated and insulted, for that is how the ignorant always respond to the truth. However, thanks be to God, being peaceful Amerikans, the crowd just laughed and told the lord if he wasn’t careful he would end up in a mental hospital. The lord thanked them and prayed, so I struck the unbelievers with syphilis. It was quite a miracle. Don’t ask me how I did it; I don’t share business secrets.
When the local authorities realized Chuck had attempted to start a revolution, they were so impressed they gave him room and board in a palatial, government institution, the kind without stairs and corners so that no one can hurt or kill themselves. Other revolutionaries were already there. They warmly greeted him.
“Hey, brother! Welcome to paradise!”
“This is paradise?”
“Sure! We never work and everything is free!”
That much was true. So, Chuck partied all day and every day, and he partied so hard he forgot his name but not his destiny. His conscience pricked him. With each passing day he felt guiltier about wasting his talents and not doing his job to fulfill his damn destiny. One day, he prayed for forgiveness but I wasn’t in the mood and pretended I did not exist. In despair, Chuck ran to the clown across the hall and begged for help contacting God. Grinning, the clown replied, “Contact God!? The Boss don’t have time for mere mortals like you. You’d have to cry ‘Rape!’ to get his attention.”
Chuck kissed him, tore off his undies and ran down the hall shrieking, “Rape! Rape!”
No one paid much attention, no one except Gordon Miholë. Chuck’s screaming summoned the ancient clown into the hallway with his pink balloon. “Who’s asking to be raped? Bring her to me and I’ll pop my balloon in her colon!”
Chuck fled for his life. Everyone shouted it was just a joke, but Chuck wasn’t laughing. He rushed into the library and asked the librarian for audio books explaining suicide techniques.
“I’m sorry, son, but we only have books full of shit.”
Chuck suddenly felt lucky he didn’t know how to read anyway. But, just out of curiosity, he wandered down an aisle with his nose pinched and stumbled over his mother, naked and hexing with the chief psychiatrist and the librarian.
“Mom, what luck! Maybe you can help me. Do you know anything about suicide?”
“You don’t need any help. Civilization is a suicide cult.”
He blushed. “I know, but we’re dying too slowly! I want to have a face-to-face talk with God today! Now!”
The chief shrink offered this brilliant suggestion, “Kid, why don’t you overdose on some weed.”
“Good advice!” Penny exclaimed.
Chuck thanked them both, went home and cooked up a cauldron of marijuana. He soon flew higher than the sky, but he did not see God. He was pretty pissed off about it. Then his sister offered this sage advice: “Brother, if you want to go to Heaven, visit the mall and shout, ‘Jesus is a commie who sucks tits, Heaven looks like a Mexican outhouse, Muhammad smoked pot and Santa won’t ever bring gifts to black or Jewish kids!”
Chuck flew to the mall and did his damned best to offend the crowd, but the results were disappointing. Bitch had underestimated Amerika’s love and understanding. When crowds of shoppers heard Chuck repeat his sister’s curses, they politely praised him for exercising his right to freedom of speech. Others, in the true Christmas spirit, gave him medicine.
After a horrible night of disappointments, Chuck fell asleep outdoors and woke on a cold doorstep when a resident child thoughtlessly cried, “Mommy, santa brought me a puppy, puppy, puppy!”
A woman who was not the child’s mother appeared. She took one look at the bearded man and yanked her child away, bolted the door and called the cops. Chuck quickly dragged his ass home. Despairing of life, he climbed onto the altar and waited for the end. Hours later, Penny inquired, “Have you found God yet?”
“Eat me, mother!”
Penny softened her voice, “I can tell you where he lives.”
Chuck shot into sitting position. “Really? You know where God lives?”
She laughed, “Well, of course. I once dated him.”
His jaw fell.
“No, don’t envy me. I never met anyone so bossy in my life. ‘Do this!’ and ‘Stop that!’ That’s all I ever heard.”
“Well, he is the Boss.”
“No, Chuck, he’s your boss, not mine. I wouldn’t work for an egomaniac. Chuck, on our first night we dressed in sheep’s clothing and frolicked on a meadow in Boonieville. Then, as we rolled in the grass, I got so discombobulated that I didn’t know which one of dozens of sheepy-looking creatures was him, so when one of them snuggled beside me and said he wanted to make the most amazing baby lamb in the universe, I told him point blank, ‘I’m sorry, but I have no intention of bringing a child into this crazy world.’ I even gave him a condom. Oh, was he ever offended! He insulted my I.Q., my D.N.A. and my ass.”
Chuck was pretty sure his mother was pulling his leg. He looked across the room for confirmation.
“Don’t pay any attention to her, boy,” Damn began. “She’s always making awful jokes. I’ll take you to Boston. That’s where the Boss lives. It’s the town of boss. I cracked that code long ago. The name gives it away. Anyway, let’s start tomorrow. I can hardly wait. I just know you’ll convince the Boss Above to love Amerika again.”
Penny chortled, “Since the Boss couldn’t even love me, how’s he gonna love my country?”
“Kid, show yer mamma how yer gonna convince the Boss to love Amerika!”
Chuck beamed. Chuck was ready. Chuck didn’t quite know what to do, but after a deep breath—to his own surprise—he sang such a sweet prayer even God got a toothache and taste of diabetes, so please read it in moderation:
Oh Father of Creation,
Creator of our in-car-nation,
You up among the stars above,
How can you love your kids
When we don’t appreciate,
We just depreciate,
We don’t appreciate
You gave us appendixes,
Tailbones and bellybuttons,
Dicks, cunts, and assholes too,
And letters, numbers in our heads,
And for this they never pay a cent!
Oh, they really don’t appreciate,
They just depreciate,
They don’t appreciate,
Your effort and your overhead.
But please relax, don’t fret,
I’ll pay the nation’s debts.
My love will warm your soul
And reignite your inner coal,
And in the desert of your loneliness,
I will fertilize the emptiness,
And you shall reap rows of lettuce,
The lettuce of love,
The lettuce of blahblahblah…11
His sister clapped and cried, “The Boss is gonna love you! That song could make a woman menstruate.”
Well, I do declare, that is the only true thing she ever said, and you know how much I dread menstruating women, so I did Chuck a favor and killed him.
Much to my surprise, Amerika demanded Chuck’s return, organized a boycott and quit my churches, banks, malls and other workplaces. Desperate to avoid another economic crisis, President Angel contacted Damn and told him to talk Penny into quickly creating a new and improved Chuck.
“Good idea,” he whispered into his iGod. “But not now. Penny’s got a terrible vaginal infection.”
Angel explained, “You must be brave. Tell her sex is the only cure.”
Damn blessed Me and quickly woke Penny with his little love organ. She groaned, sleepily pushed him away and muttered with eyes shut, “You old pig! I don’t care if you’re a kick-ass porn star, you put that thing away! You got me pregnant twice—that’s one time more than I wanted, and Charles was our punishment! Don’t you dare infect me again!”
“Penny, Chuck isn’t a disease!”
“Oh no? For nine months I was sick with him. And, he made the milk in my breasts curdle!”
“Honey, I swear, your next—I mean our next boy will be better.”
“He couldn’t be any worse.”
“You have the power to create heroes and saviors! Oh, Penny, you mustn’t waste God’s gift to the world.”
With those words he could have seduced an angel, but Penny wasn’t buying his hotdog.
“Go to the next village and ask the women there to help you make a second Frankenstein.”
Obviously, that conversation was going nowhere. So, against my better judgement, a trillion angels reassembled every atom of Chuck’s body, inserted his soul in the appropriate hole, and carried him home.
Satan Saves Chuck
I love being the author everything, but nation building is a pain in the ass. I keep trying, and I keep telling Amerikans that they have to make more sacrifices if they want a healthy economy. They used to listen. Now, not so much. They spend all their time entertaining and educating themselves with a few stupid books. I was hurt and confused. Who could have dared to write educational books? I read the cover of one and was astounded to realize it was written by someone called Satan. I couldn’t believe it. Writing books wasn’t Satan’s style. Not at all. But it was her, and her damn scribbles were doing more damage to civilization than a nuclear war.
Infuriated, I went to Hell and found Satan between books, relaxing in a house she had not paid for and eating the raw flesh of a disgusting fruit.
“Satan, you lazy old bitch, why aren’t you busy stoking the great fire of civilization?”
“Well, good mourning to you,” the ancient witch replied.
“Liar! This is a terrible morning! Now you listen to Me! Who gave you permission to write books that teach my slaves how to live without Me and my civilization? Who gave you that permission?”
“My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What makes you think a poor, uneducated slave like me could write a book? I can’t pen a word. I can’t even spell my moniker.”
“Then how did your name get on seven thousand books?” I asked, perplexed.
“Someone is using my name as their pen name.”
“Who is he?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe Prank Doodle.”
“That bastard? I will roast him!”
“I love a good roasting, but be careful. The publicity around such a gruesome death would probably persuade more people to read the author’s books.”
“I see. Well, do you have a better idea?”
“Ever hear of fighting fire with fire?”
“Sure. How does it work?”
“If you don’t like people reading bad books, write a better one. It shouldn’t be hard. Just write a cheerful romance that makes Amerika seem like Heaven and all Amerikans like heroes and angels. Make Amerika look so amazing that even your enemies will immigrate and offer their labor for free so that they can boost your profits.”
“My dear, that’s a divine plan. I’ll start writing right away.”
“Excellent! But let me give you some literary advice: make Chuck Bollocks the main character of your book, and if he disappoints you, don’t fire him so hastily. Develop his character. Give him time to learn from his sins and errors. Don’t be a control freak, okay?”
“Me, a control freak? I give everyone freedom. Now, where’s my dinner?”
“Here!” Satan cheerily replied as she brought a pot full of her tasteless books.
With a flourish of his golden wand, God resurrected Chuck Bollocks. The boy was not pleased. He did not want to continue his embarrassing life, so no sooner was he resurrected than he tried to kill himself by overdosing on organic mushrooms. Well, thanks be to God, he failed again, for just as he raised his first spoonful to his lips, God sent a shining drone swooping down from Heaven. It smashed a second hole in the church roof and crumpled in a heap on the floor. Out of its little cargo hold rolled the Sunday edition of the Washington Wisdom. Chuck was supposed to read it. He was supposed to find God’s message in the classified section but he wasn’t very good at interpreting divine signs. He took the paper to the bathroom and wiped his ass with it!
Well, I’m not a quitter. A second drone smashed through a stained window and dropped five copies of the Washington Wisdom on Chuck’s head. The coincidence of two drones delivering papers to his home in one day made him wonder. Perhaps, he thought, God wanted him to spend more time on the toilet. So, he spent the next hour wiping his ass raw.
I’m a relentless optimist, so one more drone smashed through that perforated roof. This one beat Chuck over the head with the Washington Wisdom before dropping it on his lap. Chuck felt an urge to visit the toilet again, but then he wondered, “What if God has another purpose for newspapers?” Before he could burn the paper or toss in into the garbage, his sister grabbed it on her way to the family’s filthy compost toilet, but the headline made her stop and read aloud: “Washington needs Chuck Bollocks to fix Amerika’s love deficit and spread our love to all foreign nations.” She snorted with half-suppressed chuckles. “They only smoke the best dope in Washington.”
Chuck got on his knees.
“Hey, this is weird,” Bitch mused, oblivious to her brother’s desire for justice. “All the Public Notices say, I quote, ‘A Prophet of Love will soon fertilize the deserts of our hearts and rule in Washington.’ And look at this: all the classifieds are promising love. And all the advertisements are selling love, the secrets of love, and,” snickering, she added, “here’s one that says ‘The Prophet of Love is Bollocks.’”
Chuck leapt to his feet. “I knew it! I knew I had a purpose in this universe! I am the Prophet of Love! My destiny is to bring the message of love to Washington!”
“And when are you going to give me the message of love?” cried Jenny, one of his many neglected girlfriends.
“I will marry you when I become president of something, preferably of the whole damn country!”
“Will you ask for my consent before you marry me?”
“Only if your boyfriends approve.”
Sometimes the truth hurts. She replied with her usual sarcasm, “Oh, Chuck, I’m going to miss you while you’re romping in Washington. No one loved me like you did. Washington doesn’t know what’s coming!” Then she grabbed him and kissed him so hard that he felt his soul fly away.
The Pilgrimage to Washington
With his uncle’s blessing, Lord FreeLuv began the long pilgrimage to Destiny City, Washington, on foot. The nation quivered with excitement as he tripped down the streets. Everyone offered to tie his shoelaces. Before he could ask for shelter, everyone showed him their doors and said, “Be my guest!” Hundreds kind supporters gave him their microwaved meals, their home movies, their daughters and wives and their beds. Such is the nature of Amerikan hospitality that everyone treated him like family, told him they believed (in) him and treated him like family, for he was the perfect guest. Indeed, he never used their toilets and always relieved himself in public libraries and bookstores, and even there he was praised, for somehow he never used any toilet paper.
Of course, some people were disappointed. There were simply too many invitations for one man to handle. And yes, he did face some criticism for declining invitations from homosexuals, but after he confessed to his allergy they understood and were content to touch him in the streets and alleys.
Between marches, in the parks, Lord FreeLuv shone like the Sun and sang George Washington’s hits. His voice drew huge crowds, from teenagers to the elderly. Sometimes, if he saw an injured veteran, a broke beggar, or just a sick body, he paused, came to them and whispered in their ears, “Have faith, you who suffer, for my love will awaken Washington’s heart and make you great again.”
On one occasion he touched the Idol of Liberty. This bold display of affection towards a statue of a woman caused the statue to come to life. To everyone’s wonder, the living statue threw off its robe and sang, “MY CHAINS CANNOT HOLD ME! OH LORD, YOUR love MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE!” In a fit of excitement, the giant woman plunged into the ocean, and as she tried to swim back home, to France, she sank straight to Hell, where she and all her kind belong.
Anyway, the whole nation was touched by the lord’s songs and feats of love. Lord FreeLuv fever took Amerika by storm, like a tornado that sucks everything into Heaven.
But not everyone was swept away by the Lord FreeLuv phenomenon. One jealous investigative reporter stopped him on the street and inquired, “Who the Hell are you? And where the Hell do you think you’re going?”
The lord calmly replied, “I am the Prophet of Love, and I am going to the White House to awaken the heart of Amerika. Is this not the way?”
“No, it’s that way! Here are the directions,” said the cruel mischief-maker and handed him a map with directions to Hollywood. The lord trusted him, but it didn’t matter. Halfway across the country, while riding an exhausted ass through Oklahoma, he caught Hollywood’s attention. Studio executives made a scene by riding some fast elephants after him, and when they caught up they interviewed him for the starring role the popular television show, Amerika’s Got Love. They liked him so much they let him spend a whole show singing Economic Hit Man, Amerika’s favorite political song by the Christian rockers Piper’s Dues. Here’s a free copy of its excellent lyrics:
Economic Hit, Man
Baby, if you ain’t got no credit
Relax! I’m gonna be our president,
I’ll make enough money for us all,
And with my love I’ll make flowers grow
In the hearts of every enemy
Hiding in the deserts of the Congo, Canada,
Alabama, Russia, China and Iran,
As well as in Belgium and Vietnam.
I’m gonna rescue US
With a higher love, oh yeah!
I’ll set us free from the scary enemy,
Our inefficient, prodigal military,
From stupid projects and nasty debts!
Yeah, when I be our president,
I’ll turn the depression of the nation
Into a clearance sale of happiness!
I’ll make freedom affordable,
And reinvent democrazy;
I’ll renovate equality,
And make zero equal twenty!
The judges loved it. The nation thought FreeLuv was a genius and wondered why God wasn’t jealous and didn’t kidnap him.
Washington was afraid. Washington was very afraid. Of course, Washington treasured the lord’s love and Washington wanted all the lord’s love, but it feared that the lord was too powerful and yes, possibly dangerous. So, Washington tried to stop the lord from rising and Washington angrily denied that God had destined the lord for a successful political career. Consequently, when the lord came knocking at the White House, no one answered until the lord prayed to the star spangled darkness of outer space. Then, by a power greater than coincidence, the gates squeaked slightly open. No gentle smiles greeted the lord; instead, a pudgy, bearded face leered from the breach. It was none other than White House advisor and Chief Economist Alack-amad Olyshit.
“Get lost, FreeLuv!” he shrieked. “It’s past midnight!”
The lord replied, “Gatekeeper of Amerika’s central nervous system! I come bearing the gift of love.”
Alack-amad hated poetry. He tried to escape, but FreeLuv held his hand firmly, kissed it and whispered, “Alack-amad, why do you fear what is good for you? I’ve come to give this tired nation its overdue love transfusion.”
Trembling, Olyshit blustered, “Liar! You’ve come to pollute and steal our blood, our energy, our guns, and our souls!”
The lord laughed, “I am only authorized to do wonderful things.”
By the grace of God, Olyshit relaxed, believed and beamed with delight. Then, he rushed back to deliver the good news to President Angel.
According to reliable reports, the story of the lord’s journey was slightly different. Apparently, where President Angel took safety precautions. He had a few signs altered so that the lord went to the Capitol instead of the White House. And, the Capitol was filled with crude, uneducated farmers who had no patience for talk of love and fine feelings.
FreeLuv entered the Capitol as the president gave a hilarious speech to his humorless audience:
“Fellow time travelers and rural hicks, thank you for growing the nation’s corn flakes, Wheaties and burgers, and thank you for whatever else you do. Now, before I cultivate your minds with a little speech, please have a little respect and turn off your assholes, for we have strict policy against farting during my speeches. Next, let me see. Right, we have a national emergency. My yacht, Wet Dream, is sinking. Something has to be done, but my dear wife says I’m overreacting, that our politicos and soldiers can save anything. Well, I’m not so sure, but I’ll give our troops a shot. I’m really too busy in Washington providing our nation with all its needs: credit cards, mortgages, armed troops, junk food and agricultural warriors like yourselves who wage war on hunger, claw food out of the rocky ground and resist this evil new movement to make disgusting ‘love’ with the soil and your neighbors. You rightly do not wish to be convicted of witchcraft and sharing. Competition is good. Throughout our star-spangled history, we’ve had some very memorable scuffles, fisticuffs and hiccups, and too be honest, we’re all better for having survived our famines, Dust Bowls, bankruptcies and battles with competitive pests.”
As he finished, a brilliant light approached from beyond the audience. It was the lord striding towards the lectern to deliver the shining truths Amerikans were hungering for. President Angel introduced him with a sneer and slipped into the shadows.
Lord FreeLuv began: “My dear friends, President Angel—or shall I call him Walt Disney?—or shall I call him Mister Rockerfeller? Well, I don’t know, but whatever we call him, he is an awful clown. I have seen him talk to animals and pray to his fairy godmother! And, thanks to all the straw between his ears, Amerika is a joke and this great country is the most deadly amusement park on Earth. All our politicians are mascots and puppets, our cars go nowhere fast, and our shooting galleries have no attendants. We need change, not pennies and quarters but real change, and that is what I am offering. The honorable Mister President can talk until Kaboomsday about economic progress, but it’s all angel manure!” the lord exclaimed as his tone become more strident, more impassioned, and louder. He continued, “That’s right! I said it! Angel manure! And that would not be so bad if he respected human manure! But he doesn’t! He makes your shit illegal and only accepts his own shit! In other words, President Angel is flushing ordinary Amerikans down the proverbial toilet of sickness and debt. But I swear, I will smash that toilet—for it is an evil, life-sucking toilet!”
Everyone laughed. “My friends, God expressly sent me to save our country with a new currency, the life-creating currency of love!”
The crowd went wild. The crowd brought down the so-called house. But the president gestured for silence and requested a demonstration of the lord’s love powers. The lord was not afraid. He simply and calmly dropped these divinely inspired words into the silent room like jewels in a puddle of mud:
The economy sucks,
For all your labor,
You’ve earned a bowl of dust
And a table without water.
The economy sucks
But don’t cry,
Tomorrow comes the flood—
For by the power God vested in me
I shall summon the clouds
And unleash such a rainstorm of love
That you’ll never even pray
For an even better day.
These inspirational lines drove the crowd wild. No one had ever heard such meaningful words before. Everyone begged for a second verse. They challenged him to sing like a rapper. He did his best and blew these seeds of wisdom upon his stones-for-brains listeners:
I’m your economic messiah,
Not a trickster or a liar.
I got the love
That trickles down from above
And fills the hole in the soul.
My love, with my luv
I’ll save you from financial drought,
And the funeral director,
And the debt collector.
I’ll be the sweetest sugar daddy,
For my luv is sweeter than sugar,
Sweeter than God,
But so healthy, I think
It has zero calories,
Though it bears more fruit
Than the corner grocery.
Hey, if you don’t believe me,
Taste the green pea of luv
When it drops from above.
The old goats in the Capitol enjoyed the lord’s song and dance and hollered for even more exciting displays of wisdom. Truth is, they had never heard such flattering words and exciting promises.
Damn Bollocks had dressed up as a farmer. Now he rose to his feet and shouted, “Lord FreeLuv, stop holding us in suspense! Your tongue and your lips stirred our souls, but we need real love, a love we can see and touch. Please, put our doubts to rest!!!”
The lord beamed with confidence and shouted for the crowd, “I will now perform an economic miracle. Prepare to receive all the love you deserve.”
Lord FreeLuv closed his eyes, squatted and went into deep meditation so that he could give birth to Heaven. The world around him ceased to exist (so he did not notice that his rustic audience had quietly left the building). The lord had made contact with God. His magic booty trembled with waves of electrifying, uncontrollable and unheard of luv energy and exploded with luv. I am not joking! The air was filled with miraculous money! It rained down like autumn confetti! Each little perfect paper rectangle of pure luv was stamped with the Fed’s digits and an image of Lord F’s heart-shaped ass expelling a bubble marked with the number O1,000,000. The bottom of each bill read, Printed on God’s Luv Press. The back of each bill was illustrated with a heart and the words: First and Only Global Currency Fully Authorized and Backed by Real Luvers©. Thanks for trusting me.
Who received this incredible gift? You guessed it. But not even they bothered to read what they fought for like greedy kids on Christmas morning while Lord FreeLuv’s limp body was rushed away on a trolley.
A rope came snaking through the blue-domed roof and down came President Angel wearing an oxygen mask and disguised as Lord FreeLuv! From the floor, he gestured majestically, lifted his mask and quickly laughed, “Ho, ho, ho, how does Amerika like its loan?”
Moolah Bro Zacharin was positively ecstatic: “Lord FreeLuv, with this, we can do anything!”
The president lifted his mask again and quickly explained, “Money is God. With money, whatever you want done can be done. Therefore be thankful to your president, for he gave me the power to help you. Now, before I go for good, please sign this band new social contract or put your bloody fingerprints here,” he added as he handed out a contract to the puzzled crowd.
“Don’t look so confused. Just do as I say or you will surely die.”
The fools pierced themselves and signed the contract with their blood and celebrated their incredible good fortune.
President Angel spent his money on golf courses, literacy courses, drugs, battle ships, hybrid prison-hospitals and great political parties. The public praised him. Everything was hunky-dory until everything went to Hell. During another late-night celebration in the Executive Bedroom, shortly after everyone fell asleep, Olyshit screamed like a girl, “The end is near! The end is here! Someone flushed Amerika down the Burning Bunny Hole!”
Snapping awake, President Angel demanded an interpretation from the esteemed professor and White House resident, Moolah Bro Zacharin.
Zach cogitated before answering, “The Burning Bunny Hole represents the Middle East and Mexico, the two doors to Hell.”
The president laughed, “You zany idiot, the Burning Bunny Hole represents our imaginary debts. Thank goodness we have nothing to fear while the good lord is in control.”
“Liar!” cried Olyshit in a fresh attack of hysteria. “The BBH will consume all of time and space unless the lord gives us more, more, more sweet luv!”
Grand Doofus Arrears added, “Forget it! We owe our creditors a billion trillion zillion! Plus, now they’re saying our Amerikan luv is crap. They’re demanding our flesh and blood instead!”
“They bluff! No one can resist our luv!” declared President Angel as, with infinite certainty, he poked Olyshit’s wounded ass and added, “Isn’t that right, Alack-amad?”
Alack-amad Olyshit whimpered while the Grand Doofus opined, “Our luv cannot hold off the vultures and hyenas! Foreign creditors smell our rotting flesh and are gathering overhead, on our borders, on our shores!”
“I say we throw an extravagant funeral for ourselves. Maybe they’ll think Amerika is dead and leave us alone,” said the hopeless Vice Doofus Broke.
Everyone liked that idea and played dead in bed. Everyone except Moolah Bro Zacharin. He prayed for lunch.
“Shame on you, Zach!” the president cried. “We immortals and don’t need food! Would you like to try my deep fried angel cake?”
Zach-the-nutcase vomited in his shirt pocket and wiped himself with his fluffy silk tie.
The president continued, “We must stop being pessimistic. Amerika is the lighthouse of the world, a beacon to all ships tossed by political and economic storms! Our fire burns brightly, and all our debts and deficits will never consume us, for we are loaded with luv! And if our storm-tossed brothers and slaves don’t want to work and sell for our luv, they can go to Hell. That’s perfectly constitutional!”
The Grand Doofus dreamily murmured, “I think we should make budget cuts.”
“Good idea. Let’s stop wasting money on Amerikan women,” said Zacharin. “They’re too expensive. Foreign women are better cooks and more affordable.”
“Zacharin! You traitor! I’ll have you thrown into one of our women’s prisons for that vicious lie!”
“Of course, your wife is awesome!” cried Zacharin in his defense. Silence followed before he begged forgiveness on his knees.
“Hey,” said the Grand Doofus, “let’s use NASA to build the first color peekaboo satellite. We’ll drive the black-and-white porn industry out of business and make orgasms of money!”
The president snorted and Chief Economist Alack-amad Olyshit laughed so hard the bed squeaked and groaned. Vice Doofus Broke feared a crash and cried, “We need infrastructure repairs! This bed is about to break!”
President Angel acknowledged the urgency of their predicament and admitted a crash was imminent. He roundly declared, “The time has come to focus on the home front! No more foreign adventures! Let’s invest in bedroom and general home development. We’ll turn every Amerikan town and shitty [sic] into the promised Disneyland!”
Zacharin’s tummy grumbled.
The Grand Doofus Arrears mused, “We can’t afford to make more movies. Why don’t we ever invest in poetry?”
“Yeah! Poetry is Amerika’s original pastime! George Washington’s verses ruled the land and put wealth in our purses. Poetry is the gold mine and the central bank of the Amerikan spirit, especially if you read between the fucking lines!” shouted VD Broke with a little too much enthusiasm.
The Grand Doofus eagerly concurred, “My grandmother grew fabulously rich reading the racy white stuff between the black squiggles.”
This terrible joke won guffaws all around and sent the bed crashing so hard to the ground that the whole party feared divine judgement.
Although almost anything could be done with luv, those who possessed it did nothing with it, tucked it in their pants and forgot it existed. Afterwards, luvless Amerikans got so impatient they began wasting their incomparable creative talents on composing hate poems about the greatest prophet to ever grace Amerika. Here’s an example of their bile:
What kind of hero was that jerk?
Jesus Christ, he never did one minute’s work!
His only job was to shit and rob!
That con and fraud!
He was a dud, and worse,
He taxed our blood,
And made us work like devils,
To build a shiny Hell
In which we burn too well!
Enough of all this shit,
His fat ass shall be kicked!
Another vile pile of rhymes was composed by an evil and very rich seven-year-old broad who ruled Amerika’s popular entertainment industry. Her soul was hijacked by a perfectly diabolical spirit that inspired her to write the most offensive lyrics ever conceived. Against my better judgement, and with great hesitation and concern for my reader’s defenseless souls, I have printed her lyrics below.
Fuck Your Wealth
I used to love my money,
I used to love my house,
I used to love my honey,
My clothes and all my jewelry,
And gadgetry, fine wines, big books,
Musical recordings, paintings and perfumes,
Mirrors and my hair,
But now I just don’t care
A bit about that shit!
I just wanna be a cavegirl
Eating bark from the trees,
With the birds and the bees.
Thank God Amerikans rarely understand what they say. Instead, they mostly focus on rhythm and tone, so they never notice my bad spells and crooked comas. In fact, they are sooo good at ignoring words that whenever God insults them they think it’s just a joke or they think a compliment is hidden between the lines. Well, “Why not?” After all, Amerikans are the chosen people—that is, they are the people chosen to make God rich and busting with laughter.
Lord FreeLuv had given his luv to all who deserved it, but millions of lazy-asses and terrorists didn’t understand that. One nasty faction began refusing to pay taxes, mortgages and rents. They even issued this threat: We will never pay until we are happy with the services their governments, banks and landlords provided. They probably imagined they were comedians.
In a televised court case, the infamous leader of these economic terrorists, the compulsive liar, Professoress Pipi Deweydink, published a manifesto calling on all Amerikans to “Fuck the Constitution! Stop living like slaves of Death and Delusion! Live like the wild and free animals that you are!”
The nation’s foremost judges condemned P.D.’s writings to Hell. Additionally, they issued public mental health warnings against reading them. However, this only increased public curiosity about how humans should live. After they discovered the bones of their first ancestors in an African jungle-bungle-garden, some nut started a movement to revive ape traditions. Soon, more nuts from coast to coast were rejecting all forms of technology and tried to live with only human energy. Many immigrated back to their so-called “home,” back to Africa! Once there—you know what they did? They made a mockery of themselves! They spent many days trying to teach their hairy relatives how to grow food, raise roofs, live without alpha males and to use their little brains for maximum evil!
I bawled my eyes out. Oh, how I wept to see the benefits of civilization cast away like a soggy handkerchief. Oh, how I hated P. Deweydink! Luckily, I remembered Satan’s advice to fight fire with fire, or water with water, or something like that.
While Amerika’s hyper-economical culture went south, faithful Democrats and Republicans prayed for Lord FreeLuv to give them a second luv transfusion, and when he didn’t come lickety-split, Moolah Bro Zacharin protested, “I know why the lord abandoned God’s country! Look at this desert! There’s nothing good to eat here. Once upon a time, this country was a smorgasbord full of fresh, organic meat, apple trees and coconuts. What happened?”
“I think,” began White House clown, Moolah Bro Zacharin, “Midas turned Amerika into a land made of fakery and money. Now, nothing is real. Apple, Fox, Word, Amazon, and DiCk are not what they should be. Have you ever tried eating an apple computer?”
“It’s very bad for your teeth?” asked President Angel.
White House poet Albert Einstein said, “In Amerika, nothing is real! Every plant uses solar power, no, uses the nuclear power of the sun—but our nuclear power plants are flowers of insanity! And where is the lord? Why didn’t he go to Nagasaki, Chernobyl, Fukushima and the others?”
Chief Economist Olyshit explained: “The lord will not come until we overcome our homophobic fears of the lord’s luv.”
President Angel dismissed all their worries and assured them that Amerika was better off without Lord FreeLuv, and he asked them to turn down the “f-ing music!” I don’t blame him. His normally dignified guests were bobbing their heads and twitching to the rhythms of the Petite Devils, a terrifying Middle Eastern band that sang horrific lyrics and had somehow infiltrated the White House. In case you want to know what they sounded like, you can now enjoy my free sample of their vomit for yourself:
Oh, Amerika, you dropped the ball,
And by “ball” I mean
The whole damn globe!
Your army of love
Was supposed to kill hatred and terror!
You told all the world’s girls
You possess the warmest
Arms of love soft as doves!
So we waited long, with bated breath,
For General Love, oh Lord FreeLuv!
We were so sure,
Your secret weapon
Would save our frozen asses!
We sent private invites,
But your superhero of romances
Was all withered and exhausted
From his little domestic performance.
Oh, Amerika—your lord lacks wit,
And honestly, he’s full of shit!
These emotional and manipulative lyrics actually provoked President Angel to pity the lord and to ask Moolah Bro Zacharin to bring Lord FreeLuv back to Washington. But this command was ignored, for the moron couldn’t hear anything over the Country Bimbos and Clowns as they screamed these lovely lyrics:
Oh, my heart ached so
For the one who won,
The presidency of my soul.
Where did he go?
Did the president of my heart
Vaporize like a fart?
Where did he go? My favorite oaf?
Oh, oh, oh, where is my sugar loaf!
What the heck, your love was
My life and welfare check!
Without it I can’t afford my tummy,
And nothing else is yummy.
Without it, I wanted to be dead,
Until the voice of reason said,
“Stuff FreeLuv! Don’t play the nun!
Get a facelift, a titlift, an asslift,
And better boys will run!”
Chief Economist Alack-amad Olyshit saw how these lyrics made the president cry, so he took pity on him and said, “Mister President, don’t worry, you don’t need any kind of lift. Besides, we don’t have money for lifts. Praying’s all we can afford. But take heart, for if we pray hard enough, maybe Jesus, Allah or the Buddha will come and balance our budget. I’m telling you, they were pretty good politicians back in their day.”
President Angel wiped his eyes and blubbered, “I could use a few good men like them. But they have a point. Washington is so ugly it couldn’t interest a rabid dog. If we want fresh talent, we need to transform this old strumpet into a princess!”
Olyshit enthusiastically agreed. So, Washington went deeper into debt giving itself a makeover. Its buildings were made of gingerbread, its boulevards were paved with chocolate, its streetlamps were sugar canes and its fountains flowed with champagne and no pets were allowed except for the edible kind that produced eggs, milk or meat. Thus, Washington was transformed into an edible princess.
Unfortunately, her prince did not come. Neither Lord FreeLuv nor a single good politician came to Washington. Why? What was missing? Obviously God was not yet on their side. If they had asked, they might have learned that God wanted them to turn the White House, the Senate and the Capitol building into a church.
The Lord Succors the Poor
While Washington’s leaders looked for solutions, Lord FreeLuv, feeling ignored and unappreciated, retreated to a rustic old jailhouse to wait in solitude for someone, anyone, to call him, appreciate him, or just remember him. After many days of tears and heartbreak, his prayers were answered as Jenny Kawsthchild rang the bell at the Luv Mansion. She received no answer, so she snuck in, ate everything in the fridge and cupboards, farted pure methane, but still felt hungry. When she located the snoring lord, kicked his legs and verbally assaulted him, “YOU LAZY BUM! WHY DIDN’T I GET ANY LUV?”
Blinking awake, he wrinkled his nose and asked, “What’s that smell?”
“Shut up and give me some luv!”
“You? But, you’re a cow!”
Jenny simply howled, “Give me some fresh loooov now!”
Poor Lord FreeLuv had never dealt with such a rude guest. He realized he could not get rid of her, so he said, “Fine! I’ll try! But only if you give me …” He paused, blushing.
“Sex? Is that what you want?” she asked, holding his hand.
The lord shuddered in disgust.
“Are you gay?”
“I love everyone equally,” he answered and added, without trying to hurt her feelings, “It’s just that you smell like a cow.”
“Of course I do! My parents raised me on dairy and beef, so now, inside me lives the soul of a cow. Now I’m a cow in a girl’s body! Millions of us are. One day, moooooo…. One day, all people will embrace their animal natures!”
“Wow, you are quite the comedian.”
“Shut up! You’ll see!” she continued with embarrassing determination, “Thousands of years ago no one admitted they were gay or black; one day the beasts will also come out of their closets and mooooo, yap, bark and cockledoodledo the truth, that we deserve to be loooooved as mooooch as yooooo.”
The lord was so impressed, he offered to pay Jenny for her cow imitation, but she refused, so he let graze in his backyard in return for milk and a final payment. She agreed. But her appetite was voracious. She had teeth made of iron! She ate all the trees growing on the forested parkland and gave not a drop of milk until she was loved, if you know what I mean.
The Forbidden Passage
When news spread about the lord’s generosity, more possessed women and children came to him for help, until his flower gardens were fields of rock and dust and his guests accused him of letting them go hungry. Exile seemed like the best solution. Plenty of foreigners were begging for an Amerikan hero to give them the luv they deserved. So, the lord betrayed and abandoned his country. He packed his bag and vowed to bring Amerika’s patented religion of Luv to all the ugly foreign savages inhabiting every god-forsaken corner of the whole damn world.
– A FIFTH CHAPTER –
The Devil’s Double
On the night before Muhammadmas, Amerikans learned that Lord FreeLuv had been kidnapped by the evil Obsama Baroken Ladder. Tens of millions of homosexuals died of jealousy, and no one volunteered to rescue him, no one except the fearless Bunnies—a team of highly-trained terrestrial management experts who were more feared than even the Seals. When they learned of the lord’s kidnapping, they invited Oldsamba to discuss the lord’s release over lunch. Obasamama politely texted, “Sorry, the lord and I are busy building the most loving foreign relationship the world has ever seen!”
The Bunnies could not tolerate such injustice and quickly hired renowned adventurist, Professor MB Zacharin. He was very optimistic. He insisted that the rescue operation could be done with everyone seated in a vehicle, possibly a bus. The Bunnies were open-minded, but all they could only afford was a crappy Chinese solar-biofuel-powered Tornado, a biodegradable submarine named the Minnow, or an organic minibus. On Zach’s advice, the girls attempted to purchase the minibus, but the damn salesperson rejected their money! Zacharin was offended.
“Excuse me!” he began, “but our money is legal tender Amerikan luv! It’s accepted around the world!”
“Not here it ain’t. Your luv terrifies me. It’s completely unacceptable.”
Zach called LEO (the Luv Enforcement Organism). They attempted to reason with the dealership staff. They even demonstrated their own luv powers. But the staff resisted, so after a short tussle, the dealership staff was arrested and sentenced to life in Mexico. Meanwhile, Zach and the Bunnies borrowed an organic recreational vehicle with all the bells and whistles including air, water, food and beds.
Now Zach and the Bunnies could begin their search for Lord FreeLuv, but they didn’t. The females decided a preparatory shopping trip was in order, so they drove to New Eden, the most amazing shopping center on Earth. Its boutiques are heavenly. Absolutely amazing. Luckily, even though Lord FreeLuv wasn’t dying any time soon, even women eventually grow sick of shopping. So, after a few weeks, the Bunnies started to feel lonely, bored, dissatisfied and irritable, for somehow they just could not find their way out of their favorite mega-mall.
God took pity on Zach and said unto him, “The only way to get them back on track is to refresh their memory of Lord FreeLuv. Give them battery-powered replicas. You can find them on sale at the nearest love shop. You’re in one right now.”
Zach laughed at his luck. A variety of dildos shaped like Amerika’s legendary heroes were available, but he insisted on a dozen FreeLuv models.
“That useless bum?” asked the clerk. “Haven’t you heard the news? FreeLuv betrayed Amerika and is only interested in his own welfare. Nowadays he spends all his time with foreigners. Says Amerika is a circus of psychopaths!”
Zacharin and the Bunnies didn’t believe a word of it. They loved Lord FreeLuv. The clerk, not understanding their feelings, said, “Well, Amerikan heroes come and go. Before FreeLuv, there was Luke Soilwalker and George Washtub, and who remembers them now? So stop worrying. Tomorrow, you’ll be happy with someone else. Look, have you ever seen Moolah Bro Z?” he asked, showing them a sexy replica of their leader. Then, with evil twinkle in his eyes, the clerk added, “He vibrates when you call him, and he puts out when you squeeze him.”
The Bunnies felt sick and bought several biodegradable FreeLuv dildos instead. Soon afterwards, they were a wee bit disappointed. You see, no matter how lovingly they caressed or squeezed their rubbery replicas, their little lords wouldn’t give them any luv. So, they lost patience and buried all their FreeLuv dildos. Well, that was too bad. I think they should have bought some batteries before acting so hastily.
Now the Bunnies were broke. Plenty of people offered to feed and shelter them, but they had pride, so they went digging for gold in Yellowstone National Park. If they had spent more time in school, they would have known that Lord FreeLuv was not buried in Yellowstone but was doing God’s work abroad, pushing the credit cards of God’s luv on the poor and converting millions to the Amerikan way. But, the lord refused to give a luv credit card to Olmambasa, who loudly protested the injustice. In his defense, the lord whispered this rarely shared secret to the irate savage, “Trust me, credit cards are the keys to Hell.”
“You big fat liar!” cried Obslama.
“All credit cards are from the Devil,” the lord warned.
“Well, I admire your courage, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the lord, as he handed over two negative-interest-rate credit cards. “What do you plan to buy with them? Guns and bombs?”
“Electric dildos, actually,” said smileless Osama. “And I’ll mail them to every Amerikan woman.”
“This cunning technology will make the Amerikan penis obsolete!” he explained and laughed like a hyena. “Now every Amerikan woman can enjoy freedom from Amerikan dicks and freedom from Amerikan babies!”
“Damn! You evil mastermind—you’re going to destroy Amerika!”
“Hey, do these credit cards have spending limits?”
“Baba Orbalba, Amerika’s luv for you will always be unconditional and infinite. We love our enemies … it’s our religion.”
Osama laughed and threw the lord overboard. Days later, by God’s grace, the lord’s body was found in the Gulf, floating and still breathing.
When the news spread that Osama had killed Lord FreeLuv, Zach and the Bunnies cried until they realized it made no damn difference. So, they went to the White House for an explanation. Upon their arrival, they were bedazzled by the sumptuous art of the White House and were privileged to receive a free tour from White House art historian Mr Charles Oxenbull.
First, Mr Oxenbull led his guests into the Art Wing to view a painting by former President Washington: “The White Natives Revolution.” This painting proved that Washington was God incarnate and that he fought not against fellow whites, or angels, but against an invading force of Chinese, Indian, Arab, Sikh, Jewish and other greedy monsters whose evil religions command them to devour everything on Earth.
The next masterpiece was President Jackson’s masterpiece portraying his favorite philosophers, Plato and Aristotle, sporting crowns and halos and armed with silver crosses that doubled as swords. With these weapons, they joined General Jackson in a battle against Wounded Knee, a hostile heathen and a terrible liar who refused to kneel before God. After they captured Wounded Knee by peacefully flashing their swords, they then converted the heathen to the civilized Amerikan way and taught him to read Amerika’s best sellers: Plato and Aristotle’s amazing Christian treatises and dialogues.
A third masterpiece, “The Class War,” painted directly on the outer walls, was by President Domenic Lincoln, the great Italian president born in Troy. He famously conquered Greece and Spain and replaced classical slavery with the far more profitable and acceptable form of exploitation known as modern slavery or Amerikan-style slavery.
Next was a beautiful painting by President Columbus. The top left portrayed the first Amerikans escaping from Europe’s witches, gypsies, atheists and anti-social anarchists. They settled in the promised land of Amerika. However, their faith was weak, for when they arrived in Amerika, the native peoples easily enslaved them and corrupted them with witchcraft, herbal parties, wild sex and death worship. In the bottom right corner of this masterpiece stood President Angel wearing a Jewish shawl and underwear as he prayed for Lord FreeLuv to come save Amerika.
President Abunksie’s “Triumph of Chuck” portrayed Chuck Bollocks dressed as the savior of the world and jumping off a cliff with thousands of faithful believers who wanted, like him, to go straight to Heaven rather than continue being broke, unemployed, unmarried and therefore useless.
President Bill Bush’s prophetic mural was “The Mass Execution of the Evil Artists and Authors.” It portrayed President Bush erasing Pablo Picasso, Herman Melville and many other artists who did nothing to promote God, work, religion and the Hollywood Bible.
The last painting was a triptych by President Walt “Angel” Disney was title “Life after Death.” It showed how the souls of good citizens and shoppers escaped from an awful world into a solar-powered Disneyworld where everyone is a flying mouse or a little bird.
Zach and the Bunnies were deeply impressed. The creativity and imagination of Amerika’s leaders astounded them. It was so fascinating that they nearly forgot about Lord FreeLuv and only remembered, as they were leaving, to ask about his address. Charles said he wasn’t in Amerika and that he might be in Hawaii, India, or some other dangerous foreign country.
Nymphomania in Hawaii
Zach and the Babes had no respect for danger and were completely ignorant that all foreigners are sneaky, scheming plotters determined to destroy Disneyland! They always corrupt good Amerikans with sex, food, and false shows of hospitality. Predictably, this pattern repeated wherever the Bunnies travelled to. This nearly caused them to forget about the lord, which is precisely what the foreign scoundrels wanted. You see, they wanted Lord FreeLuv entirely for themselves!
But Zach was good and holy. He would never forget his lord, and he did his best to preserve his name in his head. When bad winds or lack of fuel left them stranded them on the Devil’s playground, Hawaii, he took the Babes to the island’s only Church of Chuck and led the Babes in prayers for luv and food. Plus, he swore to defend them from the local savages.
The trouble began on the eight day of their Hawaiian escapade. A fearsome Hawaiian tribal chief busted the church door down with his head and uttered this bloodcurdling scream: “Aloha! HUNGRY AMERIKANS, WELCOME TO HAWAII!”
He was a monster! The Babes gaped at his chocolate-colored body, drooled and dreamed he was the lord.
“Are you our lord?” Zach asked with mixed feelings.
The savage paused, grinned, and answered, “Yes, I am Lord Wickedick. Come, let me take you to one of our bountiful gardens. They’re exploding with food.”
The Babes rushed to kiss the devil, but Zach screamed for their lives, “Remember the Constitution! Free stuff is death to any economy. We must pay for anything we receive!”
“Are you crazy? We’re broke!” they protested.
“Luckily, I have this.” He produced a gold coin. An image of FreeLuv’s amazing ass glorified the tail side and an image of his heart-shaped heart represented the head side. Zach showed it to the savage and gave it to him as full payment for anything he and the Babes took. The chief gushed with gratitude before throwing the coin away and saying, “You look thirsty. I’ll take you to an irresistible spring.”
Chief Wickedick led the way to a forbidden spring that sometimes gushed out of a green rock that looked exactly like a watermelon. Seeing it dripping with the unpurified waters of the underworld, Zach was tempted and attempted, but the moment he placed his lips on the stone the spring dried up.
Chief Wickedick laughed, “That’s no way to drink from a sacred spring! Here, let me show you.” Then he knelt beside the rock, caressed it, uttered dark spells, and as Satan’s liquids poured out, he called Zach over to sate his thirst, and he tried, but it tasted like Hell.
Next, the evil chief convinced his guest to try a vegetable from his forbidden garden of unpackaged, uncooked and unprocessed foods. Zach knew the danger, but the devil in his stomach was a powerful devil, so he spoke to that evil plant, and he caressed its stem, and he licked the disgusting bulbous melon and then, as God forewarned, he metamorphosed into a bearded sex demon!
The terrified Babes had to tie up their leader and drag him back to their spaceship—only to learn that it was out of gas and they were prisoners in the Hawaii-Hell.
The Indian Job
Zach and the Bunnies could not escape without purchasing more gas, so I offered them working making luv in India. Being penniless, they accepted, received twelve days of training in luv marketing and sales and were flown to India by my huge slave angels.
Zach and the Bunnies dressed like playboy bunnies, the official mascots of luv. Granted, the Bunnies were old enough to be my mothers, but they could still hop with the best bunnies, so to my surprise, Indians showed no interest in them or their Amerikan luv. Luckily, Zach had a solution. He had the Bunnies package all their hot luv products in bags and boxes printed with pictures of Lord FreeLuv’s smiling face. It worked like a charm. Suddenly, billions of women abandoned their husbands and swore they wanted the real thing. In response, Satan’s deputy in India, Supreme Dictator Mahatma Nymphomania Gandhi, declared a national mental health emergency and advised all Indians to “desist from purchasing or using any luv product or service.”
When Indians continued pursuing luv, Mahatma invited Moolah Bro Zacharin to eat an uncooked dinner under a tree. Although Zacharin ate little, he was a generous man and offered, in payment, a lot of luv. However, Mahatma was not impressed. He pushed Zach’s hand aside and said, “Keep your cold love, Amerikano!”
“It’s cold now, but if you hold it and squeeze it I promise it will warm your entire body like the best fever you ever had.”
Mahatma liked the sound of that and nearly accepted Amerika’s luv when his wife grabbed Zach’s and growled like a beast, “Stop tempting India! We know your secret plan to turn us into sexless slaves of your bugaboo god and his filthy fairies! Begone! And take your silly luv mascots with you! I will protect India’s sacred sexual energies from Amerikan corruption!”
Zach kissed Mahatma and remarked, “You poor man. You in bondage with Satan! How many more sexual diseases do you want?”
“A dozen! That’s a nice number, don’t you agree?” the wife interjected.
“I was speaking to you husband! Mahatma, I know from experience—you have to protect yourself, and luv is the best protection. It will free you from your desires.”
“Luv alone can give your dead country the life it deserves. Without it, you’ll die like everyone else!”
Mahatma was mesmerized by the power of the lord’s luv, and his jealous wife, noticing the change in him, screamed for him to think. But she was too late.
“I will accept your luv,” Mahatma began, “but on one condition: it must be given directly by you!”
Zach was flattered and confounded. “I’m sorry, Mahatma dear, please try to understand, I can’t personally serve a billion Indians.”
“Then India does not want your luv! Get out and take all your luv pushers with you!”
“I’m sorry, but as a free Amerikan, I take orders from no one!”
Then Zach left without another word, but he left some of his luv on Mahatma’s bed. The old sage took the money and had his best counterfeiters create a cheaper, generic version of luv and personally distributed it to the poor, but to just a few per week, so the market had plenty of room for Zach and the Bunnies, and they profited enormously and never felt so appreciated for their work.
After making a killing in India, the Bunnies eagerly resumed their search for Lord FreeLuv. According to Universal Studios (USBS), and GodsNewsNow (GNN) and the Big Bull Corporation (BBC), Lord FreeLuv had retired from service, so they decided to go shopping for luv in Pakistan, which they mistook for Texas—or vice versa.
In Amrep-ruchluc they somehow found Holy Crap!, Amerika’s favorite superstore. The handsome clerks directed them to the Holy Idols aisle, where they found four heroes-in-a-box with tags. The first tag read,
Siddheārtha Guatamo, the Buddha of the Seven Crooked Penises, Wild Lover of Women. Tantricks Inc.
Breathless with excitement, the Bunnies lifted the lid to have a closer look. Their shrieks rang in my ears as the lid slammed shut. After catching their breath, the fools imagined better luck with the next box. The tag read,
The Hero of the Harem, Abū al-Qāsim Muḥammad Ali. Romantrics Inc.
Again, they pried the box open but peeked warily inside. There they saw a jar labelled “Muhammad’s soul.” Beside it lay a book containing the five Arabic love sonnets Muhammad sent to Pope Kim. The Bunnies read the poems aloud and fell straight asleep. When they woke, they closed the box and proceeded to the next one. It read,
The Long-Eared Superstud, Jesus Christ. Sadomasochism Corp.
They agreed that the tag sounded very promising. But, they were deceived. When they peeked inside and saw nothing but the one and only Easter Bunny dressed in a red scarf and twitching its whiskers. In disgust, the fools rushed to the last box, whose tag read,
Lord FreeLuv. Blow his ass and he makes breathtaking music. Clone Corp.
The Bunnies were outraged. “They’re selling our lord for less than nothing? That’s an insult!”
The salesclerk apologized and quickly raised the price several-fold. The Bunnies forgot to inspect the box and happily paid the price. Once at home, they tore the box open a life-sized replica in all the lord’s glory! They squealed in ecstasy before realizing something was wrong! Their hero needed batteries! The poor Bunnies couldn’t afford them, so they cursed God and donated their hero to a garbage collector.
Amerika has a long history of helping the people of Chinna, Tchaina, Tzian or whatever the spelling is to produce more luv and better luv, but no one worked harder at helping them than President Angel. Why this favoritism? Because he pitied the Chinnese for having such enormous chins, chins so enormous that their women were so unattractive that the nation’s birthrate was nearly zero, so the economy was always shrinking. When the Chinnese asked for Amerikan expertise in resolving this problem, President Angel sent Lord FreeLuv to them.
Pretty soon, the Chinnese were damn impressed. The lord was their idol. They loved him and couldn’t get enough of his luv. So their evil scientists kidnapped him, lugged him into a laboratory, identified his inflatable penis as the source of his luv making power, took a tissue sample and used it to manufactured millions of high-tech clones of our Lord FreeLuv. These clones were known as “living luv factories,” and each one was designed to excrete the highest quality luv.
Unfortunately, the Chinnese lacked the skills needed to operate large luv production facilities, so their government asked the CEO of NGO Luv Consultants International for help. Eager to stimulate the Chinnese economy and profit in the bargain, CEO M.B. Zacharin and his sexy team went to Chinna to share their luv-making expertise. With hard work and determination, they turned a shy and fearful country into the world’s highest luv production zone.
In fact, the Chinnese became rich from their massive luv-manufacturing, but we all know how greedy foreigners are. They wanted more and more profit and started replacing human luv workers with immortal robots that never complain about having to make too much love. Luv factory owners also replaced quality materials with absolute crap and sold their crappy luv products to unsuspecting consumers around the world. You think I’m kidding? The reason Chinnese-made goods stink is that they’re using pig shit, monkey shit, rat shit and all sorts of modified, fortified, and condensed shit. In the end, a shirt manufactured in Chinna was actually made of 50% reused shit, and iGods and other high-tech devices were made of 100% reconstituted shit. Most scandalously, Chinnese foods were made of recycled shit. In short, everything from Chinna was made of shit, and Amerikans ate it, wore it and flaunted it all.
War was justified, but President Angel declined to fight because he was an Amerikan and as an Amerikan he was an angel, a representative of a higher moral order, and it took great satisfaction in knowing that it had secretly provoked a luv revolution.
– CHAPTER SIX –
The Rapturous Revellation
After spending a year aiding the Third World in developing economical ways to turn shit into profit, Zach & the Bunnies needed a vacation, and since no vacation is complete without Lord FreeLuv, they needed him. But where was he? To find him, the Bunnies turned their friend, the retired professor of luv, Moolah Bro Zacharin. They found him hiding on his Mexican commune, trying to relax with Poliandri, his beloved wife. He greeted them with extreme anxiety:
“What are you doing here? Do you know what my wife will do to me if she sees me with you?”
“Will she be jealous?” they joked and winked.
“Shut up! Shhhh! What do you want?” he whispered in trepidation.
“We want you to lead us on another exciting, danger- and adventure-filled search for the most desirable man on Earth!”
He smiled sheepishly. “Well, I suppose I’m not too old to help you look for FreeLuv again. But I’m broke. You got any luv?”
“Just a little,” they lied.
“Give it to me and I’ll invest it in the luv market. There it will grow and multiply, if you know what I mean. With our monthly earnings, we can fund the greatest adventure this world has ever seen! So, what do you think?”
They loved his sweet-talking ways. “We’ll gladly give you everything, but we want to be sure the lord is still alive. Could you ask God whether we’d be wasting our time and money or not?”
“I’d be glad to. God and I have a special relationship. Wait here! I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Moolah Bro Zacharin sprinted down the road and approached the Church of the Celestial Booty at breakneck-speed, then leapt over the waist-high berry bushes lining the path and assaulted the holy doors with his tongue (that’s a poetic way of saying he shouted to be let through the doors). Sadly, his oral assaults went ignored until he screamed at the sight of the church’s formerly fat cat. Its emaciated corpse staggered through the door and collapsed at his feet. Then Olyshit appeared.
“You’re too late, Zach! The lord has already come and gone!”
Ha! That was a blatant lie! The rapture had hardly started. Ignorant, Zach stood guiltily and nervously in the doorway. Preston the preacher saw the look in his eye and teased, “Come in, Zach. I know who you’re looking for. I can help, but only if you luv me.”
“Hahaha!” The professional buffoon, the Grand Doofus Arrears, laughed rudely, breezed past the prince of love and quipped, “Still trying to find yourself, Zach?”
This was followed by a depressing report from their economist, Olyshit: “The lord should be shot! He seduced us and left us all banged up and pregnant! How many millions bear the burden of debt because of his reckless luv making?”
Aghast, Zacharin followed him into the garden. “Satan! Satan! Satan! You faithless devil! I saw the lord in action! His ass is our only hope. Without it, we’d already be broke. Sure, we wasted most of his luv, but if we invest the leftovers wisely, we could once again be on the right side of the Boss’s accounting ledgers!”
The Grand Doofus snorted, “The lord’s ass is generous to a fault! It gave us so much luv that everyone’s sick of it and not even our friends want it. Now a wheelbarrow full of luv can’t even buy us a pumpkin, a sugar plum, a dumpling or even an itsy-bitsy sweat-pea.”
Moolah Bro Zacharin didn’t hear him. He was distracted by the tasty herbs and shapely blossoms in the church garden. He was so hungry he tried to eat a few while the Grand Doofus Arrears reasoned aloud, “Luv must be earned! It’s in the Constitution! Everything must be paid for! I say we crucify Lord FreeLuv for giving luv to millions of lazy, subprime citizens like ourselves. We wasted all our luv on prostitutes!”
Preston began to sermonize, “As it is written, ‘Once upon a time the world’s most generous man gave bags full of sugar to the hungry, and each new year he gave them more, until after seven years his sugar company was broke.’ Thus God warns us against reckless generosity.”
While the congregation clapped and cheered to hear such wisdom, Zacharin bitterly complained, “Luv and sugar have nothing in common! Luv makes me strong. Did you see me run like the wind? I leapt right over that hedge,” he boasted, pointing at an ankle-high row of flowers before doing a handstand, a backflip and a cartwheel. Everyone was utterly ashamed at this display of agility, so they covered their eyes with their feet.
“Zach, what have you been sniffing?” the preacher asked. “Luv is a cheap substitute for heroin. The real prince of love will give us genuine love when we earn it!”
“That’s right. This luv is crap!” commented the Grand Doofus Arrears.
“You can call the lord’s luv crap, but crap is manure, and manure is God’s fertilizer! It makes flowers bloom beautifully, and so it has made Amerika’s beautiful economy bloom!” Zach reasoned, and it was a beautiful piece of reasoning indeed.
President Angel came to church in a heliocopter and was welcomed with a cacophony of bells and whistles as he shimmied up the pulpit.
“Mister President!” Zacharin shouted over the hubbub. “Please tell me where I should invest my luv if I want it to grow and bear fresh juicy fruit.”
“Zacharin, you fool, are you drunk on poetry again?”
“Uhmmm …. Mister President, be honest with me for once. Should I fertilize the government by buying bonds or should I fertilize a corporation by buying shares?”
“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course, you should buy peaches and squash. The future is in peaches and squash!”
“I’d rather invest in some hot babes. Hot babes are in demand!”
“Zach, I think you should invest in me,” Preston suggested, flashing an expanse of stockinged leg. “I’m incorporated and hot on the stockings market!”
Angel slapped the transgendered preacher for his naughty behavior, balanced himself on the front pew and launched into this tolerable mini-sermon:
“My friends, I’ve come here today to remind you that Amerika has a manifest destiny to become great again. As your president, I work day and night to save your asses from economic winter. The lord has abandoned us, but have faith in me, your democratically elected president, for I have nearly mastered the art of producing luv in quantities large enough to get our economic engine roaring again!”
Wow! That was good news. Everyone almost cheered, but the fools soon lost interest in cheering and quickly hopped out of the church.
“Hey! I’m not finished! Hey! Zach!? Preston!” shouted the president. He looked up to the Heavens for mercy as a dollop of bird poop splattered on his head.
His cries went unheeded. The church was empty. The hungry and thirsty congregation had hopped outdoors to begin its much anticipated church picnic.
Alkyda Arrears chomped into a raw, unwashed African pear and immediately metamorphosed into a monkey. Zacharin avoided the fruit, but was already feeling intoxicated from the poisonous fragrances wafting from the garden. Now he couldn’t remember why he had come to church, so he idled the time away with his perverted finger stirring the stigma and squeezing the ovary of a zucchini blossom.
“Zacharin! Are you raping flowers now?” asked Preston.
Zacharin guiltily withdrew his finger. “Sorry. Flowers and gardens always remind me of FreeLuv. Arrears, where should I invest my luv?”
“Zach, invest in your government. We’ll take care of you.”
“I think I’d rather invest in a pig.”
“You’ll have to find Lord FreeLuv first, and you’ll never find him if you don’t appeal to his weakness,” said Arrears with a wink.
“The lord’s belly loves pills, doughnuts and freshly slaughtered human meat!” Olyshit yelled as he swallowed thirty pills and immediately lost his disgusting hair and had the best seizure ever.
Zacharin was horrified by the news regarding the lord’s diet. He always imagined his savior peacefully browsing on tea leaves, munching evergreen needles and being friendly with sex-crazed pandas and koalas. He couldn’t believe it. He wanted to ask the president what he thought, but President Angel and his administrative buddies had sought relief from the nation’s economic woes by smoking a pile of marijuana. They were now out of reach, flying in a cloud of smoke.
The Psychological War
After the picnic, President Angel and company convened inside their church to discuss the possibility that Lord FreeLuv betrayed them for foreign friends and would never bail them out with a second cash infusion, and that consequently the government would perish in a calamitous bankruptcy. It was too horrible to imagine. They shuddered with dread at the thought of living without a government.
“If the government perishes, civilization expires!” lamented the president. “The Amerikan government is God’s puppet on Earth. We do what He commands, as a shadow government obeys the shining being who casts the shadow while remaining safely out of sight, and necessarily so, for his brilliance would burn our eyes. I … wait, what point am I trying to make?”
“That we should wear sunglasses in Church!” some stupid kid quipped.
“Now I remember. Citizens are like sheep, no, like children. Right. And children cannot raise themselves. They’d eat each other alive without a government.”
Penelope Hayyew, the First Lady, had rarely seen her husband so animated. It really excited her reptilian brain. In a fever of lust, she used her imagination to imagine, illegally and in shockingly graphic detail, how her husband would orally fill and stimulate her buttery bunny hole. That’s a woman for you. Thank goodness men understand the spiritual world beyond the flesh and understand that the world of numbers, which transcends the material world, can destroy the material world by sucking everything into the Big Bottomless Bunny Hole. No man on Earth knows how to plug that hole.
Chief Economist Olyshit thought he had the answer and offered this horrible advice: “If the lord doesn’t come to our rescue, we’ll have to screw the enemy real good.”
President Angel exclaimed, “In that case, you can prepare to be screwed, Olyshit! We’ll do the honorable thing and declare war against all uneconomical people—especially against all those poets who write unprofitable poetry!!!!”
This suggestion won a round of applause that ended when Olyshit explained that the president had spent years working on an epic poem about his penis. After a long pause, Vice Doofus Arrears advised the following, “Let’s fight the big fat cats whose predatory habits are consuming the country!”
These words were met with awkward nods and head scratching. President Angel positively twitched, for he loved his fat cat. Sucking in his stately gut, he remarked, “I think you’re forgetting something important, dear Arears.”
“Exactly who are the fat cats?”
“Women—of course!” he shot back. The room gave a sigh of relief. “Women are the fat cats who devour our incomes! Science proves it! Their breasts are nothing but fat. And their padded asses are very fat compared to our humble asses.”
Arrear’s remark about fat cats and asses had General Sitting Duck quite confused and moderately worried. You see, Amerika’s zoos and schools had always encouraged him to love animals of all sizes, even the largest tits, peckers, boobies, rats, pussies, beavers and asses. Preston nervously shifted his impressive ass and warned, “God never disapproved of fat asses or fat breasts. How could He when His own parts are too large and bounteous to imagine?”
Even Zacharin was satisfied with this explanation, but satisfaction gave way to fresh worries about how to raise money and avoid death by the BBBH. After hours of brainstorming, the president’s evil chief psychologist, Odeus Retard, came to the rescue. Odeus suggested that the government “wage war against the multitude of ghosts haunting Amerika.”
General Zulu mused, “Do we really have ghosts in Amerika?”
“Lots!” said the mad psychologist. “Haven’t you noticed? George Washington’s ghost is everywhere. We can’t stop seeing his body in books and in our minds. And we are still thinking about dead and decayed Lincoln, and—no offense to President Angel—but we’re seeing angels and talking to God, Winnie the Pooh, Donald Duck and Jesus Ben Muhammad as if they’re here and listening. Why won’t Amerika let the dead rest? Why? Why this fascination with the dead? The dead are worm meat and ashes! The Amerikan Psychiatric Association warned a century ago that our obsession with the dead must be limited to Halloween.”
President Angel grumbled.
General Zulu asked, “Excuse me, but how can we fight ghosts? Aren’t they already dead?”
The chief psychologist replied, “Elementary, my dear Zulu, to defeat an animate enemy, killing is necessary; to defeat an inanimate enemy, the opposite is necessary. Am I understood?”
He was not. Everyone was dumbfounded and profoundly befuddled.
The madman sighed, “Fine, let me explain. The opposite of killing is making life.”
Still no one understood.
“The opposite of killing … in plain English,” he added while awkwardly twerking on his chair, “the ghosts must be loved and given life! Yippee yahoo!”
This display of talentless idiocy was followed by stunned silence and hesitant clapping.
Fortunately, the president interjected these enlightened words, “Odeus, would you be so kind as to demonstrate how you would fuck a ghost? If your demonstration impresses me, I’ll ask you to personally retrain every Amerikan soldier.”
I leave the rest to your imagination—but only if you’re interested in Hell.
When Zacharin returned to his clients, they did not mince their words: “So, Zach, did you get any leads about the lord’s whereabouts?”
He gave the Bunnies a suave, all-knowing look, and replied, “I know the lord’s coordinates by heart, but the lord told me you are not worthy of the truth until you invest everything in his name.”
The Bunnies were so excited, they gave Zach most of their luv. Following God’s advice, Zach took the loot to a Las Vegas investment firm called the Whirly-World Bank. Its chief investment wizard, Mr Hannibal Leitch, was an all-around nice guy. He invited Zach and the Bunnies to his home and even let them ride his bull in the yard.
Well, after hours of fun and games, Zach had to be reminded about his business, and as Chinese food was being served, Hannibal gently eased into the serious conversation: “With your consent, Mr Zacharin, I’ll invest everything you have in Chuck Bollocks’ Good Shit Company. Ever hear of it?”
Wow—thought the Bunnies. Chuck Bollocks has a company? They loved the idea of giving Chuck their luv. But Zacharin was hesitant.
“Wait a moment, girls. This company’s name seems suspicious to me. Mr Leitch, is this company true to its name?”
“Well, manure—or crap, as you call it—is highly profitable, and the No Shit Company produces only the highest quality, locally-produced eco-shit. And, just last week it began sales of a living machine that recycles organic matter into digestible packages called vruggies and freatables. I expect astronomical sales ’cause ’merikans are crazy about eco-shit.”
The Bunnies agreed, but Zach was skeptical. “The Chinese have the shit market cornered. Not even a lord can compete. Does the Good Shit Company have anything marketable?”
“Well, the company is now developing reservations in Africa and Australia and marketing them to foreign governments as a way to save government money. It’s pure genius! These super-reservations—that’s what they call them—provide all the necessities of life for free, so they’re being marketed as place where governments can dump prisoners, welfare cases, terrorists and other parasites. Granted, they’ll have to live without luxuries like politicians, but people will get used to that.”
“No politicians? I don’t think anarchy can be profitable.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. These reservations will make great safaris, the first human safaris, and they could be used for perpetual reality shows.”
Zach and the Bunnies had always wanted to be in a reality show, so they invested half of their hard-earned life savings and danced home. The next day, their stocks crashed back to Earth. By way of apology, the company sent every investor a box of vruggies, but Zach and the Bunnies wanted more and rushed straight back into the lion’s den.
“You hoodwinked us!” said Zach with all the anger he could muster.
“I beg your pardon, but it was an accident. No one could have foreseen that disaster. But you’re in luck! I can now sell you shares in the amazing land development company called Paradise Enterprise Estates.”
“Wow. We love the name! Paradise Enterprise Estates! It sounds golden.”
“It is. PEE is no ordinary company. It’s the nation’s only builder of affordable Disney-inspired eco-housing projects. It’s owned and operated by the real Chuck Bollocks.”
“Hoorah!” the Bunnies whooped.
Zach was skeptical. “Wait, how can it make money building affordable homes?”
“PEE only works for the government, which is desperate to stop years of anti-poverty protests by putting people into affordable homes. Of course, the government couldn’t afford to give real homes to all those millions of bums, so PEE builds open-concept eco-homes without internal walls, plumbing, gas lines and electrical wiring. They also build with volunteers and free materials—any junk they can find. So, their operating costs are zero.”
“So PEE puts a roof on four walls and calls it a home?”
“They put a roof on one circular wall and call it a home,” said Angela laughing. “And they cut corners so well that the roof is really just the wall caving in on itself.”
“That’s amazing!” Zach exclaimed.
“But why would anyone would want such a home?”
“Good question!” Zach lied.
“Well, let me explain. People want PEE homes because each one is unique, and they’re mortgage free and very easy to maintain. Plus, residents will become famous. You see, our government intends to promote PEE settlements as tourist attractions where people can visit and see how lucky they are to live in proper homes and cities. Plus, residents have a chance to win fame by simply surviving.”
Now the Bunnies were totally impressed, for they had always wanted a chance to become famous. So, they invested half of their remaining savings. That was too bad, for if they had done their due diligence they might have predicted another crash. Luckily, the company sent all their investors a box of consoling vruggies.
“Boohoohoo! Boohoohoo!” the Bunnies wept and cast their vruggies away. “Oh Lord FreeLuv, where are you?”
After crying a river they felt better and, to my surprise, their belief in Amerika was strong a gain, so strong that once again, without even consulting God, Zach and the Bunnies decided to invest their remaining savings at Swin & Del Securities, the most profitable investment firm in the City of London. Its CEO, Mr Angelo Peterson, patiently listened to Zach brag about surviving two previous investors. When the retelling of the double tragedy ended, Mr Peterson kindly explained, “Relax, Zach. I’m not like those swindlers. I actually hate money, your money especially.”
“That’s a relief,” said Zach and the Bunnies nodded. “We hate our money, too. It’s far too much trouble to get it and far too easy to lose it.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place if you want making luv to be easy. At Swin & Del, profiting is as easy as sleeping and making music. We simply invest everything in the revolutionary Big Shit Corporation and let you have all the profits.”
The Bunny-babes liked the sound of that. They loved anything prefaced with the word “revolutionary.” But, as usual, Zach was a lee-e-e-e-ttle skeptical. “I hope this revolutionary corporation isn’t into vruggies or dung-shaped homes,” he worried out loud.
“BS invests in children and is a bona fide child developer, not a land developer,” Mr Peterson explained in his reassuring tone.
“That’s mighty interesting. Does it buy the cheap ones, cut their hair and nails and put meat on their bones before selling them to wealthy child prospectors? Or does it fund college studies and collect a percentage of earned income once its products are gainfully employed?”
Mr Peterson laughed, “BS is run by scientists. It uses scientific breeding and parenting techniques on secluded, environmental laboratories complete with state-of-the-art housing specially designed to create kids that are so intelligent that the whole world will pay just to watch them!”
“Wow. I wish I had used BS. Who’s using this amazing service?”
“President Angel. All his kids are BS kids.”
Zach and the Bunnies were blown away. They emptied their wallets on Mr Angelo’s lap and went to the nearest shelter for the homeless to wait for good news. The next day they somewhat expected bad news, so they were not entirely surprised when the company shipped them boxes full of vruggies and a hundred BS infants from India, China, and elsewhere. An accompanying letter begged the Bunnies to love their children and hilariously assured them that if they “provided such value-adding services as breast-feeding—you would be rewarded with years of love.”
Thus Zach and the Bunnies were bamboozled not once, not twice, but three times. Oh, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life!
Let’s be honest: even semi-intelligent rabbits would have quit the investing business, but I guess you had to hand it to the Bunnies—they weren’t quitters. Despite their losses in the lottery of life, the Bunnies did not lose hope in the land of opportunity. In fact, they were more intent than ever on becoming successful investors.
Faith in Amerika is one damn powerful religion.
Well, this time they chose to invest with Skruyu Financial Trust, and excellent Wall Street financial firm, but not even they knew more about the future than God knows. The company’s chief broker, Mrs Angela Fox, treated her clients to a free lunch before it was time to do the deed.
“Before we proceed,” Zach began, “Please swear that Skruyu Financial won’t screw us.”
Mrs Fox kindly swore, though she swore with a smile, for she was shrewd enough to know that her customers secretly loved getting screwed, for everyone always does. Of course, the Bunnies made quite a show of not wanting to be screwed, so Angela Fox assured them that she doesn’t even screw her husband. That won a roomful of laughter and made everyone comfortable enough to trust her. Finally, Zach lowered his voice and asked if Mrs Fox had any inside scoops on how to make some quick profits.
“Certainly,” she answered, winking. “I recently learned that Chuckie Bollocks –”
“Not him again!”
“No, this is Chuckie Bollocks, not Chuck. Chuckie is in the cutting edge soil manufacturing business.”
“It’s a very new industry. Turns out that most countries are running out of soil and just realized that they need soil in order to live, so the market is ripe. And the company’s manufacturing process is ingenious. Low costs and high returns. They produce millions of tons of fertile soil every year.”
“Wow! How the heck do they do it?” asked the Bunnies, who had always had a keen interest in all matters related to soil.
“Good question! According to their brochure, 50% of their production depends on taking and composting all the crap and sewage produced in Washington D.C. The other half of their soil comes from the funeral industry.”
Zach wanted details.
“Remember when President Angel announced that the country can’t afford to cover good land with rotten cemeteries and how corpses started piling up in warehouses? Well, Chuckie came to their rescue. He bought them for pennies and composted them. Now that line of compost is the hottest seller among gardeners.”
“What a genius! We’ve heard enough! Here’s half of our life savings. Please make it bear fruit … but no more vruggies-consolations, please.”
“You have my word. You’ll only earn luv with us.”
They parted with hugs and kisses. The next day, the company went broke. Well, thought the Bunnies, at least our money went to another good cause. I guess getting screwed never felt so good.
When it was quite obvious to everyone that all their luv had been stolen, Zacharin and the Bunnies begged God to lend Lord FreeLuv to them so that he might save them with a luv transfusion. God was willing, but the lord was engaged in other business, so, by way of consolation, God gave the beggars a beautiful a gold-trimmed consolation certificate that my editors have faithfully reproduced below:
I wish I could live with you and help everyone in need, but my body has limits. Therefore I have written this luv letter and holy note to console all who seek my luv. Do not feel slighted or cheated. This note is the sperm of the spirit of luv and represents the full and equivalent value of the physical Lord FreeLuv (2,000+ ounces). Moreover, it is superior to the physical lord, for it is cleaner and it requires less maintenance and it will give you many years of pleasure if your imagination is fertile and if you do not question or mock it. Give it all the attention it deserves and it will reward you. The meaning of this note is the luving spirit of the lord, for he wrote it for you so that the living spirit of his luv might be in your thick skulls.
Zach and the Bunnies thought it was a work of art. They loved it so much they read it backwards and in circles and put it to music. It was like a piece of God’s magic chewy gum: no matter how much they chewed, the taste just improved. And this goes to prove, no matter how unfair life seems to be, there’s always a happy ending for anyone with a little imagination.
– 7 –
Good news was delivered on Christmas Eve: “An anonymous government source has revealed that the lord has been kidnapped by the murderous Lion of Baghdad!” So the lord was still alive! Sure, he was in the clutches of a lion, but what’s a little danger to a lord?
Still, he had to be rescued. So, instead of saving money and declaring war, President Angel asked questions and encouraged his citizens to speak to their lord and ask him if he is unhappy living with the Lion of Baghdad. The lord told them he was happy enough, but skeptics rightly suspected that he had been brainwashed, so the government authorized studies to determine if lions are trustworthy. The nation’s top scientists quickly published this concise report, “Our research show that not only lions but all wild animals are lazy opportunists and the most wicked thieves and murderers.”
Amerikans were scandalized. Zoos were closed. Mickey Mouse was shot. The reality show Dancing with Wolves was cancelled. Amerikan police officers hunted down and ate all the bunnies, fawns, raccoons, rats and other pests that steal crops and inflict other harms to our economy. Meanwhile, in the remote state of Iran, the Lion of Baghdad refused to share Lord FreeLuv with his multitude of fans. This was unjustified greed on an unprecedented scale! Amerikans cried for their brothers and sisters in Iran. Riots exploded on the streets. Something had to be done. The Amerikan Canine Control Organization released charcoal drawings proving that the Lion of Baghdad possessed, in contravention of international treaties, both canines and claws. Now President Angel could no longer dither. Now he vowed to rescue every last Iranian. Now he dispatched his nation’s best lion tamers to Iran. They were air-dropped on an abandoned village in a desert. While vultures circled above, they prayed for water, so the all-merciful God sent them a small herd of camels. Unfortunately, those uneducated morons thought camels were sick cows, so they slaughtered them.
While the lion tamers watched the water seep out of the dead camels, the notorious Serpent of Baghdad laughed and asked, “What are you damn rabbits doing in the middle of a desert?”
“Mighty serpent,” answered one polite Amerikan, “we came to teach a lion some manners. Please direct us to his lair.”
“With pleasure. But how do you plan to defeat him?”
The lion tamers laughed and beamed with confidence as they showed off their amazing dentistry kits. The Serpent of Baghdad remarked, “The lion is in big trouble. Follow me, oh great and brave Amerikans! But, when you’re done with him, I would be honored if you attended to me and filled my cavity,” he said and showed a pair of fangs that were far too long.
The lion tamers blithely followed the cunning, deceptive snake into a barren gully. After it slithered up a barren tree, it told them to wait patiently below.
That night, thunder raged in the mountains. Rain flooded the streams, roared down the slopes and washed out the gullies. In the morning, half of the Amerikan lion tamers and dentists lay downstream, swinging from tree branches from which they would be rescued by scary, unshaven natives.
A Divine Promotion
Meanwhile, because our dentists were overseas, Amerika suffered a pandemic of tooth decay, so a lot of formerly useless people became dentists and the economy flourished. However, I was supposed to tell you about something even more important. Oh yes, during the lord’s absence, the economy was paralyzed as the nation was seized by one terrorist incident after another. Iranian lions were not the problem; Amerika was being terrorized by harmful fungi, viruses, bacteria, mosquitoes, rats, bed bugs, snakes, and the notorious Black Poodle Gang—who are not to be confused with the equally fearsome Black Panthers and Terrible Terriers. Everyone prayed for help and, a week later, President Angel cried a puddle. Afterwards, he texted this impatient message to God, “What the Hell are you waiting for, Armageddon? Send the fucking messiah and tell him to save our asses from the Black Poodles!”
Angel reluctantly dialed seven zeros. When the lord answered, the president cried, “Save me! Save Amerika! The Black Poodles are terrorizing us!”
“Angel? Is that you?”
“Chuckie, listen to me, nothing can stop them except your unbelievable luv!”
“Sorry, my luv is too precious to waste on your poodles. Besides, I’m all dried up.”
“Please! Pretty please!”
“I’m very sorry, but I’m pooped out. Besides, I’ve had it with Amerika. I’m going on a vacation with the sun, beaches and hot babes of Iran.”
“You damn traitor! Get your ass over here!”
“Okay, let me check my schedule.” Silence. “Oh, look at that. You’re in luck. I have time in the year 3000.”
A note of desperation crept into Angel’s voice: “Chuckie, you heartless bastard! Do you know how many citizens have been ruined by those long-toothed Black Poodles? I need citizens to pay my taxes and buy my shit!”
“You mean my shit.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said it’s your shit.”
“My shit, your shit, isn’t it the same thing?”
“Really? I didn’t know. So, what do you want?”
“I need a messiah who can kill murderous poodles in fierce battles!”
“The Messiah? Why me?”
“Everyone else is dying of smallpox, polio, diphtheria and diarrhea. So, do you want this volunteer job or not?”
“Wow, it is tempting. Gee, I guess I could try. The messiah, huh? I used to squash beetles between my teeth. But, what’s in this dangerous mission for me, Mister P-r-e-s-i-d-e-n-t?”
“You’ll be the messiah! What more do you want?”
Chuck looked up at the sky.
“Okay, fine, if you succeed, I’ll make you the president of A–”
“YAHOO!” cried the excited fool. Chuck needed no further encouragement to take on the intimidating job of the Amerikan Messiah. So, the biggest contract in history was signed.
The Messiah Defeats the Black Poodles
The following morning, Messiah Bollocks was officially debriefed. Voluminous police files on the notorious Black Poodles revealed that they stole bones from the cemeteries and attacked pet shops and that, in lean years, they ate citizens. But they were cunning liars, too. Recently, in a widely watched court case, the Black Poodle leader, Poop Dog, told the presiding judge, “Why do you persecute us? We are dogs, and dogs must eat meat. Besides, Nature is cannibalistic. Just reflect on the fact that we are all breathing and eating the atoms that were once part of the body of George ‘Jesus Christ’ Washington.”
“That is true,” the judge admitted, “but we must draw a distinction between eating insensate atoms and sensate citizens. Only bankers, merchants and politicians are permitted to prey on citizens and control population growth until robots replace the entire working class.”
The judge sentenced a dozen Black Poodles to the wilderness, and they thanked him and said they needed a change and were sick in city life. Soon, other Poodles were committing murders just so they could be charged and sentenced to life in the wilderness.
Messiah Bollocks needed help, so President Angel put the entire military and police at the messiah’s disposal. But the damn fool didn’t want help! He sent them home and said, “I will not resort to violence! I will go postal, for the mail is mightier than the machine gun.”
This was foolish idealism. But he insisted and wrote this letter:
Dear Black Poodles, please stop killing and eating our cash cows. Every taxpayer and sucker is sacred meat reserved for the immortals. Please respect the Constitution and get legitimate jobs.
I laughed my head off. “They’ll never respect your pacifist daydreams, so here, take this anthrax and sprinkle it on each of your letters. That will give you the results you want.”
“I like your advice, but my policy is to mail love letters to my enemies. I just love sending them letters and boxes of chocolates, too.”
“I hope your love kills them.”
The following day, thousands of boxes of heart-shaped chocolates were delivered to the Black Poodles. I guess Chuck didn’t know that chocolate can kill dogs. Imagine his surprise when his enemies started dying and blamed his gifts, but the torrent of love and chocolate and death continued. The Poodles and other affected gangs declared war on the postal service, and thousands of innocent mailmen perished on the streets.
President Angel panicked. To save his beloved postal service, he swore, cursed, and finally commanded Messiah Bollocks to “use the goddamn internet!” The damn fool refused. “The internet is too cold and impersonal.” Well, how else did he expect to save lives? So, you know what he did? The damn fool paid a personal visit to the chief psychopaths of the Black Poodles, Mister Poop Dog. They met in the dining room where Poop Dog was devouring a rabbit carcass with a huge silver fork and knife.
Messiah Bollocks affectionately rubbed Poop Dog’s head and commented, “You’re not a real carnivore, are you?”
“I’m not?” Poop growled and scowled.
“Nope. A real carnivore would bite my arm, tear off the meat and swallow it without cooking or chewing. Can you do that?”
Poop tried biting a strip of flesh from the messiah’s neck and, even though the messiah did not resist, he failed miserably.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Messiah Bollocks said.
“Why am I lucky?” Poopie asked as he wiped the taste of the messiah from his lips.
“You’ll catch cancer from my meat. I’m carcinogenic. My mother used to say that if I want to be strong and healthy, I should eat organic shit. Never cared much for that advice,” Messiah Bollocks said as he ordered a sweet bunnyburger and an extra-huge soda.
“You saying I’m not strong and healthy?” Poopie demanded with a threatening tone.
“I only meant that you could be even stronger and even healthier,” Bollocks explained. Then he squeezed Poopie’s hand and added, “I only share my knowledge with those whom I love.”
Poop Dog dropped his knife and fork, for he had never been loved before. In an embarrassing display of gratitude, he kissed Messiah Bollocks, thanked him for showing him the light, and told all his fellow gangsters to become vegetarian or to live like true carnivores, wild and free in the forests, without pots, plates and cutlery. They chased their prey for many days before perishing of exhaustion. Those who became vegetarians died within a day or two of malnutrition, for as the world knows, vegetarianism is suicide, and veganism is much worse.
The Black Poodle plague was over. Peace-loving Amerikans were overjoyed.
But the war did not stop. Thanks to the Messiah’s message, people saw the world differently and stopped looking at their pets with puppy eyes. Now they accused faithful pets of living like parasitic royals and welfare cases while they, their poor owners, lived like peasants and servants. Angry pet owners even threatened to excommunicate, evict, eat, beat or sell pets who didn’t get jobs or start feeding themselves. Suddenly the streets were full of puppies, cats, rats, hamsters, panda bears and other exotic animals—all begging for handouts and peddling drugs, gods, and credit.
The Messiah Drains the Swamp
According to the Hollywood Bible, long before Bollocks defeated the Black Poodles, Noah & Sons conquered the wild dinosaurs, Abraham & Sons defeated the wicked sabre-tooth tigers, Moses & Associates buried the pesky cobras, Jonas devoured an invasion of caterpillars, Jesus starved our fat cats, and Muhammad annihilated his head lice. Yet the prophets had not completed their work. Even after the extermination of the notorious Black Poodles, grave threats loomed over Amerika, and none was graver than the Mosquito Gang. They buzzed in Washington D.C. every night, and during the day they spread diseases like cancer, malaria, and autism.
Who would save the nation? Even the nation’s priests and preachers tucked in their tails and fled from those flying devils. Only Messiah Bollocks was fearless, but his methods were open to question. Learning nothing from past experience, he again tried to defeat the enemy with luv. So, he tied himself to the great monument standing near the White House and called all the nation’s mosquitoes to drink his blood to their heart’s content. A great swarm assailed and nearly drained all of his blood. After a gruesome hour, emergency crews took his body down and revived him with blood transfusions.
The following day, Messiah Bollocks was properly debriefed about the nature of the Mosquito Gang, and the nation’s Chief of Swamps offered this amazing strategy: “There’s only one way to deal with these pests. I say we poison all our public water with chlorine, fluoride and anthrax. That will kill them!”
“I couldn’t disagree more,” retorted Messiah Bollocks. “Research shows that most violent crimes are committed because luv is lacking, so I remain determined to defeat the enemy with another demonstration of my amazing luv. However, I have learned one lesson: I need help defeating the Mosquito Gang.”
“Very well,” said President Angel. “I hereby award you the perfect weapon.” He handed the messiah his Golden Fly Swatter. He accepted it with pride and bolted back into the battlefield. His arms took turns whipping through the air like a windmill. Hours later he collapsed in an exhausted heap and called on every fly swatter in Amerika to join him on the battlefield. Millions accepted the challenge. Blood splattered the nation. It was a spectacular war, but after months of swatting, the national incidence of mosquito attacks was the same and the swat team lost interest.
An exciting, new solution was needed. Fortunately, scientists figured out that male mosquitoes suck trees and female mosquitoes lay their eggs in fishless, stagnant water, so the president instructed Messiah Bollocks to chop down all the trees and drain all the swamps. Military Solutions Corp was contracted to provide assistance. While Messiah Bollocks knocked down the nation’s trees with artillery, MS Corp’s engineers moved all the water in Washington’s swamps to Florida. This seemed like genius until the rains began and the enemy returned with a vengeance. Frustrated, MS Corp took the president’s advice and sprayed Agent Orange all over Washington. Then victory was almost instantaneous. The Mosqueito Gang lost its mojo and its breeding grounds, so, naturally it fucked off to Canada.
Messiah Bollocks’ received all the credit for the dramatic victory and for the subsequent decline in the death rate caused by bad water and mosquitoes. The papers praised him for masterminding operation Pest Control. Everyone admired him except his stepfather Damn, who visited him while he was nursing his wounds. “Kid, I know you’re enjoying your fame, but you listen to me a moment. This poodle and mosquito business is unmanly! It’s pure sissiness.”
“Damn, do you know who I am?”
“I am the messiah!”
Chuck prayed aloud, but God wasn’t in the mood, God told him to shut up, and when he refused—then God punished Chuck with a fresh swarm of mosquitoes.
Damn nodded knowingly, stared at the lines on his hand and sighed, “Chuck, the joke’s over, okay? The whole country is losing respect for you. No one’s interested in your stunts.”
“You want me to buy the farm?”
“There’s honor in honest work.”
“Is that so? Then why didn’t you let me star in DIY Sex on cable TV?”
Damn laughed, “Amerikans don’t need your help in that department. They’re having so much great sex that they’ve even lost interest in porn. Seriously, Chuck, this is serious. What are you going to do with your life and your luv? How long will you waste it? Isn’t it time to marry and get a job where you can use your luv productively?”
Chuck opened his mouth to speak, blew hot air instead, and finally decided to tell Damn the truth. “Don’t worry,” he whispered in Damn’s ear, “I got a job in the CIA. We’re gonna blow up the nation’s power plants and electrical substations. Once we have a nation-wide lights-out, we’re gonna blow up all the gas stations and have a nation-wide month-long holiday to make Amerika the best place on Earth. Robots and foreign job thieves will stop working! We’ll all get our jobs back—me included!”
“Very funny. And what if I like being unemployed?”
In the awkward silence that followed, President Angel flew into the conference room, congratulated the invincible Messiah Bollocks and reluctantly admitted, “Thanks to your sensational feats, Amerikans want me to promote you to the presidency, and I’m so sick of this nonsense that I’m finally going to grant you the honor,” he grumbled, paused and grinned. “I hereby promote you to President of the United Simpletons and Stagers of Idiotic Entertainments official, otherwise known as the PUSSIE.”
“Congratulations, kiddo!” Damn cried, slapping his friend on the back.
“Thanks, Damn. But, what are PUSSIEs supposed to do?”
President Angel answered as if he were Damn: “Oh, Chuck, that’s simple. Just inspire old people like your father to work for Amerika and make Amerika productive again.”
Chuck thought it over. “I guess I could try. I might have the perfect song for the job. It was inspired by my iGod. Wait, I’ll sing it for you.” Chuck leapt into action, did his patented dance and sang into the microphone for all of Happy Hour, the daily kids’ program:
Hey, everybody, listen up!
If you wanna be somebody,
Fuck your job and fuck your boss!
Pay attention! Multitask!
Stroke his hair, squeeze him there,
Do his job until he sings:
“Boohoo, I just can’t get enough of you!”
Working, working, working all night long!
The new economy is so much fun!
If it feels like all pain and no gain,
Don’t take it personally,
Learn to love the cross,
’Cause everybody, everyyyybodyyy
Is getting nailed (and screwed) by the boss.
Yo bro, hey sis!
Everybody love the new economy
Of minimal mental activity!
We tend a fine assembly line,
And shake our ass from nine to ninety-nine!
That’s how we raise the Gross Domestic Penis!
With the rhythm of the fucktory,
We improve our productivity!
Forget your stupid families,
Bosses are the men you need,
Godlike men, high above,
They look down with so much love.
Hey everybody, if you want kids,
Get to fucking work!
Let’s see some productivity!
Children are the spawn of
Government and industry:
All our children are their property,
So don’t worry,
Just feed the all-devouring economy!
Do your jobs and you won’t burn;
Nice stuff you’ll earn:
Plus stops at sexy shops,
And gifts like plastic kids!
Oh, life is perfectly heavenly
In the Fucking Economy!
Thank God Amerikans had no sense of irony and considered anything that rhymed simply sublime, and that’s how it should be, for poetry is the lingo of God, and the rhythm and rhyme can move the universe and inspire workers and shoppers to work and shop harder than those fucking Olympians.
PUSSIE produced and directed countless pro-work movies that were carefully crafted to inspire millions of lazy-asses to work for the greater economy. These movies featured hard-working movie start and celebrities who loved paying debts and bills and worshipped the Great Economy seven days a week. In the inspirational blockbusters as Captain Amerika, a CEO convinced all the world’s gods to promote and buy such products as Jehovah’s Crumbs, Allah’s Foot Baths, Brahma’s Holy Milk, Buddha’s Beef, and … well, you get the idea. Thanks to this amazing marketing strategy, people who had formerly stopper participating in the economy become active again and happily swim and splash in the Sea of Debt.
Star Works, another theatrical hit, was a moving tale about how Alexander the Great turned the Greek economy into a colossus that conquered markets from Europe to India. His grueling marches inspired the entire ancient world to work harder at making statues that do nothing but stare. Alexander had many visions about how to make books support the economy, so he wrote books about a hard-working carpenter, fisherman, tax-collector and a conqueror named—you guessed it—Alexander the Great Worker.
Hollywood also produced Saving Caesar, a timeless classic in which a workaholic named Julius Caesar becomes the most popular butcher in Rome. He’s such a talented bread winner that he becomes a cult hero, and his jealousy brother accuses him of not paying his taxes. Julius admitted that he had forgotten to pay them in 61 AD, and for this sin he asked to be crucified by the Jewish god of taxes.
In Corporate Wars, God promises the secret formula for the perfect beer to his favorite corporation, He-Brew Beers, owned and operated by Joshua Brothschild. For a few years the Brothschild family produces bliss for all workers and slaves, but when the family business is inherited by the faithless, lazy, non-practicing Jew, Judas Rothschild, the holy formula is stolen by a Roman merchant who changes the formula before selling it back to Judas. Thereafter, He-Brew Beers tastes like Christian vomit and the family business is destroyed.
In the sequel, A Thousand Saviors, Amerikan citizen Johnny JC Rockefeller uses dogged determination to rise from joblessness and found Holy Shit Incorporated. It revolutionizes the drug industry. It develops Eumerika!, a drug derived from the blood of negroes, the most energetic, selfless and cheerful people on Earth. Johnny hires twelve marketers to promote Eureka! as a cure for sloth, greed and fear of debt. Converts love it. Addicts love it. And Johnny loves it because now, whenever workers demand more, he gives them free bottles of Eureka! and presto, they apologize for their greed and sacrifice everything for the company and the government, often asking for lower wages and higher taxes, sacrificing kidneys and hearts to their bosses, even asking to be nailed to the cross of unemployment so that others can live and be happy. It was truly the most inspiring movie.
In The Book Club the hero saves Amerikans from a crippling addiction to reading foreign books. Afflicted adults quit good jobs and waste all their time and money reading books. The government issues public mental health warnings against reading, but the foreign books are so dangerous that most Amerikans can’t control the irresistible urge to dive into danger. Luckily, Principal Dee starts a nation-wide anti-reading program that is so effective it saves the world. Curiously, his program relies heavily on seven books that accuse all other books of being full of godless bullshit, devilish boredom and useless crap.
The Revolutionary Slaves tells the inspirational biography of the Slave family. The movie begins by showing how this incredible family survives a genocidal Hell in Africa. Deprived of the true religion, devils rule the land and turn it into a worthless desert. The Slaves escape, sail across the Atlantic Ocean and discover Heaven in Amerika. The angels who rule the land give them a piece of paradise, but they don’t have the skills to maintain it, famine begins, so they pray and God answers their prayers, for at the last minute they are saved from starvation by President Chuck Bollocks. The movie ends with the Slave children bringing bags of refined luv back to Africa, where their luv produces the greatest economic miracle ever recorded.
Thanks to these and other inspirational films on economic themes, Amerikans once again did their duties and the Amerikan economy boomed like a cannon in wartime. So what if a few actors, actresses, producers and directors committed suicide? Who said Hollywood and an Amerikan PUSSIE can’t do any good?
After resurrecting Amerika, Chuck asked for the ultimate promotion. Angel smiled, “Chuck, I know you have presidential ambitions, but what would you do for the economy that I haven’t already tried?”
“You think I haven’t thought this through? For starters, I’d revamp our flag! Stars and strippers are out of fashion. I prefer a flag with a far greater variety of shapes and colors. Something that will stop and make people think.”
“Like a religious flag?”
“The most religious flag is invisible, for our immaculate God is invisible!”
“You stupid genius! If we fly invisible flags, our enemies will think we don’t exist. Got any other harebrained shit in your noggin?”
“Sure! Listen, I’m gonna perform miracles! For Amerika I will perform the instant food miracle, the walking on the moon miracle, and the fiat and fractional reserve banking miracles! And to fight unemployment and poverty, I’ll grant everyone the right to invent their own money. No counterfeiting! Only innovation will be allowed. If people like your money, you will profit. This is only fair. Governments and banks should not have monopolies on money creation. That’s not fair competition. Anyway, our money is boring! I’ll create digital money with videos of porn stars. Who would be able to resist that?”
The president looked like he’d seen death.
“Relax, Angel old buddy. I was kidding. As president, this is what I’ll do to eradicate turn Amerika in to paradise! First, I’ll condemn every welfare case to one of those off-the-grid, neo-native nudist reservations where everyone eats weeds and insects. I’ll put all the poor, unemployed, sick and tired people in them. That way they won’t be a burden to this great country. We’ll save billions! And as soon as I turn those reservations into profitable, government-owned, tourist attractions, we’ll make billions from them, too!”
“I see. Wait, what the Hell is a neo-native nudist reservation?!”
“Well, I don’t quite know. They’re all over Australia, Arizona, Nicaragua and South Africa. I think they’re like summer camps full of primitive sex, weird music, deranged mental patients and giant mushrooms! Maybe you’d like to visit one?”
President Angel envisioned the end of the global economy and reeled in horror. At his command, his nurses rushed him away and Hollywood, the CIA, USBS, and the Bullshit Broadcasting Corporation started an anti-Bollocks smear campaign. Various, anonymous sources claimed that Chuck was lazy, afraid of homosexuals, and terrified of junk food. He even published videos and photographs of Chuck spending his nights playing naked in children’s playgrounds and forgetting to wipe all the seats and swings he fouled with his ass.
In any other country such stories would have shamed God himself, but Angel had forgotten that Amerika loved all manner of deviants, weirdos and perverts.
The Terraristani Miracles
President Angel’s smear campaign backfired badly, so he promoted him to Ambassador of Death. His first assignment was in the U.S. Embassy of Terraristan. Chuck went there thinking he was visiting a land of hot babes, beaches and sunshine, so imagine his surprise when he found the luxurious embassy buried in dust, without electricity, without appliances or running water, and without a parasol in sight. As for the beaches, well, he found plenty of blazing sunshine, but no shoreline and 144,000 rotting corpses instead of vacationers.
“There must be a mistake!” he shouted at the sky. “Why did you send me to a graveyard?”
His all-hearing iGod replied, “Are you presidential material or not? These people need your help.”
“But they’re dead!”
As if on cue, one of the dead sat up: “Ambassador Bollocks, please take me to Amerika!”
“TAKE US ALL TO AMERIKA!” cried a hundred thousand corpses sitting up in unison.
Ambassador Chuck cringed. “Have pity on Amerika!” his iGod commanded. “If you don’t help the living dead, they’ll swim to Amerika, seduce the daughters of our billionaires and pollute our genetic heritage!”
“That’s terrifying! So, what do you want me to do?”
“You numbskull! Resurrect the local economy! Resurrect it quick, but for God’s sake, don’t make it better than Amerika! I do not want to die of envy or have to move!”
The wrinkled and maggoty old corpses danced excitedly, whooped and licked their parched lips. Ambassador Bollocks told them to shut up and sit down. Instantly, the crowd fell silent.
“Thank you.” Then, turning to his iGod, Chuck shouted, “What do you want me to do? Call Amerika for a gigantic fast food delivery?”
“Where is your self-esteem? You were once my Lord FreeLuv, the fountain of luv! Chuck Bollocks, with your gift for luv, you can transform this barren desert into a living buffet! Luv is all you need for life!”
“I can’t even give life to a woman; how do you expect me to give life to a desert?”
An extraterrestrial glow appeared in the night sky. The nation’s idiots dreamed of aliens, but I have seen most of the universe, and I assure that the only aliens are angels and winged saints. As for that extraterrestrial glow, that was God’s inter-galactic Luv Device descending from Heaven. It was the acme of technology, the greatest gadget ever invented. It wasn’t metallic or shiny. To the untrained eye, it looked just like a banana. It landed harmlessly at Chuck’s feet, but a minute later, the accompanying User’s Manual bounced off his fat head. He had half a mind to crap on it, but thanks be to God, for he scanned the whole thing with his trusty iGod and got this perfect translation in spoken words:
You are now the proud owner of the Magic Banana Luv Device. It is self-replicating and it can transform beaches into peaches and deserts into desserts. Just locate a warm, moist spot, then gently press your Magic Banana Luv Device into it. Next, if you’re not too busy, provide sunlight, water and air. Do this ever so religiously and your Magic Banana Luv Device will produce all the wealth that you and your family will ever need.
Ambassador Bollocks whooped, “Praise be to God, for he has rescued me from failure with his amazing magic banana!”
The living dead also whooped, and actually they whooped with even more energy.
Armed with God’s patented Magic Banana, Ambassador Bollocks did his utmost to turn Terraristan into a healthy paradise, but the task was too great for God’s chosen one. In a silence of the night, he cried out, “I’m sorry, but no Hero, however mighty, not even Hercules and Muhammad working together could do this job. I need help!”
After hearing this heart-wrenching confession and plea, President Angel politely asked the Terraristanis for their permission to send 70,000 Amerikan workers into their country, to help the good ambassador bury the Poisonous Poppies of Hell and create a the so-called Living Buffet of Paradise. Of course, the Terraristanis granted permission.
Without delay, nearly one million angels parachuted down from the sky. They were Amerika’s mighty Farm and Forest Forces (F&FF). These super-healthy, highly-skilled dynamos worked tirelessly with the Earth and the Terraristani women as they joyfully planted their Luv Devices all over the parched and cracked land. Thanks to the helpfulness of the local people, the work was completed faster than predicted. Billions of Magic Banana Luv Devices sprouted like green origami machines. If that doesn’t help you visualize the miracle, imagine billions of ultra-high tech futuristic solar-hydro-mineral-air-powered micro-plant-factories. In short, God’s miraculous technology transformed the dead desert into a land flowing with edible calories suitable for animals.
After nation-wide celebrations, the F&FF were treated as heroes and received millions of invitations to live in Terraristani. Of course they refused to betray their beloved Amerika and they assured the locals that they could easily maintain their micro-plant-factories without foreign expertise. Even dumb kids could do that.
Well, I thought that was the end of the Terraristani problem, but you know what foreigners are like. Just days later, they began complaining that their Magic Bananas did not provide all the necessities of life. They demanded that Amerika provide free air-conditioned homes. Any other country would have balked at such an extravagant demand, but Amerika was truly exceptional. President Angel asked Ambassador Bollocks to lead the new mission, and with brilliant foresight, he sent the Amerikan Building Corps (ABC) to help him. They were warmly welcomed. Indeed, during many weeks of arduous work, they were regaled with many feasts and sleep-overs.
The following will give you an inkling of God’s inspired home designs. Each habitat was built around a tree, looked like a pile of mud, and was topped with thatch. These pretty little homes was equipped with space-age rocket-stoves and the cutest little chimneys. The Terraristanis sincerely appreciated Amerika’s gifts and invited President Angel to live with them in their beautiful new homes.
Well, once again, that should have been the end of the Terraristan story, but as I said before, foreigners are the worst moochers. They were thankful for their free food and shelters, but now they wanted meaning, for somehow life felt meaningless. In a stroke of genius, Ambassador Bollocks offered to give them democracy, but the Terraristanis had no interest in democracy: “We’d rather by ruled by your president. We want laughter, and you he’s the funniest man we know.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Then we’ll go to Amerika and have children with all your women.”
“I see. Let me talk to President Angel and see if he can do some slap-stick with me.”
He called President Angel’s personal line and explained his predicament. The president was flattered but unavailable, but, unwilling to disappoint the Terraristanis, he sent them the Amerikan Clown Forces (ACF). They arrived in fart-powered vehicles and entertained those rude and uncivilized people by making their buttocks jiggle and their genitals twirl.
I thought that was the end of the Terraristani adventure, but just as Ambassador Bollocks took a leave of absence, those barbarians prayed for just one more favor. “What now?” I grumbled. “Televisions or signed copies of my Hollywood Bible?” Turns out they just wanted to honor Amerika’s greatest ambassador ever with a crappy portrait and a concert played with their asses.
The good ambassador felt unappreciated, so he went searching for love in the Kingdom of Saud. I warned Chuck of the dangers. I told him that Saudi women are so beautiful that if any one of them exposes any portion of their silky, sensuous skin, even a single nipple, men turn into pigs, roast in their own flames and suffer from eternal shame. That’s the truth. Why else do you think Saudi men keep those dangerous creatures covered and hidden?
Like I said, I warned my boy, but he didn’t listen. He flew to Mecca, the party center of the world, and bought a ticket to a popular unisexual mosque. After dressing in the local party wear, he was persuaded to participate in suggestive dancing, and when he had quite exhausted himself the women used unsolicited kisses to make him join their wicked conversations. Well, it wasn’t long before they realized they were talking to Amerika’s national treasure, the one and only Ambassador Bollocks. And that’s when the party ended.
Chuck was arrested and dragged to an oil refinery, where he was hooked up to tubes and pumps, forced to sleep and fed nothing but awful Arabic food. After about a week of this torture, the Royal Engineer of Saud arrived and examined the substance being extracted from Chuck’s body.
“Allah is awesome!” he gasped. “This liquid shit is superior to methane, propane and butane! Your ass produces better, cleaner fuels than all the world’s oil and gas fields!!”
“Well, thank you very much, but who gave you permission to extract my precious bodily byproducts?”
“Allah informed us that your body is a divine reservoir of luv, the cleanest and most potent energy in the universe! Now it is ours and we will charge the world as much as we desire! We’re going to be rich!”
“That’s good news indeed, but please tell your king if he does not set me free, I will ask my God to impregnate all your Arab women with black-skinned and blond-haired children!”
The Royal Engineer swiftly relayed the terrible threat on camelback to King Saudom, who foolishly laughed and dismissed it. A month later a million Saudi women reported mysterious pregnancies. Eight months later, King Saudom panicked, summoned his precious prisoner, personally apologized to him and begged him to reverse the curse on his kingdom.
This time Ambassador Bollocks laughed. “I’m sorry, Saudom, but history cannot be rewritten. Release me, return my stolen luv, and I will spare you from bearing the devil’s children, too.”
“Allah have mercy! You are free!” cried Saudom.
“But how can I live without your luv energy?”
Ambassador Bollocks pitied old Saudom. “Buddy, if you really want to have access to the world’s cleanest and most potent energy, look no further than your women. They gave me the energy to cross many deserts barefoot just to be with them. Simply feast your eyes on their beautiful noses and cheeks and hear their every breath and I swear, Allah will give you all the energy you can dream of.”
King Saudom thanked him and shared his advice with all the kingdom’s men, and by the Devil’s power, everyone believed him and the whole country descended into a blazing Hell too painful to describe. Thus Allah punishes the wicked.
A Jewish Dream Destroyed
Around this time, some crazy Jew wrote a movie script about God promising to give Amerika to the Jews. Native Amerikans have always been hospitable and ready to share their country with anyone, but after the movie was released Amerika had a problem: millions of Jews wanted Amerika all for themselves. They pointed to the many Jewrassic fossils found throughout the land. President Angel said those fossils were planted by Jewish film crews and politely declined to surrender our country.
Days later, the Prime Mufti of Israel, Ben Rabi Jacob, asked President Angel if Israel could buy or lease-to-own Amerika.
“I’m sorry,” President Angel replied, “but Amerika is not for sale or for lease.”
“I’ll pay in the currency of luv,” coyly suggested the Prime Mufti. “All under the table, of course.”
“The kings and prophets of old left us a shitload.”
President Angel was sorely tempted. The thought of more luv was tantalizing. He even thought of sharing some of it with his wife. When God got word of this intelligence gathering angels, He sent Ambassador Bollocks to Israel to talk some sense into Prime Mufti Jacob.
“Jake, I know how much you want Amerika for the Jews, but you don’t know what you’re asking for. No reasonable Jew would want to live in Amerika. We make Egypt and Pakistan look like Heaven.”
The Prime Mufti laughed. “Oh, ambassador, you are too funny! Everyone knows Amerika is awesome! Why else would God want us to occupy it?”
Chuck considered committing some mischief, but chose to tell the truth instead. With all the gentleness in the world, he explained, “Jake, God spoke to your ancestors a long time ago. If He could see this country now, He’d understand that Amerika is Hell. We’re overrun with Hispanics, Ethiopian Jews and Asians of both sexes, and they’ll seduce your white-assed men and women and turn you all into fat-assed Mongrels with lumps in your breasts. Even if you wear condoms, you’d still have to hide in your synagogues seven days a week not to be corrupted by our epidemic of atheism, anarchy, skepticism, comedy, and death worship. Even the hearts of angels are broken here or simply rot from the inside out.”
Gasping for air, Jacob lied, “With God’s help, we’ll manage.”
“You might believe that now, but you haven’t heard the worst of it. Yesterday God was so furious with Amerika trending towards atheism that he made all fast food carcinogenic! And, to further punish us, yesterday the president passed legislation permitting children without homes to use any federal, state or city park as their toilet!”
With two impotent little fists, Prime Mufti Rabi Jacob cried, “That’s fine! I will not be afraid! I know—I know Amerika still has the most peaceful streets, the best schools, the best cancer rates, and the best hygiene on Earth!”
Ambassador Bollocks sighed. “If we’re so peaceful, why do we think about death every day? As for education, ha! We can’t afford schools. We’re back to teaching under the trees. We don’t have even one professional doctor. Everyone’s using cheap disgusting home remedies. Jacob, honestly, Amerika is so broke we’re living without shampoo, shitting on our back lawns and eating our front lawns.”
This was too much. Jacob tried to stifle a sob. “Damn, that’s really bad. Very bad. I admit it, but it’s still better than Israel!”
Now Ambassador Bollocks laughed, “Oh, did I remember to tell you that last year we abolished meat, bread, milk, alcohol, religion and marriage.”
This was too much for Jacob. “What? You abolished food and marriage? Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“A dictator rules our country. He decided that marriage is a prison and incompatible with freedom.”
“Holy fiddlesticks! Anything else I should know about?”
“Sure. Our supreme and beloved dictator declared that employment contravenes our constitutional right to freedom, so he abolished employment. Oh, and he declared that importing contravenes our declaration of independence, so he abolished international trade.”
“Abolished trade and employment! Holy philistines! How do you stay alive?”
“It’s a mystery to me. Anyway, I hope you’ve heard enough. Forget Amerika. You should check out life in neighboring Terraristan.”
“Terraristan? But that’s a banana republic!”
“Bananas are good for you, and Terraristani women are so peaceful that –”
Jacob couldn’t believe it. He kissed Ambassador Bollocks and rushed to Terraristan. I didn’t quite expect such enthusiasm. I certainly didn’t expect him to fall in love with Terraristan and divorce Me so that he could worship those idiotic Hahaha.
Ambassador Bollocks had performed such astounding miracles all over the Middle East that ten million citizens, mostly women and homosexuals, marched on Washington shouting, “BOLLOCKS FOR PRESIDENT! BOLLOCKS FOR PRESIDENT!”
Of course, all they really wanted was a younger, more handsome man in the Oval Theater, so Chuck took pity on his country and returned for a tryst with the beleaguered President Angel. They met secretly in the presidential bedroom. Angel trusted God’s protection, so the security cameras were turned off. After shaking hands and exchanging greetings, Chuck jokingly apologized for being popular.
“Amerika wants you real bad,” grumbled the president. “So when can you start playing my role? The public can’t wait. They’re sick of me. They say my acting sucks.”
“I don’t know. I was happy in the Middle East.”
“You’re not seriously declining the presidency?”
Chuck got all dreamy eyed. “You don’t know what life is like in Terraristan. You should come and check it out. The people are beautiful. They won’t judge you for being a horrible president. Honestly, it’s time you gave up on Amerika. Quit your job and go to Africa. Maybe you can build a better Amerika there.”
“You’re crazy! I should have you thrown into a mental hospital!”
Chuck rubbed the president’s shoulder and continued provoking him: “Move to Africa! Don’t worry, no one will notice your absence. Amerikans don’t need Big Daddy anymore. Besides, with your work experience, you could be president anywhere. Lots of countries must be headhunting you right now.”
“Shut up! This country still loves me like Santa Claus.”
“It’s time they grew up and learned to fend for themselves.”
“How do you know? You haven’t been home in ages. You don’t read the news. Listen, Amerika is infested with economic-eco-commie terrorists! They’re turning rural Amerika into a patchwork of … of …”
“Worse! They’re turning our best cornfields and factory farms into disorderly forests and naked circuses! They’re turning our parks into refugee camps for homeless Nature lovers, tax evaders, welfare cases, high school dropouts and other sick rabbits. The Constitution explicitly forbids this, but they think the Constitution is just hilarious. Seriously! And now those clowns are seed-bombing our beautiful cities, giving factories away and cutting off our gas, oil, water, electricity and fast food. Amerika is under attack! Our beautiful economy is being sodomized and our civilization is being bushwhacked!”
The president was hysterical. He slid under the bedsheets and slowly drifted into a nightmare about a bad restaurant. The food was slow. No one respected his orders. They offered angel soup. He demanded ostrich steak and chicken chops, but the waiters were out to lunch. The poor president screamed for service and tried to out-wait the waiters. Hope and stubborn determination bound him fast to his chair. He grew weaker and weaker and saw vultures and hyenas enter the restaurant and laugh over his bones.
President Angel woke up shaking. For comfort, he snuggled against Chuck’s soft, warm body.
An Evil Legislator
The next morning, the presidential nightmare came true: breakfast was not served. The White House kitchen staff had either quit or gone on strike. So, Chuck put on his bunny gear and went hunting for vittles. Sadly, he found nothing edible on the White House grounds: no cows, pigs, puppies, goats, sheep or rabbits. However, he did locate Angel’s personal poodle, a herd of fat asses and elephants rummaging in the presidential gardens. Chuck executed a fat one gangsta-style and extracted a bloody organ known as the omasum, which he slammed onto the breakfast table, splattering the president with blood and digestive acids.
“Nice catch,” Angel politely remarked. “Where’d you learn to hunt?”
“I studied the true life of George ‘Jesus Christ’ Washington. Did you know that back in his day, he decimated the wild herds of mammoth and pre-historic donkeys roaming about Washington? Thanks to him, Amerikans were finally relieved of those pests. But it looks like they’ve staged a come-back. Not for long, though. With your permission, I’ll hunt them to extinction!”
“Maybe later. I have more important work for you.”
“What? You still think I can work for someone?”
“Can you write legislation?”
“That stuff’s a breeze. Yup, easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
“Good. I’m tired of reading the crap that comes from Congress.”
“No kidding. Well, your legisterration is in good hands. I taught Stephen King and Joan Collins how to write legit novels and I have honorable degrees from Harvard or Yale. Plus, my mental dictionary is super-duper and least and last is the inconvertible fact that my grammatical wahzoo is raging for the elementary reason that henceforth my devotion to concision in diction is so amazing I could pare the old Bible down to a page or two, maybe three. What I’m trying to say is that when I’m done, your laws will contain no unnecessary flaws, and your sentences will stop being prison sentences!”
Though the president didn’t laugh, he put Chuck between towers of paper and said, “My life depends on your ability to turn this crap into something that won’t give me indigestion.”
Once the door was shut, Chuck fell down and prayed, “Oh God, please send me the angel Rumpelstiltskin to help me with my work! Please, I can’t even spell the alphabet! Oh, God, I’m sorry! I should have paid more attention and studied folklore harder in school. Please, forgive me and give my arm the power to write lines of pure gold!”
Now, in most countries God does not talk back to the faithful, but Amerika is uniquely exceptional, so a voice whispered in Chuck’s head: “Relax, my little apprentice. I will teach you everything you need to know about writing if you promise to improve only the wording of the laws and leave the gist unchanged.”
“Whatever you say. Can I add a few religious laws?”
“Good idea! You may compose a law or two requiring all Amerikans to kiss God’s ass 35 times a week.”
Chuck agreed to these wonderful terms, but before God could teach him anything, Satan appeared in her alluring form, stole his conscience, and thanks to her evil meddling, Chuck wrote completely new laws and acts like the True Love Law, which read, “No Amerikan may love pets, gods and any other stuff. Everyone shall learn to love another or be content with hating one another.” He also wrote the National Buy the Fucking Farm Authorization Act (NBFFAA) and the Satan Rules the World Act (SRWA). The latter law required all citizens, corporations and government bodies to surrender all their land to Satan Mining, a non-profit company whose ludicrous operations never even reached bedrock. This company never made a profit because it only used biodegradable, solar-powered machines that extracted miniscule amounts of mostly useless minerals like sulfur, nitrogen, phosphate, iron, hydrogen, magnesium, water, carbon, oxygen and so on. Satan Mining was also unprofitable because God’s rodents began devouring the company’s organic machines!
Additionally, Satan’s evil secretary threatened civilization by prohibiting marriage and by making unprotected inter-racial fucking mandatory! And even that was not enough. So, he wrote the Forget Your Boss Now Act and the Men Must Give Women Pleasure Act and the Mysterious Act for Clowns, Idiots and Asses (MA4CIA). Then, the final joke was the infamous Security Amendment, which declared clothing a national security threat because clothes can be used to hide dangerous objects. This evil amendment authorized the police to strip citizens and burn civilian clothes. If put into effect, it could have destroyed the textile and fashion industries and undermined the very foundation of civilization!
Of course, all those laws were plenty awful, but Chuck’s ultimate offense was tacking this article to the Constitution:
The one and only Chuck Bollocks shall be loved by all citizens, regardless of age, and he shall be made president, and all gods, dolls, puppets, cartoons and children shall be made in his handsome image, and schools shall study his body, his teeth, his guts, his sexy organs, his pure blood and semen, his extraordinary bone, and his inflatable lungs. All Amerikans shall read nothing but the life of Chuck, and all songs shall praise him, and all actors and actresses shall always re-enact the heroic deeds of the true president of Amerika.
Well, thank God most Amerikans are too smart to read their laws.
A Television Mini-Series
One day, after many arguments with Congress, President Angel made this excellent joke, “Chuck, I admit it, I’ve been wrong about you all this time. You know exactly what the common rabbit wants, and you’re so funny that you truly deserve to be president.”
“You mean it? Oh, really? It’s my dream come true! When can I start?”
“Hold on! There’s a little problem we need to take care of.”
“Shit! I knew it! I’m too ugly, right?”
“Don’t be silly. Amerikans don’t judge appearances—not unless you don’t look healthy. I mean, if your skin turned black or red, or if you had a blonde afro, then maybe they’d have second thoughts. But I’m talking about something else. You see, there’s this thing called the economy and it’s so much fun that everyone wants to participate, but to participate they need jobs. So, voters want you to give them jobs and bosses.”
“Wow, that’s true! This country loves work! It can’t eat unless it’s working, and without work we go to Hell. As God used to tell me, ‘Chuck, where there is no work, Satan sows the seeds of our discontent and we reap revolting weeds like motherwort, milkweed, parsley, ugh, arugula and a weed that could make your brain catch fire.’”
“God told you that, eh?”
“You can’t disprove it!”
“No, but I can laugh. Anyway, what’s your solution to our dying economy, Pastor Chuck?”
“I’ll invent jobs! I’ll send a billion unemployed Americans into the Egyptian desert on a tree and weed planting mission and I’ll pay them in the form of fresh daily salads.”
“That’s a great idea. And you could also pay them all our welfare cases to fight climate change by sucking carbon out of the atmosphere!”
“Yeah! I’ll make them so busy they’ll be huffing and puffing in bed!”
“Brilliant! Wait, there’s just one teeny-weeny problem.”
“You don’t exist.”
“What? I don’t?”
“Well, not in public, and people can’t vote for someone they never saw on television.”
“I could email my resume to voters.”
“No one reads anymore and no one really believes that you were the Amerikan Messiah and that you saved us from the Terrarists, the swamp creature and that hairy gang, just like no one remembers that I freed Iran, Cuba, Germany, Vietnam, Japan, Panama, Iraq and other countries.”
“So what do I do? Write my autobiography?”
“You? I’ve seen your writing. It’s horrifying. No, what you need is a reality show.”
“You think I’m reality show material?”
“Sure, and I already have the script. God wrote it. All you have to do is act like yourself and I promise, within three episodes, Amerikans will see you’re perfect for the White House. Come, the studio isn’t far away.”
Chuck rushed after the president. Well, to give him credit, he half suspect a plot to ruin his good reputation, but he thought God was on his side, and who can blame him?
Episode One: The Midwife
Sister None desperately needed the lord’s supernatural powers, so, at President Angel’s behest, he and the lord paid her a visit in Pittsburg. They arrived just as a doctor left Sister None’s residence. His smock was in tatters. He was covered in scratches and blood and, seeing Lord Chuck approach with his godlike confidence, he laughed like a madman and prophesied doom.
Well, that could have scared off the mighty Muhammad, but Lord Chuck refused to fear a woman and bravely followed Angel into a candlelit interior. On a crooked mattress, they found the woman tilted, her head near the floor and her naked legs rudely parted in the air.
Lord Chuck nearly fainted
“Chuck!” President Angel hissed. “You’re her only hope! She’s been trying to clean her sewer for three whole days, but the kid exit. Did you bring a plunger?”
“A plunger? Angel, this isn’t a plumbing job! That woman’s pregnant and having contractions!”
President Angel removed a plunger from his handbag and gave it to Chuck. “Stick this on the kid’s head and pull!”
“You’re nuts! That thing will pull its brains out! Listen, the kid won’t come out until someone assures him he’ll find a world of love on the outside.”
The lord pushed the president aside, knelt between the patient’s legs and—instead of praying—he bent close to the stubborn, unborn monster and politely inquired, “Hey, what’s the holdup in there? Do you know what you’re missing?”
The kid did not answer, so Angel gave the lord a box of sweets and said, “Stuff these in the kid’s mouth. That way he’ll know what he’s missing out here.”
Chuck grabbed them and ate them himself. Then he leaned closer to the unborn monster and said with a full mouth, “Okay, kid, I don’t know what your mamma is feeding you in there, but I’m sure it all tastes the same. Wouldn’t you like to choose what you eat?”
“You know you’re just a prisoner in there. Every day you go wherever your mamma goes, but look, I can go wherever I want!”
The lord demonstrated his walking ability in the grey light, tripped and bounced off the wall and struck the bed so hard that the woman shrieked and the bed tilted backwards. The blood poured out of the woman’s face as she nearly stood in her bed. She could not help laughing. Angel almost had a heart-attack and apologized to the poor patient. Meanwhile, Lord FreeLuv kneeled between the woman’s legs and shouted at the unborn child: “I’m glad everyone’s amused, but you listen to me! There’s nothing funny about being stuck in your mommy’s crotch! You think it’s Heaven because you don’t have to do nothing, but you’re nobody. Your opinion counts for nothing. But, I enjoy freedom and equality. Amerikans don’t take orders from anyone, not from our mothers, bosses, teachers or … uhm, our politicians,” he added, looking nervously at the president.
The unborn kid loved the sound of the lord’s voice, and without delay he pulled itself out of the womb and into a world of slavery and suffering—I mean—ha-ha-ha-ha—a life of law abiding citizenship. Sister None thanked Lord Chuck and blessed him by naming the newborn child after him. And why not? The little monster was made in his image.
Luckily, no one noticed that he’d forgotten to cut the umbilical cord. He really wasn’t destined for medicine.
Cut to the Luv Mansion at Fort Bragg:
The president woke Chuck with this whisper, “Hey, chief, the CIA just gave me a disturbing intelligence report. Apparently about 2,000 kids named Chuck are coming here. They say you’re responsible for their existence and if you don’t give them food and shelter immediately they’ll bite your toes off.”
“The dogs! I hope they don’t look like me.”
“So you admit to fathering 2,000 little turds?”
Chuck shot up into sitting position. “Wait, did you say two-thousand?! Two kids, that I might handle, but two–thousand? What am I supposed to do with so many?”
There was no time to answer. They rushed to the front door just in time to see 200 mongrels toddling onto the estate. Oblivious of the adults, they began digging holes, looking for grub and pooping everywhere. The hungriest ones mowed the greenery with their teeth and got such belly aches their little voices disturbed the angels above. Chuck tried to pay them to get lost, but they were too young to understand his luv. So, President Angel handed Chuck a tranquilizer gun.
“Go ahead. They just need their medicine, and this is the fastest way to administer it.”
“You’re crazy! These kids just need a lot of luv, and I’m going to give it to them!” The lord threw a pile of cash onto a table and chanted like a shaman, “Transform into bottles of baby formula! Transform or into the trash you go!”
His spell-casting skills could have used some help. Admitting defeat in this department, the lord ripped off his shirt and asked God to mutate him into a lactating woman. God was so amused by this request that He quickly turned him a giant breast with a hundred nipples. The infant mob clapped its many mouths upon them and sucked hungrily, but seconds later it gagged, vomited and nearly died. I guess, something about that breast just wasn’t right.
When the little brats returned to consciousness, God’s breast mutated back into the lord, who said in dismay, “Angel, they look angry now. What am I going to do with them?”
“If you’re giving up, maybe you should send them to your sister’s place. Just tell them your sister has the most wonderful breasts in the world, which by the way is true, and then they’ll never look at you again.”
The lord heartily agreed. When the sleepers woke, the lord told them he would take them to a place where they would find plenty of mothers to take care of them. But they wanted the lord, so the lord growled and bared his teeth so frightfully that the children screamed for their mothers.
Stupid cowards. Afraid of monsters! Why didn’t they just pray for help? Do the children have no faith at all?
Episode Last: The Family
President Angel took the lord to a mental asylum. As they approached, they heard the sound of women and children cackling this blasphemous nursery rhyme:
Our lord’s name was Chuck,
And he was crazy as a duck,
He walked funny,
He pooped money,
And gave it all away.
He gave us credit, dimes and pennies,
And said, “Go nurture it
Work to feed it, make it grow
Before God and Government
Come calling and collecting.”
Chuck felt personally insulted and hurt. After sneaking inside, he smashed all the broken bidets and clogged toilets and asked Angel to write these words on the wall, Because Satan and her sisters live here, the government will no longer take your shit! Angel refused. He said that would be a crime, but Chuck insisted and while they argued about what to write, a woman who resembled Penny rushed past the toilet.
“Hey, Mom! It’s you! I mean, hey, it’s me!”
She stopped. “Did you call me Mom?”
“I did. You are!”
“Is Mom my name today?” she asked in confusion. “I thought my name was Number Two.”
“Hey, Penny, don’t you recognize your own flesh?” a stranger asked.
“Damn, you shut up!”
“Mom,” Chuck cried like a baby, “did you catch Alzheimer’s or something? Don’t you recognize me?”
“Me? Are you from around here or are you lost?”
Chuck was sure President Angel had paid his mother to humiliate him. “It’s me, your son!”
“I’m sorry, yorson. Never heard that name before. Is it a variation of whoreson?”
Chuck saw his sister down the hall and yelled, “Bitch!” She barked, wagged her buttocks and bounded away. Chuck thought he was back in the old psychiatric ward he’d visited early in his government career. He started to worry. Was he losing his mind? Maybe it was time to get out of the entertainment business and find his way back to reality.
To the president’s nearly infinite frustration, the public did not react. Despite the enormous budget spent on producing the reality show Chuck Does Amerika, Amerikans had long ago lost interest in televisions and movies. The only ones who saw the show were the few who attended the live performances, and for them the show was a revelation that the government was loaded with great actors and better entertainers. From these few, the truth spread slowly, by word of mouth.
Unwilling to admit his bitter defeat, President Angel hired Hollywood studio USBS to secretly produce a movie that would absolutely ruin Chuck’s chances of becoming president of anything. Preparations for the movie began with the creation of the infamous Clowns In Action, or CIA, of which President Angel made Chuck the governor.
In Act One, Governor Chuck was scheduled to be eaten alive by a gigantic GMO rabbit unless he successfully completed his first CIA assignment in Act Three, but for comical effect, due to security issues, this assignment was not revealed to him until Act Five. His awesome assignment was to extract back taxes and overdue mortgage payments from his shamefully unAmerikan family.
During an emergency meeting, the governor and his distinguished colleagues brainstormed for solutions. After three hours of silence, Governor Chuck broke into tears and wailed, “My parents and their parents and all my ancestors have never earned a cent! How am I supposed to squeeze oil out of a rock? How?”
“Most beloved governor!” cried Agent John. “If your mother consents to boink and oink with us, we could pay her.”
“Hey! That’s a great idea,” Governor Chuck replied before pushing John off his chair. “Anyone have a better one?”
“Overthrow Penny! Provoke a domestic uprising! Fund a coup!”
“Forget it! No one’s in charge there. My mother lets everyone do whatever they want. The only way to persuade them to do anything is to be awfully nice to them.”
“How they Hell are we supposed to be nice? Being nice goes against my manly nature,” complained Agent Badass.
“Well, I’m afraid it’s the only way. It won’t be easy, and grave risks are involved, for we are dealing with women who have a lot of experience being women. So, do we have any volunteers?”
“ME!” exclaimed CIA agent Kamikazi Yamaguchi-gumi. He was the most cunning, manipulative clown. He was so good, he could make women quit sex forever, which is why he was trusted with the most perilous assignment in the history of the CIA.
Agent Yamaguchi-gumi carried a box of heroin and cocaine-laced chocolates to 666 Cabbage Lane. A hellish incense curled up from tiny chimneys. Yamaguchi gathered his courage, rang the silent bell and blew his little trumpet. Three corrupted and unclean aunties staggered out of the house.
“Hey big boy, want some loving?” drawled Aunt Hiv.
“What you got in the box, honey?” squealed Aunt Yeast as she gave Yamaguchi an indecent kiss.
“I never trust a man who shaves his manhood!” Aunt Sivilitis warned as if she knew that Yamaguchi was a fox, a dog, or a sneaky cat.
Yamaguchi gave each wench an intoxicating chocolate kiss. They couldn’t resist. Then, as they grew woozy, he slipped into the house, and there he heard these slanderous blasphemies sung by that evil pop star, Petrushka “the Devil” Doodink:
Stole our boy and honey!
Corrupted him with gold, drugs
And pornographic money!
Now our lord is no more!
Though he didn’t do his chore!
He raised our hopes,
And piqued our interest,
Then let us fall
From the edges of our seats.
Oh, boo-hoo-hoo! Boo-hoo-hoo!
Afterwards the Insolent Gang of Economic Misfits sang the sarcastic lyrics of Economic Fantasy #1:
Hey, hey! Hey, hey!
I’ve got good news today:
We’re out of debt!
Our hero did his job
And went to bed
To pay our debts!
He did, he really did!
The boy who sacrificed his mind,
Yet somehow satisfied
The universal bride:
He somehow satisfied.
He paid the bribe
And freed the bunny tribe!
They loved it. Of course they did! Though none of it was true, everyone has the right to fantasize. It’s good to religious exercise your imagination.
Penny Bollocks met her garishly dressed guest in the sunroom. After brief introductions, Penny asked, “Aren’t you the secret agent who tricked my son into working for the government when he was just learning how to think?”
“I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m here to take Bitch out on a date.”
“Oh? On a date? On which date?”
Yamaguchi checked his calendar for a date and confidently reported, “Today, mam.”
“I see. Mr Yamaguchi-gumi, how much do you earn per year?”
“Lots! Clowns are in short supply, mind altering jokes aren’t cheap, and you can’t put a price on a good laugh. Hey, have you seen my balloon?” he asked, looking around in a panic.
“It’s caught between your legs. Oh, isn’t that cute. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, does Bitch know you?”
“She won’t if you keep asking questions. Is this how you always treat clowns?”
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she lied as she gently squeezed her visitor’s balloon. “So, just what does the CIA expect you to do today?”
Yamaguchi-gumi popped his balloon and from the remains he extracted a crumpled note which read, “I must rescue her from a world of tyranny and human rights abuses!”
“Oh, my! Human rights abuses? Oh, dear! What kind?”
“Name calling, sexual exploitation, poverty, underemployment, and etcetera.”
“Oh my, these are serious charges.”
“They are indeed.”
“Now that I think of it, she does have too much sex and too little work and money. Well, if you think you can fix this, please find her and take her to your circus.”
“That is precisely my plan.”
In Act Two, Penny stalked Yamaguchi-gumi through the house and around her marijuana tree growing in the yard. He had no luck locating the wench until he felt his butt being pinched. Bitch grinned like a beast in a skin-tight leopard outfit. Yama gasped and surrendered his only flower to her.
“Why, thank you, Mr Yama. And what poor plant did you castrate for me?”
“What … uhm, I’m not a botanist.”
“Are you, perhaps, a buttonist?”
“Could we talk somewhere private?”
“Certainly, but for true privacy, you’ll have to talk alone.”
Mr Yamaguchi shed a tear, but rather than winning an agreement to go somewhere private, he received an immoderate hug. After he stopped blushing, Bitch asked him about whether she could ask him whether she could ask him questions.
Mr Yamaguchi-gumi scratched his head and asked for clarification. After hearing an even more confusion rendition, he shuffled his floppy shoes and answered, “If you ask me anything about my privates, I will lie because everything about me must be secretive. It’s the policy of the CIA,” he quietly explained as he scanned the surroundings with his special iGod spy-glasses.
“So, what exactly is your business?”
Yamaguchi inflated a fresh balloon, tickled Bitch’s neck with his scruffy beard and whispered, “My business is quite urgent.”
“We all have urges,” the wicked witch wickedly winked. Then she escorted her suitor to a cunningly prepared bed that smelled of sweat, fish and hints of putrid lavender, catnip and balls of cotton. Agent Kamikazi stood stiffly watching as the graceful witch tossed her hair and reclined in that seductive manner that leads even angels to destruction.
“So,” she breathed, “you funny man, what would you like to talk about?”
He sat down with a grave expression, nervously twisted his purple balloon and began, “Ahem. Miss Bitch, if I may, I … I believe you are being mistreated here by a certain tyrant, an evil power that has never allowed you to go to the circus, an evil power that has denied you all the joys of civilized life, joys such as education, transportation, medication, telecommunication and –”
“No, and freedom from oppression!”
“Oh, Mr Yamaguchi! You certainly know how impress a lady with your big words. Oppression! I love it! You know, I’ve felt oppressed forever! My libido oppresses me most of all. And my stomach, too. Together, they absolutely tyrannize me!”
Looking upon her with pained sympathy, he passed her a paper bag containing a pile of luv, then whispered, “It’s for you.”
“Thanks. Uhm, what is it?”
“It’s my life savings. Tell your mother she can have it if she promises to pay her taxes and promises to stop exploiting your you-know …”
She laughed. “My yuno?”
“Your …” his voice shrank and fell. “Uhm, your bunny hole.”
The cruel wench nearly died laughing.
“Bitch!” cried her date. “I’m serious! You know your brother was supposed to save our Ultimate and Supreme Ass and you know the damn fool sank it deeper into debt by borrowing all his vaunted luv from Latino, Arab and African sex clowns!”
“I see. So we should secretly give your money to the government. Anything else?”
Yamaguchi-gumi blushed, mumbled, then gained a little confidence and confessed, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you leave me no choice. Yesterday, God said if I … ahem, sleep with you, you will conceive a boy, a boy destined to fulfill the great biblical prophecy that Ultimate and Superior Ass will do the world.”
“Do the world? Do the world what?”
“I don’t know. I guess, do the world a favor?”
“I see. So you need my special yuno so that you, I mean I, can conceive a superior, new generation Chuck. Oh my, you certainly know how to get a girl’s attention, Mr Yama.”
He grunted and started priming his pump.
“But,” she continued almost apologetically, “I’m sorry, today my yuno is bleeding.”
Yamaguchi-gumi’s erection slumped. His face reddened. He inspected the wound and blustered, “This is an outrage! Tell me what monster did this to you! I’ll kill him!”
“Please, don’t overreach. Would you like to try our seesaw?”
“A seesaw?” He paused to consider it and checked his CIA handbook for the rules. “Sorry, government clowns are strictly forbidden from using seesaws while on the job. But, I would like to us your toilet.”
Bitch pointed him towards a luxurious outhouse. Inside was a deep, lush carpet; above was a sky-blue ceiling; and all around were moss-colored walls illustrated with a life-like image of our Lord’s celestial buttocks, which Yama mistook for bulbous female udders because his mind was teeming with degrading hormones and undignified lust for bunny flesh. But even that evil power was nothing compared to the pressure inside his constipated ass. For comic relief, Bitch taught him to perform a Himalayan tantric chant as a way to create a gentle, internal pressure on his stubborn bowels. The trick produced a successful movement that left a mess on his asshole, so the toilet paper industry was indispensable, but no such paper was offered, so Yamaguchi-gumi wiped himself with a handful of cash. Honestly, with idiots like that around, small wonder that President Angel invented softer forms of money.
Treason and Desertion
Yamaguchi-gumi washed up and returned with a new erection. Bitch complimented his readiness to serve his country. However, before taking him to Satan’s bush, she inquired in her sauciest voice, “Yama dear, I don’t mean to be a poop, but please tell me why Chuck is such a disappointment that the world needs a new one. And please explain why you think I am uniquely qualified to conceive a new and superior Chuck. Why not my mother or grandmother? They’re both still horny as bonobos.”
“The Bible says you and I must do it.”
“Oh, well, I’m flattered to be mentioned in that book,” she replied as she squatted to pee near a tree. “But,” she continued as she sprinkled abundantly and Yamaguchi’s balloon spluttered, “but, have you considered Chuck’s impressive list of accomplishments? He’s been a lord, a messiah, an ambassador and a President, and all before the age of 24. I think that’s a pretty good start. Why replace him?”
Yama’s member flopped and shriveled. He sighed, “That’s true. Chuck achieved a lot, but he let us down. He did not convert Amerika into a profitable circus, so God still doesn’t love us,” he added, irritably, unconsciously squashing his limp penis in his hand as he continued, “and for these reasons he is responsible for the Greatest Depression and Amerika’s economic impotence!”
“Well, well, well, when you put it like that, I guess we don’t have much choice about the matter. You’d better get to work right away.”
“I’d better get to work? What about you? I ain’t giving another free ride! I … oops.”
“I see. Well, I hope you’re not afraid of a little blood, Mr Yama.”
“Blood? Do you like violent sex?” he asked, turning pale.
“No, you fool! Look, I’m menstruating like a dying pig!”
“Right! Well, they don’t call me Kamikazi-gumi for nothing!”
“That’s good to know. However, let me inform you that if you boldly proceed, even after conception I’ll still need nine months to just make a chicken-sized savior of the world, and then I’ll need a little over a decade to build him into a man, or a woman. It all depends, of course. So, unless you’ve made long-term plans, we face some serious problems, don’t we?”
Yamaguchi’s penis was no longer responding to stimuli.
“Maybe you should give Chuck another chance,” Bitch suggested.
Yamaguchi-gumi began to sob, not about his missed opportunity, but for the economy, for the wounded and bleeding Amerikan economy, and he sobbed even more from knowing he was too much a coward to ever confess his failure to his superiors at the Central Idiocy Agency. So, the coward decided to defect to that evil household. I thundered and screamed. I warned him. I prophesied horrible diseases, but the cunning witches had already cast their wicked charms of eternal bondage so that a free and noble agent Yama-Lama happily slaved day and night for the enemy, slaving to keep her hot stoves full of kindling and all her foul gardens fertilized and flourishing!!
The Clowns Conspire
When Agent Fubb first heard the news he and his fellow clowns were sitting with Ronald Maddonald wolfing down bunnyburgers. They nearly choked. Fubb was so furious he dialed Yamaguchi-gumi’s top-secret telepathic line:
“Who’s interrupting my thoughts now with this infernal ringing? Hello?” thought Yamaguchi.
“Kamikazi! You traitor! It’s me!” said Fubb, mimicking the governor’s voice.
“Oh, hi, Chuck. Where are you?”
“Never mind where I am! I know what you’re doing, and I hope you know it’s suicidal.”
“Is talking to women dangerous?”
“The CIA is your life and you’re quitting for what? For a life with mangos and unprotected sex? You fool! I hope they rape you like they raped me!”
“Fubb, you shouldn’t eat at Maddonald’s. It not good for your tummy, and it’s mind-altering but in a really bad way.”
Fubb had an aneurism while Chubb reported squealed on Yamaguchi to Governor C. Bollocks, whereupon the governor shouted into Fubb’s iGod: “Kami, you clown! You were supposed to sow the seeds of their discontent and start a revolution, instead you’re giving them leisure and pleasure! Come back here before those mental witches pollute your fine CIA DNA!”
Yamaguchi-gumi began to sob like a girl, “But they were so nice to me.”
“They were too nice to you!”
He sobbed harder, nearly choked and blubbered, “I trusted and they brainwashed me with dirty thoughts about –”
Governor C. Bollocks shoved Fubb’s iGod into Fubb’s back pocket as Agent Kamikazi recounted the lurid and obscene charms of those horrible witches. Unfortunately, the iGod was on and vibrations produced by Agent Kamikazi’s voice turned the old man into a pig.
Imf Ikwum made this brilliant suggestion to Governor Bollocks, “We must close your mother’s brothel before we lose more good men.”
“I’ll do it!” said keener, Agent Bluff. “I’ll give them so much love that they’ll never open their doors again!”
“I appreciate your bravery, but it’s too dangerous,” explained the governor.
“Let’s cripple the whores with a shopping embargo!”
“Don’t waste your time with trade sanctions. They grow almost everything they need. For the rest, they trade with other eco-terrorists.”
Agent Goldsack swore, “All traders are traitors! Ahem, unless they’re into luv and sadomasochistic stocks!”
Agent Odius said, “You’ve given me an idea! Let’s use good old-fashioned war tactics. I’ll pretend to be a horse if someone agrees to be my knight. Anyone? I promise not to rear up.”
Agent Monstranso laughed, thanked Odius for giving him an idea. Grinning perversely, he wiped some fake food from his lips and made this proposal: “Let’s use the old Trojan Horse trick. Send the enemy baskets of apples spiked with vaccines, diabetes and cancer-causing agents. What do you think?”
“Useless,” said Governor C. Bollocks. “My barbaric family only eats what it claws out of the earth.”
“Then let’s poison the Earth,” eagerly cried Agent Zuesid as he somehow peed two golden arches.
“Excellent idea,” remarked the governor. “But we can’t afford to buy beer and prescription drugs for a thousand engineers, which is the minimum we’d need if we want to take my mother by surprise. In light of this, we must rely on more affordable methods. I say we contact the cheapest god in the universe.”
“Which one is that? The Chinese one?”
“The Amerikan one, you idiot! If we flood him with complaints he’ll eventually piss on my family’s little Nature reserve and not charge us a cent.”
Like good Christians, the clowns prayed and prayed in vain, for the Director-Producer of the Universe was not in the office. Eventually, their pretty prayers petered and fell into embarrassed silence. Costar Agent Foulface finally got the nerve to say something really stupid:
“Do you know what happened to me this morning? I found the weirdest passage in the CIA Handbook of Fairness in Action. I haven’t a clue what it means. I quote, ‘If the enemy has no god you shall not employ a god against him. If the enemy has the same god as you, please don’t make life difficult for your god by asking him to hurt his other faithful followers.’”
Governor Bollocks laughed, “Does it say anything about fighting Satan and her rocket-riding witches?”
“Yes. Here, on page 6.66.”
“Let us pray that our god is stronger than Satan 2.0 and all her minions.”
They prayed such awful prayers that one fruitless week later I told them to shut up and take action.
“Governor,” began Agent Smartass, “does ‘taking action’ involve ‘getting some action’?”
The governor didn’t hear. He’d glimpsed a waitress with chocolate all over her face and remembered he’d ordered a soft, chocolatey cake.
Sex in Church
Well, pretty soon everyone talked of quitting the CIA and joining Satan for fun. Unfortunately, none of her churches were accepting new members, but Satan’s Love Works College was accepting fools. Fortunately, just as they began dialing the LWC number, a 3000-page government study of the education system was delivered by waitress. Faithful Agent Sapfu read the whole damn thing to his stunned colleagues. The report identified widespread Satanism among professors and generally painted a depressing picture of the future awaiting college graduates. Everyone was happy they had been homeschooled by aunts, grandmas and little girls.
Governor Bollocks saw the evil in their hearts and cried, “You pigs and traitors! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were all dreaming of Hell’s naked sacrifices and genital abuses. Please stick to government approved sexaurants. You can easily satisfy your lust at places like Urges King, Starfucks, Dainty Queen, Dunk Yo-nuts, Piece a Slut, Snugway, and KuFC.”
In a last bid to get some luv (taxes) from his mother, Governor C. Bollocks instructed several handsome postal workers to deliver a Taxes Due notice. He hoped their charm and good looks would do the trick and persuade her that the government deserved some of her luv. But, like Yamaguchi, they failed miserably.
Then came the hour of calamity. Penny counter-attacked in devastating fashion. The strumpet led a nation-wide sex strike that crippled Washington and Ball Street. Cries of suffering rose up to Heaven, but to no avail. The following day, Amerika surrendered. In a blow to the moral foundations of the universe, Satan’s evil churches received official tax exemption status and the Bollocks multi-generation family mortgage was paid by an anonymous angel.
Well, that’s a fair description of the president’s reality movie. The plot was a goddamn disaster and even the cinematography was horrible, for the whole thing was filmed via Goggle satellites. But Amerikans thought it was so cool to see their country of clown from God’s perspective that the stupid movie broke all box office records.
Big Black Hole
The CIA Goes to Hollywood made its debut in Amerika’s innumerable outdoor, walk-thru cinemas. The nation laughed uncontrollably, but the suddenly sensitive Governor Chuck Bollocks was not amused. In fact, he quit his CIA job, changed his name to Saint Sphincter and began plotting the torture and destruction of God. Well, that’s my boy. Always ambitious. And resourceful. But how to do the deed? He consulted Amerika’s best military experts, but they wanted no role in torturing and killing anyone, especially not someone who could toss them into the blazing barbecue of Hell.
General Softarse, an exceptional Christian, encouraged the saint to consult with Satan. He did, and of course Satan was glad to share these thoughts with him, “You want to kill God? I don’t blame you! I’ve been trying for centuries. But with your help, we might succeed.”
“What do you propose?”
“We’ll humiliate him. If we lure the bastard into the great Septic Cave of Septagon, the beast will make him wish He were dead,” Satan assured him.
“But He hates Septagon.”
“Only her smell and her behavior, and that’s why I need your skills. You know all about women’s mannerisms. You can train Septagon to be a lady and civilized just long enough to convince God that she’s kosher wife material.”
That evening, while trying not to breathe the fumes, Saint Sphincter sat in the legendary Septic Cave and shared his plan with Septagon. She loved the plan, for she wanted god’s power. So, to lure him into her cave, she curled and dyed her hair blonde, and she bought herself some clothes, a pink hat and a pair of tennis shoes. Dressed like that, you never would have known that she was a nuclear powered dragon that could chew God into tiny bits.
For the final touches, Saint Sphincter renovated Septagon’s cave. He plastered and painted the exterior of the cave until it looked like the prettiest little whorehouse you ever saw. Then Septagon started flirting and sending invitations. I knew what she was up to. When Septagon danced and called Me “the most handsome and bravest god in all the universe,” I tried to close my ears, but God is all-hearing, and she sang the most lovely truths, as verses like this one prove:
God is sweet,
Sweeter than you-know-what,
And he’s so irresistible,
I can’t stand the heat
Thinking about all of him,
From his nose to his feet.
I couldn’t resist! I arrived in my best costume: red silk pants, a jacket with gold collars and buttons, and diamond shoes. She was so damn impressed, she flung herself at me and cried, “Oh God, why didn’t you come earlier? I’ve been waiting, like, forever!”
“Sorry. Guess I was busy. So, do you know anything about sex?”
She laughed her head off and said, “You’ve got three heads, but none of them knows the magic you can make with your little pestle?” It was the most embarrassing moment of my life, and the damn paparazzi recorded all my errors and failures for posterity!
After destroying my self-esteem, Saint Sphincter plotted to destroy my best friend, the Amerikan economy. To this end, he founded the Bank for International Sodomy (BIS). Its malicious purpose was to give billions of luv to any Amerikan who wanted to ruin the economy. He offered negative-interest loans to anyone who wanted to purchase the government and turn it into a circus. He also sold toxic insurance insurance (not a typo) and insurance insurance insurance for all the clever elites who specialize in making money make money (not a typo).
In his most evil money-losing scheme, Saint Sphincter provided a gigantic donation to these criminal terrorist groups: God’s Dragon Slayers, the Green Terrorists of Christ (GTC) and the Homos Apiens. These groups believed that in order to start the End Times and bring back George “Jesus Christ” Washington, their Christian duty was to live like Jesus, demolish any building with more than one floor (for One is the only sacred number) and destroy all Amerikan idols, money included.
Well, if you’re wondering why Christians were so confused about what I wanted, the trouble originated in a completely unauthorized Holy Bible. That ridiculous book that claims that God hates towers and idolatry. What utter babble-beep! Civilization needs towers, and since God speaks in a human language, He can certainly have a human form! And another lie was that Amerikans should live like Jesus, which is true, but people are not supposed to remember that Jesus lived without technology, democracy, medicines, pets, galleries, doctors, guns, and so on and so forth. If taken seriously, such misunderstandings could threaten earnings, profits and civilization!
Something had to be done, so I descended from Heaven to set them straight, but when they saw my three heads they dismissed Me and rushed away to receive Saint Azole’s interest-free loans. With his dirty money they launched legitimate terrorism businesses. They deposited excrement in their bank accounts, shortened buildings, glued elevators to the ground, broke airplane wings and redirected sewer pipes back into government buildings.
Their campaign of terror was spectacular. In fact, terrorism made the media profitable and made the Ultimate Super-Ass exciting, possibly too exciting. The media recognized that death and destruction were bad for life but good for business.
The terrorists didn’t like being portrayed as terrorists by the media, especially because terrorism was good for the media. So, the GTC wrote this letter for all the editors of the nation: “Unless you start paying us for our sensational work, we will stop working and you will have nothing sensational to report.”
What choice did they have? Real excitement was in short supply. So, they reluctantly split their profits with the terrorists. They in turn invested their money into organizing bank runs, for they saw no evidence that Jesus used banks or money. Next, they purchased food and chainsaws with diamond-tipped teeth for swiftly cutting down skyscrapers.
Not surprisingly, during the following days, Detroit vanished. Pictures cannot do that story justice. Everyone was amazed—but no one was more amazed than the people of Detroit.
In a televised interview, the USBS news anchor asked for Saint Sphincter’s comments on the wave of terrorism he was funding. He gleefully remarked, “George Washington would be proud! He profited from cutting down the tallest trees of the land! Now both the demolition and construction industries are booming because God’s urban assassins are cutting down Amerika’s cities. Long live terrorism! Long live terrorism—the highest form of capitalism!”
LWC and the Flood
In yet another effort to destroy the economy, Saint Sphincter founded Love Works College (LWC), an institution for converting hard-working Amerikan students into lazy fucking sex maniacs! LWC’s methods weren’t exactly subtle, either. Its campuses featured the nation’s hottest and most scantily clad professoresses who taught the following soul-rotting courses:
- Fucking Chemistry
- Basic Hedenology
- The Mechanics and Physics of Love
- Pussiness Management
- Orgasm Engineering
- The Rise and Fall of the Penis
- Sex in Sacred Cliterature
LWC only offered one course that involved reading, but that was no reason to celebrate. Reading material consisted entirely of books authored by Satan under the pen name Petrushka Dudinka. Their heinous titles included God Is an Evil Bastard, Compost Your Money!, Fuck the Law!, the two-volume Our Noble Ancestors Were Full of Hollywood Shit and the two-volume How the Bible Encourages Sin. These horrible, despicable and truly disgusting books were calculated to destroy civilization by turning a perfectly centralized economy—one secretly ruled by Me—into anarchy, chaos and gardens of pandemonium!
What was I supposed to do? Of course, I did the most rational thing I could do: I inspired a thousand teachers to preach the truth and give Amerikans hope and faith. Among my chosen sages and prophets were Hilarious Clinton, Rat Robberson, Operah Winfrey, Tony Robbings, Elvis Press, Deepak Hopra, Saint Eastwood, Wane Dyer, Angelina Golly, Jorge Looney, Cony Servitus, and Bobby “Happy” McFerrin, not to mention many celebrated talents I can’t be bothered to name. Anyway, it was a textbook con. While they preached the goodness of progress, President Angel ordered Satan’s free colleges bombed, but the government could only afford rotten eggs and sour milk, so that plan was scratched and the president ordered the army to kick Satan’s ass.
Well, I was looking forward to a good show, but Angel’s executive command was ignored. Turns out, everyone in the army, navy and air force had already begun studying at LWC campuses, joining millions of other bums and economic suicide artists who’d quit good jobs to pursue Satan’s useless lifelong L.O.V.E. degree as well as her Living without a Job diploma!
Due to Satan’s evil college, unemployment exploded. Economic and social catastrophe seized the world. Foreigners offered to help Amerika, but President Angel was a true patriot by warning that no one can make a profit if everyone is busy jerking off in a free college.
I got so desperate, I told Saint Sphincter to close his colleges or else! He took a deep breath and said he’d listen when he’s president of Amerika. Damn that boy was impatient! I never seen such impatience with destiny. Didn’t he know that God has a schedule? Maybe he just didn’t give a shit. Whatever the case, something had to be done to annihilate that damned college! I needed a supernatural disaster to shut it down, so I covered Amerika’s streets with a flood of heavenly cum. Revenge never felt so good. From coast to coast, vehicles slid off roads, trains slid down hills and pedestrians slid into doctors’ offices. But, to my infinite consternation, Saint Sphincter did not lose a single student or close a single campus. Somehow, Satan’s architects, landscapers and sexologists had anticipated divine vengeance and had found ways to make their campuses profit from the seeds of wrath!
The Apocalypse of O
I had barely recovered from my orgasm when Saint Sphincter launched his most devious attack on civilization. It was called the Black Women’s Islamic Communist Insurance Company (BWICIC). This diabolical abomination offered a range of FREE policies calculated to kill even the most resilient economy! I’ll let you sample their suicidal ideology, but only if you promise to remember that they are Satanic jokes!
- The Incredibly Bad Life Insurance Policy was bought by millions of people wishing evil on their enemies, but it was so satisfying that policy owners stopped participating in other parts of the economy.
- In the Good Life & Health Insurance Policy, Saint Sphincter promised life and health to anyone willing to give him their immortal souls and live for free in one of Satan’s Gardens of Love. Millions fell for this con.
- The abhorrent Women’s Happiness Insurance Policy promised happiness to all women who joined one of Satan’s useless off-grid covens where every child had dozens of ‘parents’ and women practiced consensual adultery with fellow villagers.
- The Personal Life Insurance Policy was an assault on the natural Constitution. It encouraged people to stop feeding the lions, tigers, dragons, whales and other man-eating creatures that depend on human generosity and have just as much right as anyone else to live.
- The Home Insurance Policy ruined the economy by promising an affordable and nearly indestructible home to anyone willing to embarrass neighbors, impoverish builders and bankers, ignore civilized building codes, and essentially live for free in Satan’s mound of mud, thatch and dung.
- The Premature Death Insurance Policy killed millions of taxpayers who wanted to go to Heaven.
- The Intelligence Insurance Policy promised intelligence to anyone who studied their policies and created equally interesting policies.
Billions of investors fell for these insurance scams and shenanigans. In a brave effort to save the economy, President Angel declared war against BWICIC and all its evil allies, including the PD, the CIA, the GTC, the BBH, LWC and Mother Nature. I was excited until I heard the news: all military personnel were unavailable; they was busy ‘studying’ at LWC!!!!
I roared like a wounded lion, “Sphincter, if you don’t stop this nonsense this instant, I’ll collect a fortune from the life insurance policy I took out on you!”
Holy Mother Nature!
Chuck could feel the danger in the air and knew he had to disappear. So, he stole a clunky, rusty, leaky, poison-spewing, smog-belching old spaceship from Hollywood Studios, flew it towards Heaven, had a peek, and crash landed in the Vatican. There he hid in the dusty Holy Library, among stacks of rare manuscripts and books. For a whole week, he read all my secret cookbooks and diaries, and when he was hungry he ate them.
After his second week, Chuck exited the building and explored the rest of the Vatican grounds. I was sure the beauty of the place would make him fall in love with Me again, but the philistine criticized everything: the Vatican Gardens, the Sistine Chapel ceiling and even the monumental Saint Pete’s Basilica. He pissed on everything, the Sistine Chapel ceiling included. I think he only enjoyed the fountains after the strongest one gave him an enema.
Well, I had one last hope. I was sure he would love Pope Papa Bo Peep. He found the old reclusive king of the Vatican in his papal palace, killing useless brain cells with fine Italian wine. He was seated before his high-resolution, 40-inch Mirror of God™ listening to Italy’s worst standup priests and politicians.
Saint Sphincter made quite a dramatic entrance by casually smashing his fist through his expensive computer monitor. Pope Papa was speechless.
“HOW YA DOING, P.P.? REMEMBER ME?” the saint shouted.
“What’s da madder wi‘ you? Holy diavolo! Why you punch a hole through my soul? ”
Saint Sphincter laughed. “Diavolo is a woman, maybe my mother and maybe your girlfriend.”
Pope Papa gasped and blustered like a punctured balloon: “Spppppawn of Shatan! You are the prophesied one! The ogreginal gobbledygook Bible forecast that this year the son of Satan will be recruited by an angel to resurrect the Church from the bottom of the popularity charts!” Pope Papa stared wide eyed. “Is it true?”
Saint Sphincter stood, arms akimbo, radiating confidence.
The pope wrung his hands. His eyes sparkled with excited disbelief. “Oh my God! He’s gonna make religion cool again! How will you do it? Demonstrate your powers! Will you use your awesome-fearsome fist again?”
“Please, be serious! Amerikan fists are out of fashion. Let me tell you how I’ll make God cool again.” Then he gracefully plopped himself down on Pope Papa’s lap and improvised a fresh new speech while the pope stared into his eyes with wonder. “First, a little devil will write a new, updated and upgraded Bible for you. No, don’t argue! You know it’s overdue. The old Biblely-babble is too big,” he exclaimed and flung out his arms, knocking Pope Papa’s dentures flying. “And, you and I know that old book is too violent and just a little too unbelievable for modern ears. But, don’t worry. God has authorized me to write the New Bible. It will cover the history neglected by the old one, approximately the last ten million years. I’ll be its main character and I’ll let you be my sidekick.”
Pope Papa squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh, I don’t know. Don’t you think God can write his own books?”
Saint Sphincter had to think. “Well, I suppose he could. I suppose he could communicate all his wisdom in a hundred words or less.” Then he turned very seriously towards the pope, leaned forward until their noses were touching, and added, “But He can’t because he’s busy.”
“Doing what?” asked the pope. “We have no miracle for centuries!”
“Blasphemer! Who do you think is blowing the Sun around and around?”
“He does that?” asked the pope in awe.
“Yes, but since no one seems to care, perhaps I can boost your ratings with a more sensational miracle. It will be better even than the time God accidentally created the humankind by ejaculating on a monkey.”
Pope Papa pushed the saint off his lap and burst into excited chatter, “Will it be better than the time Pope Moses miraculously made water and broke a wind with his ass? Will it be better than the time Sister Mary turned wine into urine?”
“I’ll be better than them all! Better even than the time Saint Dorothy rode a bolt of lightning into Heaven and found a little magician there! Better even than the time Saint Charlotte saved a poor, innocent pig from a cruel death.”
Pope Papa sighed. “Yes, we’ve had some great miracles. But they happened ages ago. Perhaps God is on vacation.”
Saint Sphincter squeezed the Pope’s hand and spoke these caring, soothing words, “Don’t feel blue. Open your eyes and you’ll see that miracles are everywhere, and the biggest miracle ever might be happening right here.”
“Really?” asked the pope, looking eagerly around.
“The fact that you didn’t kick me in the balls for busting your monitor is a miracle. I thank God for that. If we just open our eyes we’ll see that the world is full of miracles. But nowadays most people think like rabbits. Instead of crediting miracles to God they credit them to that miserable old hag, Mother Nature!”
“Damn that bitch!”
“Dear Papa, there’s no use cursing a woman made of stone, dirt, gases, and water. Let’s be practical. We’ve got to fix God’s credit rating. We’ve got to steal His credit back from Mother Nature. I’ve got to—so that He forgives me for being a pain in his royal ass.”
“You’re a true Catholic!”
“But how will you steal God’s credit back from Nature?”
“Easy! First, we’ll rebrand God’s church. We’ll call it the ‘Church of God’s Super-Amazing-Terrifying-Awesome-Nature.’ And we’ll convert all your churches into schools that teach the world that Mother Nature is God in disguise.”
“Wow! God in disguise! God cross-dressing as Mother Nature. Bravo!”
“I thought you’d like it.”
The Pope gazed in adoration.
“But I’ll need help,” Saint Sphincter began as he paced the floor. “To inspire the world to return to Nature, I mean God, we’ll have to reform the Church. Can you wear fig leaves and mimic a praying mantis perched on a tree branch?”
Pope Papa lifted his skirt to reveal white legs marbled with an intricate network of varicose veins. Saint Sphincter paled, gagged and asked Papa to cover up again. “I’ll have to think of something else for you. Can you demonstrate Nature’s—I mean God’s—wonderful design by bringing a woman to orgasm?”
Pope Papa nodded, but sweat poured from his armpits and his heart pounded in terror.
Back to School
To bring billions of lost and confused rabbits back to God, Saint Azole’s public relations firm produced this advertisement:
Come and Discover Where God Lives!
The Vatican is now offering a special educational program to help you discover that God is Nature and that you—yes, you—have been eating, drinking, breathing, smelling, hearing, seeing and touching God since the day you were born. With our patented education, you will also learn to make God happy with your fingers, lips and other godly parts. If you want to become intimate with God, pay and sign up today!
It was brilliant. Lots of rabbits leapt into debt for the supreme privilege of attending the Vatican’s first Holy Science classes as Saint A taught the world to appreciate the beauty of God’s physical shapes, particularly his wacky ears, floppy penises, thick skulls, pubic hairs, drippy noses, and smelly sweat glands. Special attention was paid to God’s mouths, for, as Saint Azole kindly explained, a mouth is not only for breathing; it has numerous functions such as preaching, joking, insulting, slandering, spitting, vomiting, gasping, groaning, whistling, kissing, sucking and licking. Saint A ended his first scientific sermon by praising God for putting teeth in our mouths and not in our vaginas, for making nails that grow outwards, and for designing bodies that die before they become too disgusting. This amazing first lesson was a hit among people of all levels of intelligence.
If possible, the second scientific sermon was even better. This time, to my astonishment, he taught everyone to give God credit for not only creating trees, but for being the billions of trees that give life to the living. He taught all his students to recognize that trees must be God because they have super-natural powers only He could have. This is how he explained it: “Every tree is a miraculous free-food dispensary waiting to be exploited for profit! Trees are God’s machines for turning noxious carbon dioxide, solar radiation, piss and poop into pure profits! Trees even produce free oxygen, so if we bag them we can collect and sell bagsful of oxygen for profit! And let us not forget that trees provide saleable scratching posts, police batons, branches for hanging criminals, wood for burning witches, and so on. But the most divine tree of all is the banana tree, for every banana is made in the image of God.” Since bananas were already very popular, millions of idiots started worshipping bananas!
In his next masterpiece, Saint Azole praised God for constantly being busy creating pretty galaxies, flat planets as well as floods, meteors, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, cancer, crocodiles, psychopaths, viruses, nasty wives, warts and a million other destructive forces that terrify the ignorant while the educated recognize their value in stimulating the divine economy. He like to end this sermon by asking, “What, my dear students, what would doctors do without diseases, wars and warts? Why, without them, wouldn’t the whole medical profession die?”
Next, Saint Azole argued that just as holy books make God’s words physical, so the natural world makes God’s spirit physical, which means that by taking care of Nature we take care of God, its spirit, and when we make others happy we make God happy, and when we enjoy masturbating God enjoys masturbating, “and He certainly does, for why else would He give himself opposable thumbs? And He must certainly enjoy sex, otherwise He wouldn’t have made it pleasant to watch and hear.”
I had heard enough. It was time to stimulate the divine economy. So, I punished Saint Sphincter with simultaneous cases of flatulence, constipation and excruciating hemorrhoids. But the bastard refused to go to his doctor and instead treated himself with his mother’s home remedies! Damn that witch! And, to rub salt in my wound, Sphincter delivered “All of God’s Creation Is Divine, Even Our Assholes.” In this sermon he praised assholes, arguing with incontrovertible proofs and evidence that without assholes all sensate creatures would sicken, stink, and die of shame. He even compared assholes to God’s birth canals, claiming that assholes give birth to life, which is true, for every creature’s poop is full of dangerous bacteria, and its mineral content is food for life, just as breast milk is food for life.
Thankfully, his next sermon was a little more serious. In it the old saint praised God for having bodies that obey gravity, and especially for being a planet with just enough gravity. According to him, gravity is the greatest miracle, because without gravity birth would be more difficult, and even Jesus would have floated off into space.
In his last sermon, the saint praised God for giving all his bodies the power to obey the Ten Commandments of Life, which are to eat, to drink, to poop, to pee, to sleep, to bleed, to donate reproductive fluids, to breathe, to give birth and to die. Fortunately, thinking was optional, and I strictly warn everyone against it, for thinking is the root of skepticism, confusion and idleness.
Thanks to my blessings, the saint’s educational sermons were a hit. Children were skipping school to attend church seven days a week. Teachers protested before becoming the most faithful church goers. The whole economy was in danger of becoming stupid. President Angel declared a state of emergency and tried to make a profit by leasing all the nation’s public schools to the Church of God’s Super-Natural Nature. Pope Papa was delighted, but Saint Sphincter had such horrible memories of public schools that the deal was nixed.
Truth be told, the Church didn’t need to expand. The Vatican Internet Channel reached the whole world and gifts of gratitude (luv) were pouring into the asshole’s bank account. Meanwhile, I really was not getting the attention I expected. I had been tricked into thinking that everyone was thanking and praising God when while they were praising Mother Nature, the vile, green, old strumpet who each spring flaunts a vile new body!
Deal with the Devil
I could have blown the whole universe up, and I had half a mind to do it. Luckily for everyone, myself included, I am an infinitely patient and intelligent being. So, I simply asked what the Hell might make Saint Sphincter live in peace with Me. Guess what he said? Maybe I should have foreseen the damn answer. Of course, he still wanted to be president of the world! What could I do? Out of patience, with great reluctance, I promised to grant his wish on Christmas Eve if he promised to stop working for the CIA and stop supporting the GTC, the LWC and the BWICIC and confess to the world that Satan wrote all his lessons.
He agreed and did the deed. Poor Pope Papa was furious. Children still wanted to study. They were on the streets demanding more knowledge, but a glorious era had come to an end. The disgraced Saint Sphincter quit teaching. The disgusted Papa Bo Peep lost his sheep, so he gave his churches away to the evil Company of Clowns and its friendly rival, the Saturnal Society. Having lost faith in God and the economy, even Christians had turned (in?)to Satan!!!!
As demonic and discordant gypsy music and graffiti art filled Saint Pete’s Circus, poor Papa Bo Peep climbed a rope ladder to the top of the dome, set his clothes on fire and sang to the sky, “I’m a little firefly going up to the sky! Whee-e-e!”
I tried to stop him, but I was spellbound as the flaming idiot slid down the dome and splattered his brains all over the Carla Materno’s fountain. Darn it, didn’t he know that life on Earth was just about to get interesting?
The Princes of Light
The democratic nations of the world were sick of voting for the wrong candidates, sick of the whole pointlessly painful political process and especially sick of watching the ass & elephant circus devour patience and prosperity. A single, unelected, infallible and godlike imperator-dictator would solve all their problems and be much more affordable than any democratic government. So, on the day before Christmas, in the year xxx, billions of Amerikans signed a petition telling President Angel and his cast of one million lesser angels to leave their government posts and let Chuck Bollocks teach the world how to enjoy life—the Amerikan way of life.
President Angel heard the news and raged in bed, “Damn traitors and numbskulls! The world has never been happier! Under my leadership, our economy has thrived! Thanks to me, the military is fighting for profits and everyone has learned to that anyone can make money! And who created universal healthcare with anti-depressant bread, chemo clouds and chlorinated rivers? Thanks to me, no one forgets to take their meds! So why do they want Chuck Bollocks? That clown will lead this country to eternal shame! Penelope, tell me how great I am!”
His wife grabbed a pillow and beat the president until feathers flew in all directions. When Angel asked for an explanation, she cried, “I love Chuck Bollocks! I want him to be my president!”
“I am your president until death do as apart!”
“But the entire GDP is being used to pay off the all-sucking debt!”
Crazy. So, he figured she wasn’t taking her medicine. But have no fear, for he was taking his, so nothing could make him cry and stop fighting for old Amerika, the greatest country in the world, the country that he would save from the abyss if he could just find a few million citizens willing fight the endless waves of recessions and depressions and willing to provide the country a long-delayed economic orgasm!
In short, Angel would never voluntarily step down from power, so the Illuminati had to take care of business. A dozen of these powerful and almost mythological fireflies flew to the White House and sang the Masonic code, “Trick or Treat, Give Me Someone Good to Cheat!”
First Lady Penelope flung open a second floor window and cried in four foreign languages, “HELP! HELP! FIRE! FIRE!”
The Illuminati leaped into action. Climbing onto one another’s shoulders, they formed a human ladder and reached the second floor. One member examined the room, and, finding the First Lady in no immediate danger of anything, they cocked their heads, like confused puppies.
“Well, I’m sorry I shouted ‘Fire’ because I need a little fire and you have none to offer!” the First Lady blathered, pouting and playing with her lingerie.
The luminaries shook their befuddled heads. Meanwhile, the First Lady lifted the bedsheet and revealed her naked husband.
“He sometimes makes love to the Constitution and the dead, but with me all he wants is anal sex, so I haven’t had any fun in years. So, which one of you gentlemen wants the honor?” she inquired. The good men sang lullabies to put the First Lady to sleep, but Penelope didn’t listen. Instead she bewitched them by smiling, frowning and scowling in that seductive way all women learn from the devil! And when the men were quite spellbound, the panther pounced and her guests surrendered kisses and winked at her with their luminous eyes, giving the First Lady unbelievable pleasure. But she was a greedy one, so when she demanded more and more, they levitated right up to the ceiling.
“You cowards!” First Lady Penelope cried. “Now I’ll have to call Lord FreeLuv again!–”
“Damn the devil!” growled a familiar voice.
As one body, everyone turned to see President Angel still lying in bed but swinging a loaded rifle at them. He was morbidly drunk. He hit everything except his targets, and when his ammo was spent, he threw his weapon aside, laughed, fell face first on his pillow, hiccupped and grumpily greeted the gentlemen through his pillow: “Nice firefly costumes. I hope Penelope let you lick her candy and drink her sweet poison.”
“But, we swear we did not sleep with her,” they cried from the ceiling.
“Maybe not, but that’s disappointing. Now she’ll never let me sleep! Won’t you come down and protect me?”
The warily descended and stood before the presidential bed. “Angel,” they began as one, “if we may address a matter of importance. God sent us here to inform you that Chuck Bollocks will be the next president.”
The president was convulsed with laughter just as Chuck Bollocks danced into the room and asked what joke he’d missed.
Angel sat up. “These clowns just informed me that you will be the next president of the United States of the World! Isn’t that funny?”
The Illuminati assured him that they were not joking. “Angel, if you do not resign from office, why don’t you admit it? As president you idled your time away sewing and un-sewing your woolen underwear while the voters waited in anticipation of the big show you promised!”
“I just need more time!” Angel protested. “What can he do that I can’t do twice as good?”
“Tell him!” Penelope told the lord.
“I have plenty of rare talents,” he bragged. “For one thing, with my influence in Heaven, I can reverse the damage Angel’s administration brought upon this fallen country. I’ll raise Amerika up and make it great again! I’ll perform miracles! I’ll bring all our lost natural resources back! Our oil wells and mines will be full again, our oceans and rivers will teem with fish again, our skies will teem with birds again, our forests will tower with giants again, and our banks will flow with God’s luv!”
The Illuminati wet themselves with glee
President Angel wasn’t impressed, so Chuck continued, “And for the people I launch a public transportation system powered by hurricanes, tornados, typhoons and other renewable sources of energy!”
The Illuminati wet themselves again, the First Lady masturbated and Angel tried to eat his pillow. Undisturbed by these disturbing behaviors, Chuck continued, “And if the people do not like me, I’ll sell them the White House and privatize the entire government! We’ll make and save thrillions!”
The illuminated guests drooled on themselves while the First Lady cast an evil spell on the man she wanted for herself, the man destined to do some really amazing shit.
The Mental Candidate
In the morning, President Angel sat down with his understudy for a heart-to-heart: “Okay, Chuck, I know the future looks exciting to you, and honestly I don’t want to scare you, but I gotta be honest. Being president sucks. No, really, it does! During my twenty years in the Light House, I haven’t slept a wink. Conscience forbade it! So long as there’s one child crying for love or one citizen who’s hungry, sick, suffering or otherwise unhappy, my soul cries out with them, and I feel personally responsible. That’s the kind of suffering that awaits you. So say good bye to sleep. In fact, you can say goodbye to every pleasure and every moment of leisure. And say goodbye to your health, too. The stress of being president will give you hives, aneurisms, cancer, and paralysis.”
“But no headaches?” Chuck asked, hopefully.
“No, but you’ll have brain explosions.”
That sounded like too much excitement. Chuck had experienced more than enough brain explosions during his life. So, he was robbed of his enthusiasm for politics and accepted the First Lady’s invitation to elope. She knew he didn’t really love her and that he would blame his irresponsibility on her seductive smiles, but she liked his sense of humor too much to care. Of course, God had other plans for Chuck, so while they thought they were sailing to Mexico—a land from which no one returns, their captain—who was an undercover agent of GOD, discreetly took them into the heart of a wild world of snow and ice.
Perhaps a week later, when President Angel noticed that his wife was absent, he casually alerted the FBI (the Federal Bunch of Idiots), and they organized teams of trained rabbits, dogs and lots of caribou. On the shores of Hudson’s Bay, they found a suspicious pair of footprints in deep snow and followed them to Canada’s only hotel. Dry ice or real smoke billowed out of the front door, which was missing. Inside the investigators found two lovers keeping warm around a makeshift fire.
“Mr Woodchuck?” the officer asked.
“What kind of name is that? You insulting me?”
“I’m sorry. I thought …”
“We might be in Canada, but you can still be polite. Now, do me a favor and take a hike.”
The officer noticed Chuck’s shoes and laughed.
“Mister Woodchuck, I know it’s you. You’re the only grown man I know who can’t tie his own shoes.”
Chuck blushed crimson.
“Sir, the president sent for you and Penelope. Your destiny cannot be delayed. You are scheduled to become president of the world.”
Chuck threw his shoes into the fire and bitterly protested, “My destiny! My destiny! Well, I don’t want it! Would you want all that power and responsibility? Think about it! You’d abuse all that power, wouldn’t you? You’d find ways to cheat the public, frolic with whores, screw everyone—and not just the women—right? Wouldn’t all that power turn you into a monster?”
“Sir, what if we want to be ruled by a monster?”
“And what if I’m a huge disappointment?” Chuck wailed. Penelope petted his head. “What if I can’t screw the world? What if Satan remotely controls my brain and forces me to turn Amerika green or something equally boring? Have you ever thought of that? Have you?”
“No I haven’t, at least not until now. Sir, I admit it, the global economy is a terrifying creature that does not always respond as presidents intend. But don’t underestimate your powers, and please don’t worry, people really don’t expect much anymore.”
“That’s good to know.”
“But the world is expecting something new. They’re tired of the old political order. Everyone is deadly bored of the status quo.”
“That’s true,” the Second Lady agreed in a tone meant to cheer Chuck up. “Everyone I know is looking forward to being ruled by the world’s first mentally disturbed president because that’s about the only kind of president we haven’t tried yet.”
This raised Chuck’s spirits. He looked at Penelope with immense gratitude.
“But,” interjected the FBI agent, “you will have responsibilities, so you must receive emergency training. President Angel is prepared to personally coach you for a day or two.”
“Wow! I get to learn from the best!”
And so it happened. Chuck agreed to fulfill his destiny and follow God’s plan to become his “puppy” (according to the CIA, puppy is code-talk for “Puppet President of the United Peoples of Planet Earth,” which in code for something I don’t know). Unfortunately, the two day course was very intensive and Chuck needed considerably more time to master the basic skills of good leadership. Maintaining good appearances were of foremost importance. He had to be fit, slim and agile enough to convince the public that he wasn’t spending all his time sitting, eating and blabbing. Angel also trained him to rigorously polish his nose, wear combinations of primary colors, wear lose or revealing clothing, and use cosmetics to paint the following: a grand frown on his mouth for dignity, stars on his forehead for patriotism, and a tear below one eye—so people would know he cared about them. Finally, the good president taught the ambitious dreamer the art of political rhetoric, which, as you know, consists of mispronouncing key words for emphasis and talking from your mid-hole or asshole whenever you want attention.
After our hero mastered these skills, he still felt inadequate, so he quickly changed his name to something funnier than Chuck Bollocks, and he also dyed his skin a deep shade of brown because he knew white wasn’t very popular in Amerika.
At last, after all these preparation, Angel called the first election in a hundred years.
Elections were a serious matter in Amerika. Voters studied how to recognize lies and liars and studied their candidates for years, sometimes for a lifetime. And that’s not all! Measures were taken to ensure that a bozo never became president of the United States of the World. For instance, candidates were rigorously tested. Below is a copy of the four-part test Chuck Bollocks simply aced.
The Moderator: Tonight we will give Mr C. Bollocks an opportunity to prove he has the luv we need. But first, a word from our sponsor, President Ange–”
Mr C. Bollocks interrupts: Screw luv! This year I’m gonna give the world nothing but pure, sparkling hope!
The Moderator: Please don’t speak out of turn. It’s rude. Ladies and gentlemen, we are also joined by the current president of Amerika, Walt Disney. Gentlemen, if you are ready, let us begin on the subject of unemployment. How would you help lazy, unemployed foreigners work so that Amerika won’t have to continue carrying the global economy on its shoulders?
Mr C. Bollocks farts and starts: I’ve never heard so much nonsense! Progress should mean less work, not more work! So, mark my words, I’m gonna be the first president to fight employment! Maybe I’ll genetically engineer trees that grow money!!!
President Angel: Are you on drugs?
Mr C. Bollocks: My imagination has only begun to astound you! Listen to what else I’ll do as the most fiscally responsible president of the world: to save money, I’ll privatize politics! I’ll outsource every government service to India! And I’ll send criminals to Hell because Satan never charges a cent. Next, I’ll make world peace by discontinuing the supply of uniforms to the military and by moving every national border around so much no one will know where they live!
The Moderator: Mr Bollocks, are you on drugs?
Mr C. Bollocks: If God is a drug, then I am a drug! He jumps out of his chair and runs around the stage in slow motion, somehow, miraculously, expelling a fart with each step.
President Angel: Excuse me, but you do know the world is watching this, don’t you?
Mr C. Bollocks waves to the world: I love you! I love you all!
The Moderator: Mr Bollocks, are you a clown?
Mr C. Bollocks: How dare you insult me? Where did you learn to be so courageous? Look at me! I am a pretty phallic fruit tree crying for a little fertilizer, if you know what I mean.
The Moderator stares in amazement and cries: I’m astounded! How did you learn so much about gardening?
Thousands of years of hardship had taught the world to demand that their leaders care about them, so Washington’s scientists devised a test to measure a man’s capacity for sympathy. Candidates read a novel about Amerika being flushed down the proverbial toilet in the near future. If the reader wept, the volume of tears was measured and their quality was analyzed. As Mr C. Bollocks listened to a kindergartner read the first sentence to him, he was suddenly and completely convulsed with grief and unable to hear another word. So, Amerikans around the world rightly felt assured that Chuck Bollocks was the leader they deserved.
Many centuries ago, some cynical Amerikan citizens lost patience with the absolute nitwits working in their political circuses, so they created a third test to check whether aspiring politicians were intelligent enough to answer questions. For your enlightenment, a copy of the test completed by Mr C. Bollocks is reproduced below.
USW Presidential Candidate Test©
Despite having some trouble understanding the questions and answers, Mr C. Bollocks received divine guidance and a perfect score.
Every good politician must give lip service to the public, therefore Mr C. Bollocks did not disappoint. He delivered an excellent oral presentation in fulfilment of the fourth and final test. It was heard by an intoxicated crowd of 90,000,000 assembled in the National Mall. I think you’ll agree it’s the best speech ever spoken in God’s English. It’s full of all that empathy, imagination, passion, vision and other shit that voters go for. So brace yourself, because here we go:
“I have a dream, a wonderful dreamy dream in which hearts will start beating in Washington and Washington will make sweet luv to every Amerikan, to the world and to the whole sweet universe!”
The crowd roars with laughter and cheers. He burps loudly, slaps himself, apologizes to himself, and somehow continues to radiate confidence.
“Rabbits, are you ready to be luved by a real president whose luv knows no limits?”
The crowd makes rabbitty noises and twitchy noses.
“My luv is a revolutionary power! I will drop luv bombs on those who need them, and if there’s widespread demand for it, I will radiate my pure luv on everyone! But only if you ask for it.”
An incredible explosion of laughter and demands for more.
“My efforts to create world peace will not cease until everyone rests in peace!”
A few chuckles and calls for explanations.
“Instead of guns everyone shall carry seedless bananas, and instead of laws we shall have luv songs!”
The crowd cheers, and this wave of positive emotion provokes an erection. Chuck blushes, apologizes and struggles, in vain, to hide the insurgent member. Fortunately, a wave of audience laughter deflates the thing and Chuck quickly composes himself and continues.
“Thank you for bearing with me and remembering that I am mentally challenged due to the overabundance of luv in my brain. That said, if you consent to make me your supreme luver, I swear I’ll introduce the Gross Domestic Luv Index and make luv the one and only world religion!”
Muted chuckles and snickers.
“But that’s not all! I will do even more amazing things! For I have a dream, a green economy dream in which everyone lives in treehouses on blueberry fields. In my dream our Mother Earth does not destroy our homes with earthquakes, floods, fires, landslides and termites. In my dream our mother loves us again!”
“But to protect our mother, we must give her everything and embrace poverty, not technology, and we must thank the super-rich for keeping us poor and thank Jesus and Muhammad for teaching us to live without iGods, telegods, car gods, pet gods, stone flush gods and refrigerated gods.”
Someone rightly shouts that he’s crazy.
“Every day I thank God for making me seem crazy, because psychologists are good friends to have. I recommend them to everyone.”
“Didn’t your family live in an insane asylum?”
“Which family? I have many and they are all one to me. My mothers loved me more than I can say, my fathers never use toilets, and one of my sisters taught me not to tell anyone about what she did with my ding-a-ling and my belly-bonger.”
Snickers and giggles and cries for a translation.
“You don’t believe me? Hook me up to a lie detecting machine! I have nothing to hide! My life is an open book. Look, I come to you wearing transparent pants!”
“Finally, if you don’t vote for me today, God will condemn you all to that infernal, God-forsaken oven men call Mexico. There you will sweat incessantly, be forced to marry howler monkeys and suffer hearing birds laugh raucously at you.”
Applause. Calls for an encore are politely rewarded Chuck’s hisses and boos.
Although millions of other candidates ran for the office of the President of the United States of the World, most fell mysteriously ill. As for the remaining candidates, when it was clear that Chuck had aced his tests, they issued this humble apology:
“Due to the fact that God’s voice informed us that Mr Bollocks is the candidate best qualified to fulfill God’s business plan for the world, we humbly withdraw from the presidential race.”
And, just to make sure they didn’t interfere in the elections, they went to Mexico.
Shortly before he was crowned leader of the world, I made Chuck promise not end his relationship with his mother and sister and not to keep any of his crazy promises. He promised to be faithful to the Brotherhood of God, but the trouble began soon after the coronation. Using his executive privilege, he fired every man in working in a government office, married 10,000 poor colored women in a televised wedding ceremony, gave each of them a piece of the crown and ask them to take care of business!
The liberal press was speechless. Amerika was turning into a joke! No multi-national country can be ruled by women, and the inordinately large number would not help! I commanded the president to cancel his decision, but Chuck denied that he was president and said no man can expect to control 10,000 women. Even I could understand, but something had to be done to avert a global-economical catastrophe!
“Boy, are you completely mentally challenged?” I asked him as politely as possible.
“Of course I am,” he confidently answered. “Why shouldn’t I be? Life is mentally challenging, so I’m mentally challenged. Luckily, mental disabilities are trendy among teens and preteens, so I’ll do fine in an election.”
That was almost funny.
“Chuck, why didn’t you have a proper wedding in a church?”
“Did President Solomon bankrupt the nation by having one thousand weddings for his one thousand wives?”
“He certainly should have! Presidents must live above every law and budget! Aren’t your wives embarrassed to be married to such a cheapskate?”
“They’re absolutely happy. You see, they invested all our savings into making and giving all our military personnel pink uniforms with green bows, and into upgrading all the nation’s ambulances with sirens that sing, ‘Be not afraid! We bring hugs and loving kindness.’”
“Chuck, I’m going to cut your balls off!”
“If you do that, my wives will want a piece of you.”
The Unlawful Laws
The 10,000 women who seduced Chuck into making them de facto presidents of the world took full advantage of their evil deed and created the most abominable constitution and bill of rights the world has ever seen.
- Everyone should love life and make life flourish, and everyone should love one another directly, and do nothing but the works of love, and do all of love’s works with bare hands and bare bodies and not with guns, promises, money or other tools of distance and coldness.
- Any man who does not know how to love should be given more love, for love is the best punishment.
- No man should waste his time trying keep a woman happy, but with a dozen male friends he might have a chance.
- Babies inspire love and teach us to be gentle, so share them with everyone, your men especially.
- Some men, like some animals and plants, are not good for us and cannot be loved because they insist on harming us, so fuck them.
- Love neighbors and strangers, but not more than they consent to.
- Everyone shall pay taxes and bills through acts of love, and if they can’t, they can pay with urine and stool deposits.
- Laugh at everything you love, for laughter tempers love.
- Learn to love the Devil’s music and pictures, and Hell will be Heaven to you.
- No other bills will be written but ones that read Payment Due to Mother Earth.
The president’s 10,000 psychopathic wives ruined Amerika’s once amazing justice system. Prior to the creation of a one-world government, Amerikan-style justice was practiced throughout the civilized world and was based on God’s eye-for-an-eye wisdom. This meant that murderers were murdered, robbers were robbed, rapists were raped, drug peddlers were peddled or paddled, and non-believers were not believed, and so on. It was the most profitable mathematical-logical system on Earth, but those damn presidential impostors destroyed it. In their first trial, the 10,000 presidents, acting as Supreme Judges and Juries, declared every man guilty of every problem on Earth. And, without any deliberations, they unanimously sentenced every man to an indefinite stay at one of Satan’s Gardens of Love. This eliminated any future need for courts, prisons, and police forces, saving the government a hunk of money. While that sounds good, the reality is that it was femalevolent. It was economic terrorism, a crime against the economy, for the justice system had been a very profitable industry for judges and lawyers and was an excellent excuse for collecting taxes.
Washington’s 10,000 economic terrorists didn’t just screw with the justice system, they also banned luv, declared it worthless, and made true love the world’s only currency! What the Hell does that even mean? According to them, now any act of love was acceptable payment for anything. I was disgusted. I vomited so many meteors the angels fled Heaven.
Still not satisfied with their assault on civilization, Satan’s brood of tit-lugging devils passed a law declaring that no one owns any land but the land touching their feet.
This law made Me landless!
Law and order weren’t their only victims. Those menstruating monsters also destroyed any sense of national décor and fashion! Imagine, the Whitewash House was painted all the colors of Noah’s rainbow!
Next, they built an off-grid, hand-crafted retirement home in Guantanamo and forced the real president to be there on a permanent vacation!
Well, when the news became public, good Amerikan men demanded that their president be given his job back, and Ms Catharin Slanderbitch issued this public statement on behalf of the 10,000 little dictators: “Good people of Amerika, you know as well as we do that the sons of God are pure spirits who do not work. Jesus never planted a seed or bent his back, Muhammad never harvested a single date, and Shiva never changed diapers or built a house. Why, then, do you expect one who is much greater, your president, to do physical work? Have you no shame? Please, show a little respect for a man who has served you as your lord, messiah, saint, ambassador, governor and clown.”
Unsurprisingly, thanks to Chuck’s idiotic decision to let biological deviants rule the world, the economy went to shit. Millions fell for the Devil’s constitution, abandoned their beloved bosses and businesses—all for a chance to degrade themselves in Satan’s obscene and poisonous Gardens of Love! It was sheer insanity! Satan’s 10,000 bitches had declared war against civilization! They even mocked my money and laughed as the global GDP plunged to an astounding negative 500 and productive hole-digging fell 100%!
Satan’s bitches also traded nuclear warheads and nuclear power plants for solar-powered vegetation! And the people emulated them as they turned tidy lawns into chaotic gardens full of bugs and messy organic shit that would never be acceptable on my supermarket shelves!
Worst of all, they taught millions to become no-tech, green-thumbed clowns and eco-terrorists were determined to ugh share everything from food to wives! Worse still, they devoted all their time to promoting life instead of profits!
The recently retired president should have declared war; instead, he turned to the occult, looked into a mirror and saw my wicked wife, Satan Isis, and heard her whisper, “Poooooor little Woodchuck. What the fuck can I do for you?”
“Satan, please tell me how I can make the nightmare stop.”
“Kill the evil puppet master and author of this universe.”
He shook the mirror in his hands and protested, “But that monster lives in another dimension! Please, just cut off my head!”
“I’d be happy to, but you know he’ll just resurrect you. Face it, to be free, you must kill him.”
“Rub mint oil over his whole body and squeeze his testicles.”
“That will kill him?”
“Yes. God will die … die laughing.”
Prepare for Armageddi
Christmas Eve: Non-President C. Bollocks was amusing himself by rubbing mint oil on himself while squeezing his testicles. Of course, I lost all my respect for him and gave him the surprise of his life: “Chuck,” I said, “Armageddon will begin tomorrow!” In response, the former president cancelled Washington’s Christmas party and called an emergency meeting for a dozen loyal staff members. As they sat on the floor of his office, he made this chilling announcement: “The end is near!”
In the silence that followed, a five-year-old twit asked, “What do your recommend as the best course of action?”
“start practicing how to die!”
This wisdom was met with stunned silence.
“Bah! I don’t need to practice dying!” said the haughty Mrs Sowhat. “Dying is so easy, no one has ever done it wrong!”
“I wish that were true,” replied the ex-president, thinking about the many times he had died only to come back to life.
“Can I practice dying from too many orgasms?” asked the perverted Grand Doofus.
“SHUT UP!” said the newly-assertive retired president, grinning despite himself. “Armageddon isn’t like heart disease. It’s a war between the forces of life and death, but this time the forces of life will kill the forces of death and rule the world forever and ever and ever, or maybe, if we’re lucky, just for a million years.”
M.B. Zacharin cried hysterically, “I don’t want to live that long! Oh, God, I hate you! I wish I could just be an ordinary rabbit.”
“Zach, why must you always embarrass me?” my man in Washington demanded. It was an excellent question, but no one answered. In fact, everyone fell into a deep asleep, and all their fears generated dreams of Armageddon as a biological war. It began with a massive seed bombing campaign and it resulted in hordes of little green people invading and overwhelming cities. No one knew how to interpret this dream, so they lost interest in Armageddon.
A week later, Chuck Bollocks, God’s long-time loyalist, complained, “You promised Armageddon would begin on Christmas Day, and here we are, 365 days later, and still nothing! Forget it, God! I’m going back to believing in Santa Claus! At least he kept a schedule!”
What an idiot! Did I specify on which Christmas I intended to wage Armageddon?
The Love War
One day God noticed that so-called Amerikans were no longer respecting their husbands, leaders and bosses … they had ceased to be faithful to anyone and lost interest in all the beautiful things civilization had to offer. So, on the night before their Christmas, God commanded deposed President C. Bollocks to command the United Nations to begin delivering Amerikan-made luxury goods to the poor masses so that they would fall in love with civilization again. They agreed on condition that Chuck play the role of Santa Claus and God’s angels the roles of the elves and reindeer. These terms were cheerfully accepted, and in the wee morning hours of December 25th, Santa and his angels delivered millions of eternal life insurance policies, edible rainbows, nutritious gum, diabetic beverages, carcinogenic sweets, and loads of angel cakes, stainless steel condoms, caffeinated meat, nuclear-powered shopping malls, alcoholic medicines, iron lungs, lovely coffins, radioactive pens, automatic books, electromagnetic pulsers, fluoridated water, and bunnyburgers. All of these goodies were paid for in full with tax dollars and government bonds, but do you think the damn world was happy? Not at all!
What the Hell did they want? Well, turns out they had some sort of business plan and just wanted mechanical shovels on wheels to make their plan come true. So, the elves gave them their damn tractors, and though a million died of exhaustion, it was worth it. Many loved their new toys and spent hours working in their fields. It was heartening to see, or it was until I looked closely and realized that my farmers were not carving their fields into parallel rows for my crops and were, instead, wasting time sculpting their stupid dirt into fish ponds and crooked whales or swales or whatever! And when they were done, they abandoned their toys and started planting their stupid trees and bushes without any rational pattern!
Obviously they did not appreciate the gifts of civilization, so my elves gave them the finger and shouted from the clouds, “FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID NEO-PAGANS! NO MORE CHRISTMAS FOR YOU!”
I laughed, but all of Satan’s neo-pagans cried and sobbed, “We’re so sorry. We’ll believe in and love our Santa in Heaven if he gives us your wooly reinsteer.”
At my behest, my angels dressed as cowboys and herded millions of wooly reinsteer into Satan’s grassy fields, and they ate everything and pooped everywhere. I was sure this cunning strategy would inspire Satan’s followers to wear shoes and eat meat again, but once again my rational mind could not predict the behavior of idiots. You see, when millions of reinsteer arrived and began grazing, Satan and his neo-pagans thanked God for giving them creatures that turn grass into the manure they needed to grow their forest gardens. In other words, my troops were serving my enemy!
I’d been tricked! Satan and all her witches celebrated as their damn gardens expanded and flourished in fresh manure! And when authentic Amerikans saw this, millions more joined the neo-native rebellion!
God and Chuck lost faith in wooly reinsteer and sent the most ruthless mercenary angels to beat the scallywags to a pulp. They arrived at sunrise and found the enemy working naked! Seeing them, they fell under an evil spell, forgot their celestial jobs and turned into wild ducks and chickens! I was profoundly ashamed. I was sure Satan would eat them all; instead she and her fellow witches loved them and praised them for eating all the insects I had secretly sent to destroy their damned crops!
I was humiliated. I had carefully created all my children from the best materials, and yet they traded Me for belly-bumping with Satan! But if anyone knew how to stop sex, I was the one, and I had the perfect plan.
That evening, while Chuck slept, a miraculous operation occurred between his legs. Upon waking, he discovered that his humble equipment had been replaced with a monstrous shaft covered in warts, gonads loaded with the world’s best genetically modified seed, fully automatic sperm ducts, and a foreskin measuring two feet in length and tattooed with the dreaded words, Made in Amerika and Master of the Penile Colony.
After receiving this amazing gender-enhancing surgery, beginning on Christmas Eve and into the wee hours of the next morning, Chuck Bollocks did his job so well that no one saw, heard, or felt him coming or going, but when they woke they felt sore all over. I rejoiced knowing that a billion women would soon give birth to children who finally resembled and recognized Me.
Days later, the women gave birth and I nearly died of a heart-attack. Instead of victory I witnessed Satan’s circus! A billion fat women squatted and gave birth to eggplants, butternut squash and papayas! My angels, dressed in doctors’ gear, tried to steal these newborn abominations, but the mothers did not let them cut their peduncles, instead they waited until those peduncles were dry and easy to twist off.
Perhaps the Devil had triumphed again, but don’t you worry! God had merely allowed himself to be outwitted! The longer the war, the more glorious the final victory!
Satan and all the neo-natives were determined to live without meat. They promoted the growth of herbs, spices, fruit trees and bushes and so on. They were happy as the birds, but they still died like any other animal, so, to my Prophet Chuck I read this passage from the Hollywood Bible: “Veganism and vegetarianism are deadly plagues! Herbs are for decoration, spices are for marinating meat, and trees are for smashing into pulp to be pressed into paper for God’s autobiography. If you desire immortality and true happiness, grow fields of grass and grain and feed your crop to yourselves and to edible animals like cows, lamas, pandas and reindeer” (The Prophet Ali Mentary).
“That’s God’s wisdom!” said my prophet and personal president.
“Indeed it is! Now go and spread my wisdom to the ignorant!”
Then my prophet in Washington issued this public announcement:
Good afternoon, witches and bitches both! God informs me that if you want eternal life in Heaven, start living intimately with the blood, milk, feces, and urine of God’s amazing livestock, and become like livestock by eating their food, for only then will you demonstrate the love you need to join God in Heaven.
Many believed. Many splattered themselves with blood, milk, feces and urine of their livestock, but they lacked a good work ethic. Only a few died on time and flew straight to Heaven while God’s supernatural livestock multiplied like fleas and grazed the fields down to the dust, until only patches of grass remained. Then the people had to eat grass. So, their merciful God sent them his tired angels to deliver bagsful of patented rice, millet, and wheat seed, and God said, “Plant these seeds and feed the crop to your livestock and to yourselves, for this is the way to Heaven.”
So, they started slaving for immortal life. They slaved like heroes clearing fields, planting seeds, tending crops, and feeding livestock and themselves, but when they ate God’s grains, their teeth broke and their stomachs failed, so they gave everything to the pigs and cows and prayed God would give them teeth and stomachs like their livestock.
“I don’t do hybrids,” I said. “You can either be cows and pigs or you can be slaves. You choose.”
Now they were in quite a dilemma, so I laughed and told them about the third way. Then they thanked me and started working. They toiled to make fires and pots, then they boiled some of their grains until they were soft enough to eat. Then they toiled to make sealed jars and millstones and mills and they converted their grains into alcohol and others into flour. Finally they built ovens for baking bread and hospitals for the sick and drunk. Many fell sick and suffered because of their new work and diet, so they grew impatient and complained.
“Slavery sucks! God, if you don’t give our lives back, we’ll kill you!”
I replied, “Please don’t use such harsh and inaccurate words. Life is wonderful when you’re not afraid of going to Heaven.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Now, if you want to know why your bread is making you miserable, the answer is that you’re using the wrong recipe! So listen carefully, you incompetent whiners! Every loaf of immortal life requires a lot of sugar and cellulose, a teaspoon of lead, a tablespoon of bleach and a cup of formaldehyde. Faith and patience my friends, and immortal health and happiness shall be yours!”
Luckily those idiots had the true faith and believed every word wholeheartedly. They followed my advice, slaved to produce the required ingredients, and ate and drank their new products. After enjoying brief highs, they died even younger and generally felt even more miserable. But I wish they had all died and gone to Hell, for now they pestered Me with more questions about the ingredients.
I answered, “You fools, you forgot the secret ingredient: plutonium. It adds color, flavor and longevity to your lives. Believe and immortality shall be yours!”
They thanked Me bravely followed my instructions and became sicker and more miserable than ever. This time, before they could voice their grief, I said, “Well, if you’re really not ready to go to heaven, just buy my medicines and pay for my surgeries. Do this and I promise you’ll live a little longer and enjoy fun side-effects for free.”
“What kind of side effects?”
“Faith and patience, my friends, and don’t throw your chance at eternal life in Heaven away.”
Then my faithful children entered my laboratories and received doses of medicine, surgical procedures and other fun stuff. The consequences were incredible. A few million became incontinent and others became bald, dyspeptic, thoughtless, impotent, cancerous, and insane, while millions more went to Heaven on an operating table or in an intoxicated fog.
You’d think they would have thanked Me, but on the contrary! Many were not impressed and many more defected to Satan’s side, where they stopped taking my medicine and never saw surgeons or doctors. And, worst of all, they declared war on my food! They stripped the Whore of the World, the Earth, of my sacred grains and cash crops! They chopped, burned, composted and mulched everything! Endless fields of gold and meat on feet vanished! Then, in the ultimate act of treason, they took the seeds their wicked great-grandfathers had saved! And do you know what they did with them? That’s right, those disgusting sex maniacs used them to impregnate my sex … my concubine!
Ten thousand years of progress was being destroyed! I couldn’t bear to look, but I am cursed to see and hear everything! In the spring, I even witnessed my concubine’s skin producing disgusting growths like mugwort, kumquats, breadfruit, jackfruit, kratom, arugula, arsley, afucado, peucalyptus, pission fruit, fartemisia, mammee berry, pasak bumi, garlic, sour lemons, kale and a lot of other species of junk! And I couldn’t make a profit because their damned gardens were so disorganized and perishable and no on—no one—wanted to work and earn an honest living!
Tragically, shipments of food to Me and my poor angels ceased. So, I ask you, how was I supposed to reward such irresponsible devils, such incorrigible Satan worshippers, with my eternal luv?
Satan’s gardens spelled economic suicide, so to save myself I planned awesome acts of corporal punishment! There were so many kinds to choose from, but I wasn’t in the mood to build prisons, so I simply emptied my bladders on Satan’s gardens. I expected them to drown, but that cunning bitch had anticipated my golden flood! Somehow, she had bribed the Whore of the World to suck my golden water into her! And somehow the Devil had covered the soil with super-absorbent organic carpets and billions of water-sucking machines. And worst of, once again Satan’s forbidden gardens thrived at my expense!
Damn them all! I thought, if I can’t drown them, maybe I can dehydrate them! I gripped my bladder-clouds and grit my teeth for a whole week. The sun scorched my head. But thanks be to God, for soon a drought was underway. My cities sizzled, but Satan’s goddamned gardens and devils were resilient! Their damn gardens easily weathered the weather because they grew in deep, carbon-rich soils full of piss and moisture. And their trees and homes kept them cool, for they had built their homes into the Earth, and warm air easily rose through their roofs. And those neo-native witches and devils had saved water in underground pools, roof-side reservoirs and in ponds built on higher elevations. When their gardens began to wilt, they filled jars with water and opened their sluices to water their thirsty gardens!
Oh, but do you know what the worst part was? Thanks to the blazing Sun and the law of evaporation, Satan’s lush greenery kept evaporating more water into God’s floating bladders, my clouds, and this continued until they exploded in showers of raindrops! Thus the Devil triumphed again!
I was ready to declare a truce, I was ready to be reasonable, but Satan’s lust was insatiable. She wanted to steal every soul from my cities. To hook them, she sent her horned missionaries and evangels to spread these baited lies:
“Fellow victims of God and his angels, now you too can enjoy a life free of heat-stroke, hunger and disease, a life full of health and happiness! Join the nearest Garden of Love and attain unimaginable, universal health as well as sexual and intellectual super powers! Join us and reap the greatest guffaws you’ll ever experience!”
I admit it, I was tempted, but I wasn’t about to commit suicide! I know that universal health and happiness is suicide. Just think of it! What would doctors do in such a world? What would lawyers do? What would soldiers do? Besides, the enlightened ones know that true happiness can only come from worshipping God by earning his luv and paying his taxes and purchasing his products and services with luv. For that we need cities, so, my prophet swore he would build walls to prevent my faithful city dwellers from turning into outsiders.
Every Amerikan city was quickly barricaded with towering walls and given plenty of soothing music and medicine. However, instead of reviving their faith in civilization, millions of urban prisoners started banging their heads against the walls and digging holes faster than woodchucks. So, Chuck issued this public announcement:
Listen all you depressed, sick, diseased, paralytic and amputated peoples! Why do you want to breach the walls built for your protection with your taxes? Beyond our walls is a scary and dirty world full of temptation. If you stay, I promise you will get the world’s best artificial limbs and joints, and the world’s best vaccines and chemo potions. You have my word.
Sadly, the people rejected this excellent deal and laughed in my face. Before I could send divine reinforcements, city walls were broken and my bright cities vomited masses of sick, feeble and terminally ill defectors choosing to join the forces of darkness.
With city populations decimated, the world economy starved to death. The food industry starved. The medical industries fell terminally ill. Faithful rulers, tax collectors, doctors and hospital managers begged the Devil to return their sick customers. Finally, former president Chuck issued this desperate public announcement on the internet:
Come back all you sick bastards! Satan can’t cure you of anything with her bitter herbs and her wicked weeds! Her medicinal foods will turn you into nameless clowns, lazy beasts, health nuts, hopeless animals and loathsome nymphomaniacs!
Satan scornfully countered in the comments section: “LOL! Big Busy Dick warns us about nymphomania.”
We had no choice but to hire an army of angels to brew a vaxxine made of radioactive isotopes, aborted fetus cells, heavy metals, toxic oils, monkey viruses and microscopic pieces of brain tumors extracted from cherubim. The resultant medicine was so powerful that any dose ensured that even an angel would never commit another crime.
Confident that I now had the ultimate weapon, I wrote this sales pitch in the clouds:
Now you too can get God’s amazing cure for evil and a chance at winning a two-week vacation in Heaven. Just call our number and order your bottle of Act-Like-an-Angel suppositories!
It was pure poetry and literary genius. But sales were disastrous. Calamitous. But the writing wasn’t too blame. The damn witches and devils simply refused to put anything into their bodies unless the thing grew in their accursed gardens!!!
I was sick of their hodge-podge gardens! I hadn’t seen a beautiful plot of roses or a sea of tulips and poppies in ages! So, I summoned all my tiny, armored angels, the Locust Army, and instructed them to devour the Devil’s messy and unprofitable greenery. In whirring masses, they descended from Heaven screaming, “Death to Satan’s gardens!”
Victory was certain. Victory seemed certain. Finally, victory eluded us. Satan defended her empire of mud and sticks with a surprising tactic. She told all her children to “eat God’s flying insects! Do it, for they are excellent sources of protein and vitamin D.”
How could I have foreseen such madness? I was certain locusts were too disgusting to eat, especially by children, but Satan’s brood enjoyed hunting and eating my entire Locust Army!
But I wasn’t finished yet. Not Me! So, I cursed Satan’s green communes with a ferocious plague of weeds. My wind delivered innumerable weed seeds. I expected to see Satan’s gardens quickly overgrown and choked, but I was thwarted again! You see, her damn gardens were so dense that few seeds took root, and the few that did were easily plucked or, worse, eaten with relish!
Damn them all! Oh, but never mind. I had foreseen everything! I was just building excitement for a grand climax and ultimate victory! Thus, that night, under cover of darkness, my brave angels came with torches and bolts of lightning to set fire to any dry wood in Satan’s gardens. I tried to be confident, but to be honest, I had begun to lost faith in my angels, and sure enough, they failed again. This time they offered this excuse: “The Devil’s gardens are too moist! Plus, all the dry wood has been either composted or stashed as kindling.”
Thus, all my lightning bolts and torches died in spirals of smoke! I was incensed! But the worst was yet to come! My angels accidentally inhaled the fragrances emanating from Satan’s Gardens of Love! It turned their brains to mush. And, before I could rescue them, they forgot who I was and fell in love with Nature, with raw food, with witches and koala bears (damn them, especially!), and with Satan’s life without government, jobs, money, marriage, private property and all things civilized!
No god has ever felt more betrayed. Thankfully, I still had one friend: Chuck! I said to him, “Beloved friend, greatest of all buddies, it’s time to be serious and prove you love Me.”
He knew exactly what I meant. Our Russian Armageddon missiles were guaranteed to make give civilization the bang it needed.
That night, our rockets pierced the sky and headed deep into Satan’s Gardens of Love. I watched in anticipation. I bit my nails. Then I stared. Something wasn’t right. Someone had painted our missiles! They looked like flying asparagus shoots and bananas! And then came the culminating disaster: upon impact they brought life instead of death! I’m not kidding! Our missiles burst open on the ground and out poured fresh heirloom fruit and vegetables!! The best missiles on Earth had just delivered the kind of food that sickens and kills the medical industry! What a disaster!
I wept and raged as millions renounced Amerika’s ailing Empire of Death. Everyone lost interest in the short-cuts to Heaven provided by hospitals, police forces, military weapons, powerful bosses and all-loving governments. Instead of pursuing the one and only Amerikan Heaven, they made dirty love to that dirty old whore, the abomination of the whole fucking universe, Mother Earth! They pushed their naked hands into her body and happily deposited their seeds, their filth and their corpses inside her. And, thanks to their satanic rituals, Nature thrived like a disease!
In a brilliant effort to save civilization, I dispatched trained university scholars to each and every Garden of Love location, and for a small fee they explained to Satan’s victims that Mother Earth is a pile of dirt, dust, rot, shit, fungi, trillions of disgusting creatures and Satan’s STDs!
“Everything you say is true,” their listeners replied, “but you’re not angels from Heaven! What do you think you’re carrying in your stomachs and colons? Dirt, dust, rot, shit, fungi, trillions of disgusting creatures and God’s STDs!”
Hearing this outrageous blaspheme and slander, my holy scholars went home in tears.
I was desperate to save someone, anyone, at least one of my children from Hell. I considered washing away their dirty gardens with a massive flood, but my favorite angel reminded Me of my past failures. “Thanks!” I said. “But I must do something! I can’t live in Heaven alone forever and I don’t want a bunch of dirty Satanists as my guests!” That’s what I said. I’m sure he understood that I had no choice but to write this brilliant public announcement in the sky:
You too can enjoy a zero-expenses life with God in Heaven, the apex of civilization, if you respect the law of Hygiene and become clean as Amerikan angels. Simply wear clothes, eat antibiotics, bathe in acid and generally live in my hyper-clean digital world. Do this and you will know you are in Heaven.
They thanked me for my “excellent sales pitch” and said they would think it over. I was hopeful. But the Devil was the better salesman. This time she persuaded everyone that her perishable Gardens of Love were Heaven!
I was flabbergasted. Now, I was profoundly offended! But if Satan thought I would call it quits, she was deceived. I refused to abandon my sheep to live on a planet covered with dirt and shit and piss and things too filthy too mention. Luckily, I had one more ingenious idea: an earthquake! Surely an earthquake would convince my faithless children to leave their miserable huts and join Me in Heaven.
It was a beautiful hope. I touched the Earth in my special way, and she immediately had a seizure. She shook her body and many cities were sacrificed as they crumbled into dust, but Satan’s walls were thick and short, and her roofs were made of thatch, so my enemies danced and laughed. In fact, Satan’s little monkeys happily caught the fruit that fell from the shaking trees!
In frustration, I visited Septicus, my best volcano, and fracked his ass so hard it exploded with rocks and lava. I prayed that they would reach Satan’s villages and teach the evil ones my lesson, but the cowards had built too far from volcanoes. Although a good deal of ash rained down on their gardens, that was no consolation; in fact, it was a cause for celebration among my enemies! Truth is, they loved all that ash, for they believed that ash improves soil quality! Damn it all! Once again, thanks to my efforts to teach them a lesson and save their souls, they harvested a bumper crop of evil: aphrodisiacs, devil’s cherries, devil’s apples, devil’s pumpkins, devil’s claw, devil’s club, mandrake fruit, devil’s figs, devil’s tongues, devil’s bones (yam), devil’s nettle (yarrow).
Was I worried? Was I growing desperate? God does not worry or grow desperate. No way! I was just getting warmed up. I stomped across the skies, roused up Heaven’s mightiest windbags and commanded them to unleash tornados, hurricanes, typhoons and other divine vacuum cleaners on Satan’s filthy communes. They were eager to wipe the mess off the face of the Earth, but they had lost much of their legendary strength. Not only were Satan’s homes too solid and short, but my windbags only produced gasps and breezes instead of shrieking superstorms.
Damn! Somehow, my enemies and their damn trees had cast a spell on the weather and deflated Heaven’s once-powerful windbags. I was furious! I shrieked at my puppet on Earth, “Either you stop Satan’s cult of dirt worship or I will … I will … I will do something awful!!”
Chuck tried to calm Me down with promises to clean the jewel of my dominion. I believed him. I thought he would buy million brooms or order the military to eat dirt. Instead, he surprised Me by only asking his evil wives to take cleanliness more seriously. This is what they told him,
“We have no interest in removing the dirt from our lives. We love living like pigs!”
Such ignorance was more than we could tolerate, so we initiated an ingenious military operation dubbed Operation Carpet Bomb. The plan was for the mighty USW Earth Forces to stop Satan’s progress by carpeting every remaining field and desert with self-cleaning, high-tech, long-pile outdoor carpets that featured unique hook-like tendrils that automatically fastened to the ground and were nearly impossible to uninstall. Such carpets are simply wonderful for your feet. I know, for I paved Heaven with something similar.
Meanwhile, the Earth Forces went to work. They carpeted empty fields, millions of acres of barren farmland and desert. The generous government did not charge installation fees. I was so impressed I thanked the government and declared victory. Then I heard Satan and all her fellow anarchists laughing and thanking Me.
“Chuck, what’s wrong with them? Why are my enemies celebrating my victory?”
He shrugged and claimed ignorance, but I could tell he knew something, so I nagged and nagged until he took a deep breath, bit his lip, and mumbled, “Because they planned to do all the work we did. They’ve already started living on the newly carpeted land. Thanks to our work, their plan for world domination is ten years ahead of schedule.”
While God cried, Chuck continued, “And the worst part is that while dust has been eradicated, all your immaculate astro carpets are littered with dead skin, nail and hair clippings, snot, poop, pee, menstrual blood, semen, amniotic fluid and sacs, umbilical cords and corpses.”
“My beautiful carpets are ruined!”
Chuck tried to assuage Me. “Dear God, don’t lose hope yet. Let’s think of a solution. We can do it! Hey, I’ve got it! Why don’t you command the world’s factories to manufacture millions of green-tech, super-powered vacuums and dust eaters? Arm your angels with them, then command them to march into those filthy Gardens of Love to clean up Satan’s business!”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” God shouted.
The following day, Operation Deep Vacuum began. An army comprised of my last angels pushed their high-tech cleaning devices into all the filthy places, but wherever they arrived, Satan’s witches sang, “Thank you!” and promptly cast a nasty spell that transformed all of God’s wondrous vacuums and brooms into dirt-loving trees, bushes, fungi and bugs! The angels were so embarrassed by their failure, the witches turned them into the millions of song birds that inhabit the trees and bushes.
“God, I know I’m speaking out of turn,” Chuck began, “but maybe it’s time to admit defeat. You’ve tried long enough to civilize all those savages. Too much frustration can’t be good for your heart.”
“But I can’t lose. You don’t understand. My millions of little sheep, my children, they don’t deserve to live in Hell.”
“Because … because, I guess because I love them and I want them to come home.”
“But have you ever been to Hell? Maybe it’s not so bad.”
“Oh, you deluded fool. Hell is bad, it’s very bad!”
“But it looks quite clean and habitable to me.”
“Is that so? Well, I can change that! Today we’ll do the unthinkable! Today they’ll come running back to my cities and back to Me!”
On God’s behalf, Chuck launched Operation Atmospheric Excrement Injection. He personally sprayed all of Satan’s villages and villas with high grade Amerikan shit, blood, and plenty of superbugs. And, to make sure he didn’t miss a single Amerikan, he splattered excrement on all the continents. It was a piece of strategic genius!
Do you know what happened next? I suppose at this point another failure must seem predictable and inevitable. Well, as my faithless readers rightly suspect, not one dirt-worshipping Satanist fell sick! Not wanted to return to God’s cities! Their damn immune systems were too strong, and they composted everything so quickly that, after only one day, no odious odors remained. They even thanked God for all that free shit because they thought it was good fertilizer!
(God had a tantrum, a meltdown, as he flailed and swore and cursed in impotent rage. After exhausting himself, he finally admitted, with bitter humiliation, that the Amerikan era was finished. The days of divine luv—of amazing power and profits—were over. Civilization could not be saved. Humanity could not even be redeemed from its enslavement to Nature, and all the brainwashing in the world could not cleanse the filth from the minds of God’s lost children.)
The Fall of the Wife House
After the fall of civilization, Chuck Bollocks was nearly alone in the world capital. His wives returned the presidency to him, but they did not return to their rooms, and all his children refused to visit wintry Washington D.C.
To alleviate his loneliness, President C. Bollocks arranged an informal meeting with the unemployed director of the defunct CIA. They sat down to biscuits and sugar cubes. The director tried to console the former president: “Chuck, don’t be so hard on yourself. Maybe you made some bad decisions, but you can’t be blamed for destroying the entire global economy.”
“Why not?” he asked with a wink and a grin.
“By the time you came into office, it was already rotten. It’s true. Long before your time, I advised President Angel to focus less on Russians, Huns, Arabs, and Commies. I told him we mustn’t forget Satan, the scourge of good manners and the enemy of the spirit of martyrdom and sacrifice. He ignored me and look what happened!” Josh cried and gestured at all the empty government buildings flattened and splattered with shit.
The president felt better already. “Josh, if you agree to live with me, we could start a new civilization!”
Josh mulled this proposal over. “A civilization of snowmen and plastic robots?”
“I’m serious! Science has advanced since you and I were born. With a little luv, we can create children from gobs of spit.”
“I’m flattered. I really am. But I’m afraid you’re just not my type.”
“But you slept with Angel!”
“I was his body guard. I protected him from the First Lady. All your ladies left you.”
“Then protect me from my loneliness! Please. Give civilization a second chance. What do you think, you old dog?”
Josh didn’t answer. He was busy pissing on the president’s mildewed rose bushes. His marksmanship was amazing. The president was impressed, looked hard into his eyes and remarked: “Josh, stay with me! I love you! I swear I won’t touch your pretty buttocks.”
Josh nearly sprayed himself.
“Ahem, thanks for promising no funny business, but I must decline.”
“What is it? You want flush toilets and hot running water? Well, I’m sorry if I haven’t bathed in a few days. My live-in plumber drowned and no one else in town accepts my luv, not even you. I guess I’ll just learn to die alone.”
“I’m sure someone could teach even you to do that.”
“Josh, let’s have a cup of tea.”
Before he could answer, Chuck pulled him into the White House. Josh couldn’t help observing the state of the White House: the extensive mold on the art works, the moss on the rafters and the termite and woodpecker damage to the load-bearing beams. The place was a dump. When Chuck defaulted on his mortgage, the banks didn’t even want it.
“Chuck, I’m sorry, I’m flattered by your invitation, but I can’t live here.”
“That’s another fine excuse! Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me! Josh, think of the future! Let’s build a Platonic love shack on Mount Rushmore!”
Before Josh could reply, the White House shuddered, creaked and leaned. Screams resounded upstairs as Angel, now beyond elderly, smashed a window, then changed his mind about jumping and hurtled down the stairs screaming something about trees being safer homes.
“Mister President!” Josh cried, “The White House is falling!”
Chuck refused to leave, but Josh grabbed him and threw him through the door. A moment later, the White House crashed and coughed a cloud of dust. Chuck kissed Josh and would have done more except the poor man panicked and was already running for safety in dark forests.
The Sun Set
Abandoned by his wives, his family, and even by his best friend, Chuck said goodbye to the stars above and entered the secret tunnel leading to the Chamber of Death, aka the Doom’s Day Bunker. His goal? He fully intended to blow up the world.
How would he do it? He had sold most of the world’s military hardware in order to help cover the budget deficit even though he had the power to publish as much money as he desired. Why did I create such simpletons?
Fortunately, if only because no one wanted to buy it, the military still possessed the mother of all nuclear bombs which we had playfully named Satan’s Period. It was so powerful it could spread its deadly radiation over the entire the entire planet, from one corner to another. It ensured world-wide destruction without exception, so it was launched after the greatest deliberation in the early morning hours. It rose from its distant bunker in the east. For an entire day, it burned a whole through the sky and rained its deadly rays upon the world.
– THE LAST CHAPTER –
Well, Satan’s Burning Period was a dud. Like all of Amerika’s weapons, it backfired and promoted life instead of death. And so, the great Amerikan dream was kaput. The great experiment of civilization was finished. Amerika, and in particular Chuck Bollocks, that heroic leader whose only weakness was for women and possibly for food, he and a long line of pious presidents had exhausted themselves in an effort to bring the whole world closer to God. Millions of Amerikan saints had tried to guide the world through the gates of Death and into Heaven, all in vain!
Amerika had been the world’s conscience and guiding intelligence, the supreme head of the world, but the foreign parts and organs had rebelled. The arms had beaten the head, the ass had made a stink, the genitals had refused to be productive and individual cells had tormented everyone with trivial complaints about unemployment, poverty, poor air quality and long winters.
Then the desertions started. Millions renounced their citizenships, burnt their money, and joined Satan around wood fires that were—alas—too clean and small to cause harm, climate change and the death that precedes the passage to Heaven.
In the face of my apparent defeat, I became depressed and nostalgic. I longed for the days when people respected Me more than life, and I tried to return to those good old days, but NASA’s time machine was a piece of crap.
The Final Solution
As Amerika lay dying, I communicated yet another ingenious plan to my puppet in Washington. In a dream about his childhood, he listened to his primary school principal speak immortal words of wisdom.
“Chuckie, I have an important job for you. Are you ready to scrub the toilets again?”
“No sir! I do not believe in toilets!”
“You don’t believe in them, do you, you little toilet atheist! What about the metaphorical toilet?”
“You mean the one inside your head?”
“Numbskull! Oh, I am bored to death of you naked apes! God created a beautiful planet for you to inhabit. I know it was full of poop piles, pee puddles, bad beasts and prickly plants, but with a little work you could have earned God’s luv and joined him in Heaven! Instead, what did your kind do? You built the Empire of Death that leads you to Heaven, but you lacked commitment, you lacked faith. Even as you destroyed your disgusting bodies and edged closer to Heaven, instead of leaping joyfully into the oven and letting your weary souls rise up to Heaven in clouds of holy smoke, with fear and trembling you tried to stay on this miserable planet! Do you know how foolish that is?”
“Of course you don’t; you’re a numbskull, but you’re the best man I have, so I will share a secret with you, Chuckie boy. Do you want to hear it?”
“Too bad, you’ll hear it anyway. Listen, for centuries I helped civilizations destroy the material world because I was certain you would never appreciate the spiritual world until the material one was destroyed. But I was thwarted by your damn mother!”
“You mean Satan?”
“Don’t interrupt me! Everyone knows your mother is Satan! She is not have government authorization to teach or preach, yet she dared to corrupt you with her teachings, she persuaded you, the Pope and millions of other to believe you should save ‘Mother Nature’s stinking bodies—didn’t she?”
“I’m awfully sorry.”
“Oh, the child has apologized for its mother and for mankind. Well, I don’t believe in apologies!”
“Sir, please watch your blood press–”
“My what? Oh, right. Thanks for the warning. Ahem, where was I? Oh, right, the spiritual world. Well, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, I created a religious economy designed to lead everyone to the pure spiritual essence of love, namely luv. I expected everyone to work for it, but you didn’t. You made a mockery of my constitution and you made machines and slaves do your work. Finally, you insulted Me, for you traded my spiritual luv for material junk. For these reasons, Amerika will be terminated! You will all go back to the ape tribes from which I plucked you, for you do not deserve governments working to provide your water, energy, heat, roads, security and education! And you do not deserve a million highly specialized businesses providing you with state-of-the-art roller coasters, candy bars and toilet paper! Do you understand?”
“I guess all those material luxuries have made us lose interest in the spiritual world.”
“But won’t terminating civilization play into Satan’s hands?”
Mere coincidence! Listen, you have an assignment, or call it a job, if you like. You shall work to clean my toilet! Erase civilization from the blackboard of the world! Begin with North Amerika! Remove the strumpets, the thugs, the thieves, the sick and ugly—in short, everyone! I want the coastlines, the riverbanks, the mountains and the northern half completely emptied of whites and restored to their original beauty by Christmas morning! Class dismissed!”
Thus the dream ended. The president woke with a jolt, looked groggily at the ruins of Washington and remembered nothing of his dream. So the next night God repeated the dream in higher resolution. This time the president thought it was a joke, so I sent the dream a third time.
“Fine!” Chuckie groaned on the third morning. “I get it. You’re upset because no one loves you or your works. Well, I don’t care! You can flush your own toilet!”
A little bird alighted on his windowsill and chirped, “God will flush you! God will flush you!”
Chuck panicked. He called up his old contacts at the circus. Together they created the North Amerikan Naturalization Organization (NANO) and issued the following public service announcement:
If you’re sick of work and poverty, either revolt or get out of the United Estates of the World! If you want to start a revolution, visit your local government office and receive a free ticket to Heaven.
It was pure genius—except for one minor detail: ever since the Greatest Depression, Amerika had no public transportation, and rumors spread that the government was secretly plotting to fly everyone not to Heaven, not even to Mars, but to Mexico, Satan’s traditional playground. So, no Amerikan expressed any interest in leaving their prostrated nation, not even during the Greatest Depression.
Something had to be done to start the evacuation. NANO President Chuck Bollocks called an emergency meeting but quickly dozed off. Luckily everyone present patiently watched him until his eyes bulged and he jerked awake, shouting, “God has communicated his plan to me! We need awesome public transportation! We must build an irresistible choochoo train! A super-awesome choochoo train! A choochoo train that will make travelling so much fun-fun-fun that no one will think twice about going to Hell or New Africa!”
The ex-president’s psychologists took notes, completed charts, calculated probabilities and finally declared him mad.
Chuck was stunned: “Me, mad? I suppose you ignoramuses have never heard of New Africa, formerly known as Greenland! And I suppose my plan sounds too fun to be taken seriously. Well, why do you think governing can’t be fun? You’ll have a blast playing the supporting roles while I play the leading role of the celebrated Captain Herewego. And if you want a sense of how much fun we’re gonna have, let me inform you that our train shall be named … let me think … Big Dreamy! … Yeah, that’s pure marketing genius! The Big Dreamy will deliver all its passengers to God’s favorite vacation resort, to sexy and beautiful New Africa! Yankee Doodle Yahoo!”
Originally, Big Dreamy was a low budget, environmentally friendly affair. It was really nothing more than a herd of giant sloths, giant tigers, giant tortoises and medium-sized mammoths supposedly liberated from the abandoned Washington D.C. and Wall Street zoos. These dangerous creatures were trained to either carry or chase thousands of passengers south, towards mystical New Africa. The herbivores were trained with spears and stones, while torches were used to persuade the tigers to do reconnaissance in the four cardinal directions.
Most Amerikans were natural meat lovers and gladly joined the Big Dreamy, but a few holdouts made life interesting. Consider the amusing fiasco of Captain Herewego’s encounter with the illiterate Stoned Age patriots holed up in the sculpted heads of Mount Rushmore. The good captain and his mammoth train arrived at the north-west face of President Jefferson. At the time, Bro Zacharin was sitting on George Washington’s nose surveying the land for large, juicy animals to eat. When he saw Herewego and his supporting officers riding megafauna towards him, he holler triumphantly, “DINNER IS SERVED!”
Captain Herewego called back, “Good morning, Bro! I come to you from the other side of death! The creatures you see are not for eating. They are angelic spirits, and if you follow them, they will take you and all your friends to another world.”
“Is the hunting good there?”
“Is food all you can dream of?”
“In that case, food is plentiful in the other world, provided you can catch a flying coconut. Can you?”
“No sweat! I’ll sneak up along the shore, leap into the air and wrestle them to the ground!”
The captain laughed, “Where we’re going you can catch your food just by sitting under a tree.”
Zach was stunned. “How’s that possible?”
“Well, most of our food is one-legged, so mobility is limited.”
Zach was dazed. Heaven sounded like a land of miracles. He clambered into the main cave and told his gang of Doom’s Day survivalists that a train of animals had come to lead them to the happiest hunting grounds. Every dolt believed, so seats were quickly filled and Zacharin had to wait for the next train. He was lucky it returned. You see, although Captain Herewego conducted Big Dreamy across prairies and rivers, although he reminded his passengers that their beasts of burden were the only way to reach a better world, all the beasts were secretly eaten.
Captain Herewego returned to Mount Rushmore with a cowboy hat, a bronze gun and two goats tied side-by-side. His junior and deputy cowboys were similarly dressed in the classic western attire, but they rode horses, sheep, pigs, cows, camels and lamas. When they reached Mount Olympus, Bro Zacharin scoffed at the little creatures, but when he saw how timid the creatures were he fetched his spear and called his buddies.
They came a whooping and bellowing. They would have slaughtered the entire herd if Captain Herewego had not fired his gun into the air. He couldn’t kill a sausage, but the sound was terrifying, and he bluffed well: “Bro, these creatures are not for eating. They are our ticket to Heaven if we’re nice to them. Hop on!”
“Hold on! Why haven’t we heard a word from the hundreds who left with you the first time?”
“They’re in Heaven, so they’ve lost interest in ordinary people.”
“I see. Well, how much food should I pack? I mean, how far from here is this Heaven of yours?”
“The distance depends on how important you are.”
“Damn! This is gonna be a long one. They got restaurants there? Please say they do!”
“Sure! Heaven is a restaurant!”
“Wow! But,” now Zacharin struck a melancholy tone, “you’ve kind of spoiled the ending for me.”
“And if Heaven really is a restaurant, I’ll miss the hazards of the hunt and the thrill of the kill.”
Captain Herewego sighed, “You rhyming clown! Maybe you like defending your caves from one-eyed bears, and maybe you like travelling miles for the honor of sticking your spear into fresh meat and getting a warm shower of blood! Not me! I prefer life in Hotel Heaven. There’s just one problem.”
“Well, it’s so easy to find food there, you have to find other ways to spend your energy.”
Zach was sold. He relayed the informational sales pitch to his buddies in the cave. They were so damn impressed they mounted the animal train and Zach accompanied them on a lovely heifer. However, after a mile or so he grew hungry and tried to eat the meaty creature with his bare teeth and hands and lost sight of the train. That poor fellow missed out on an amazing journey.
Captain Herewego’s train moved slowly through the shrub land on account of the fact that the engines and passengers were constantly dodging fences and arrows and continually grazing and feasting. Moreover, and this is important, when the herd shrank in number, Captain Herewego struck camp and let the depleted herds graze and reproduce until they grew so content they refused to continue the journey. Somehow, they didn’t care that they were living in Death Valley; they didn’t even care when they saw Captain Herewego’s silhouette riding away in a cloud of dust.
By the grace of God, whose schemes are inscrutable, Captain Herewego purchased the world’s first iron-and-wheel vehicles: many hundreds of waggons, carriages, chariots, ploughshares and wheelbarrows. Herewego, his soldiers, horses, oxen, elephants and other beasts took them for a final assault on Mount Olympus (formerly Mount Rushmore). Their approach was lightning-fast, especially over the downhill passages. Although fatal crashes plagued the journey, victory was inevitable.
Captain Herewego was dressed in a stunning beard, jacket, pants, boots, toque and riding gloves all patched together from red silk and white furs.
When Bro Zacharin saw the wheeled and wondrous caravan crossing the desert, he rejoiced in Roosevelt’s ear, “It’s Santa Claus! I hope he has cookies and milk. I’m famished!”
Captain Herewego cajoled from his waggon, “Ola, Senor Zacharin! For being a good boy, you have earned a free trip to New Africa, aka Paraiso, where magic fruitmass trees bear gifts for all, yes, in summer, spring, winter and fall. Look, I’ve smuggled a few goodies out for you! Won’t you come and try some?”
Zacharin shimmied down and eagerly sampled some of the guavas, mameys, mangosteens, rambutans, paternas, carambolas, xoconostles and other unAmerikan fruit that could easily tempt even patriots to betray and leave Amerika. Zacharin was no match for the offered feast. After gorging he crawled back into Lincoln’s gaping mouth to tell his friends the good news. An argument ensued, and suddenly Vice Doofus Broke emerged from a presidential mouth and raged at Captain Herewego, “Satan! You damn drug smuggler from Hell! Go away! I know about your New Africa! It’s full atheists, anarchists, polyamorists and potheads!”
Captain Herewego laughed, “I think you’ve just described your own Heaven, you closet hedonist!”
Doofus scratched his head confusedly, then leaned into Jefferson’s ear and shouted, “I GUESS IT AIN’T SATAN! LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE CALLED Santa WANTS to TAKE US TO HEAVEN!”
Well, that did it. Thousands of rugged, hungry slaves poured from Mount Olympus. Only Zach, Arrears and Olyshit remained. When asked why they were staying, they whispered, “That Santa is Satan in disguise! We pray that George Washinroom, Abe Lickum, Teddy Whosefault and Tommy Jesterson will forgive them.”
Meanwhile, Captain Herewego noticed the absence of his old friends, sadly sighed, then slowly turned his waggon around and sighed, “Adios, tonto y amigo.”
Meanwhile, Zach curled up beside the fire in his cave. In the morning, much to his surprise, he discovered a mysterious gift neatly arranged beside the smoldering fire pit. It was a page torn out of a captain’s log and tied to a branch. It was marked with thirty symbols, including a circle of gold. Santa had given him a treasure map! Zach was elated. He whooped so loud he gave the mountain headaches. His excitement (and naivety) were infectious. Olyshit and hundreds of other Ivy Leaguers joined him on a very exciting, adventure-filled journey that lead them to the fulfillment of their dreams: a rat infested, rusty old Disneyland complete with the famous Forest of the Plastic Trees of Heaven inhabited by Immortal Fairy Robots. After purchasing a truckload of opioids from Mickey Mouse, they pedaled a fleet of tricycles into the sea before they flew an armada of hot-air balloons straight over Mount Olympus.
Meanwhile, Captain Herewego and his followers plodded through Amerika’s wastelands—places where even coyotes and crows refused to live. Fortunately, the Captain possessed God’s psychic powers, so he came prepared with plows and seeds, so when they were hungry they pulled their plows back and forth across square fields, like a reader’s eyes over a pages of words arranged in endless lines, back and forth they moved, back and forth, until walking became a chore and the land was an eyesore. Then, when the soil was exposed and if they were smart, the farmers flung bags of oats, sperum, and other grains on the open ground and waited for rain to inspire their seeds to sprout. When the crop was ready, they walked back and forth across their fields collecting the crop they would turn to dust in their mills before filling their bellies and needing machines to help them resume their back and forth travels over the dust.
As you might have guessed if you have half a brain, once again Big Dreamy never reached New Africa.
The final expedition used a space-age subterranean locomotive made of GMO gingerbread and powered by a special concoction of edible petroleum, nuclear fear, and electric prayer wheels. The forward-projecting smokestack was carefully calibrated to blast rock and heavy metals music, lyrics included. While the design of the Big Dreamy 4.0 was inspired by Captain Herewego, it was engineered by the Department of Portability, which used 3D tools and printers …
The lightning-fast Big Dreamy arrived without warning at the deathly silent Mount Blackrock or Barerock (You know, the place formerly known as Mount Olympus?). Captain Herewego greeted Zacharin for the last time and for the last time offered him a chance to go to Heaven, or Paradise, whatever the Hell it’s called. Anyway, this time Zacharin got on his moral high horse and asked if the bizarre locomotive was environmentally friendly.
Captain Herewego answered, “Does my poop stink?”
Zacharin tried to remember.
“It’s a rhetorical question!” Herewego roared. “Bro, this locomotive runs on cannabis oil! It makes love to Mother Nature. Wherever we go, birds fall silent, the trees bow and the air and mountains rumble in delight.”
“That’s great news! But is it passenger friendly? I mean, does it serve snacks?”
“This train is a snack! The seats are made of licorice stuffed with marshmallows filled with tequila! The windows are made of sugar, the wheels are lollipops, the smoke billowing from the smokestack is pure cotton candy, and everyone on board is made of gingerbread, angel dust, and meat marinated in wine.”
“What about beverages? Got any of those?”
“Sure. Every few miles we stop to drain the sacred juices from the aquifer. We’ve got just enough for our generation.”
“Captain, I like the sound of your words, but somehow something doesn’t smell right.”
“What? Oh you of little faith! This train is the legendary Big Dreamy! In record time, if you don’t nibble the wheels, it will take us to a brand new planet!”
This news was met with cheers. Zach and company hopped on board and enjoyed a rip-roaring journey in a million directions. After ten years, they thought they were on the barren moon and celebrated until they grew thirsty and hungry and decided to resume their journey. Well, about a hundred years later their descendants reached a border marked by a cruel neon sign above an entry gate. It burned the following Mexican word into their sleepless eyes: “HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Before they could leave, a witch perched on top of the gate hurled rotten fruit at the visitors and cackled, “Bienvenido al utopia Amerikano gringos! Welcome to the land of Death, where all are fearless and free! Welcome all ye damned and doomed! Here, everyone is equally unemployed and penniless! Hahahahaha! Now, pass through the gate, but only with your own bodies. Horses, wheels, wings, sails, strollers, prosthetic devices, gods and clothes are no permitido in the land of the scorching Eye of Satan! Enjoy the sweat and love the burn! Hahahaha!”
Hearing these bewitching absurdities, most passengers tried to buy tickets back to Amerika, but Amerika no longer existed. So, they shared their thoughts, free of charge, with their good captain.
“You said we would be making a brief stop in Mexico! Let’s go!”
To save his skin, Herewego answered, “Take it easy. There’s a misunderstanding here. Maybe you think this place is Meghico, but it looks like Heaven to me.”
Zach and the mob looked unconvinced. “That? That place looks like Satan’s farm!”
“Appearances can be deceiving. To the ignorant my shit is pure gold and vaginas are the doors to Heaven,” he expounded, smiling ironically.
It worked. As their captain crossed the border, the muttonheads walked, limped and crawled after him, into the strange world of deformed squash, hallucinogenic lettuce, giant ginger roots, anthropogenic tomatoes, phallic veggies and trees so heavy with fruit they stand on crutches! In this disgusting world, everyone was reduced to being a body: a mouth and genitals, a brain and feet, and so on. And none of the prisoners had pajamas, women peed in public, children ran around like stray rabbits and monkeys, and everyone forgot God and instead worshipped a plastic puzzle, played random notes on flutes of bone and spent hours reading a drunkard’s gobbledygook.
That was Hell. But Hell was their destiny. Once they entered, they were captured by devils and carried to filthy villages and stuffed like turkeys with filthy fruit, uncooked leaves, strange roots, raw nuts and bitter herbs. Afterwards, the devils tortured them by fucking with their minds and blowing up their genitals.
My plan was finally accomplished. Thanks to Captain Herewego and the Big Dreamy staff, Amerika was clean again and the sinners were being purified. I just wish I wasn’t God and could turn my omniscient mind off, although seeing and hearing millions of evil clowns suffer can be very satisfying.
An Infernal Comedy
Our hero snuck away, probably looking for Hell’s exit, but instead stumbled upon his mother buried up to her neck in her garden. Flies buzzed around her painted mouth. Mice lived in her hair, her mouth spat bees and moss grew on one side of her nose. Pretending indifference, Chuck struck a lighthearted conversation.
“Hey, Mother Nature! Long time no see. Having flies for lunch?”
“Better I eat them than they eat me.”
“And they’re a better source of protein than you are.”
“Hell has been good to you, too, I see. You look decades younger than when you entered.”
“Thanks. Say, how’s Dad?”
“Jesus, many people were involved in creating you. Damn, on the other hand, didn’t spend more than a minute raising you. He was too busy working for a circus down the street.”
“Do you think he’s still alive?”
“When you became president of the world he roared, ‘Ricky-Dicky is president! Ricky, Dickie, Ricky-Dicky-Dick!’ He died from laughing too hard.”
“Serves him right! Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you in this part of Hell?”
She guffawed. “I used to sleep with almost any man, and I gave God a fair chance, but every time I got his mast up and his sails full of wind, well, he’d start calling himself a damned hypocrite and worry that he’d have to condemn himself to Hell for not marrying me first. It was a pitiful circus of lust and guilt.”
“It was sort of fun. Well, I suppose you’ve stopped praying to him?”
“Of course. Now I only pray for him.”
“That’s very thoughtful. You’re probably the most thoughtful person I’ve ever known. Hey, I’ve been thinking about all those world wars. You lost them intentionally, didn’t you?”
“Good boy! I always knew I could trust you to do the right thing. Goodnight, and always know that if you love the Earth, the Earth will love you twice as much!”
She closed her eyes and moaned as if demons in the soil were tickling her thighs. Like a hideous blossom, her mouth opened one more time to speak: “Chuck, before you go, please give me a kiss like I taught you!”
“Don’t you dare! No! Not your own mother!”
Another Original Sin
After leaving his mother in her part of Hell, Chuck recognized the sound of his half-sister’s voice singing in pain. As he soon discovered, her vagina was on fire from a lifetime of sinning. Chuck foolishly took pity on her and blew and blew and blew the fire until he was blue in the face. Then he tried to snuff the flames out with his fingers, but that only increased the intensity of the flame.
The demon screamed, “Chuck, I’m burning up! I’m hot, hot, hot, hot and sizzling hot! I’m in Hell’s heat and now I’m on fire!—and it’s all your fault!”
Chuck stood uncomfortably, not knowing what to do.
“What happened to your luv?” the demon teased. “Didn’t it survive your meteoric career and your 10,000 wives? Can’t you do anything to put out my fire?”
He nearly escaped the devil’s clutches, but he was too slow. The serpent wrapped herself around him and whispered, teasingly, “Oh, Chuckie. Look at you! Being president of the world turned you into a little mouse. But don’t worry. A little genital heat will give you strength and youth.”
Her wickedness was overwhelming. Chuck’s resistance faltered. His legs weakened, buckled, and as he kneeled helplessly the whore continued, “So tell me, Chuckie, do you remember my first name?”
“You mean Mad-is-daughter.”
“How about medicine?” he asked, stupidly flattering her.
“That’s cute,” she laughed. “So tell me, what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I helped the Church, saved foreigners, cured the Jews, saved Africa, liberated the Arabs and, as the messiah I chased rabid dogs out of Amerika. I guess God expects too much. What about you? How did you disappoint him?”
“I think I committed just a fe-e-e-e-w too many sins,” was her shameless understatement. Then, grinning, she began listing her sins: “I pissed on God’s Constitution and I did not invest in a wedding, believe in the media or submit to doctors, public schools, middle age sexlessness, corporate servitude, and enslavement to banks and governments. I guess I was quite an economic terrorist.”
“And yet, you raised two kids?”
“Well, I had plenty of help from friends. They still live with me, but Zeus has quite a career planting bananas and Aphrodite profits from making pots of love. What about you? Why did you quit that popular reality show? What was it called … Chuck Saves the World!?” she asked, holding him tighter and stroking his grey hair.
“After I burned the script and told the director the plot was a bad joke wrapped in bullshit, I guess I just lost interest,” he lied.
“I think you deserve some kind of reward for that,” she said, squeezing his hand and pursuing an infinitely sinful idea. “Chuckie, how long has it been since you made love, real love?”
“Does making love to God count?” he asked, blushing.
“Not in my book. And all those wives, and you’re still a virgin. Chuck, let me complete you. Let’s make love!”
“Sweet sister! That’s incest!”
“But, isn’t incest a sin?”
The devil lied smiling, “A sin? No-o-o. Incest is only a sin if it isn’t preceded by consent or if it results in conception, so we have nothing to worry about. I haven’t ovulated for many years, and I think Mom taught you how to avoid conception. Do you remember?”
He couldn’t believe his ears. His conscience screamed that it was wrong to love his sister more than spiritually, actually, physically. But he was weak and the Devil was a powerful serpent wrapping itself around him. I told him to pray for help, but his wanton little serpent hardened and before he could defend himself the demon devoured his soul.
I tried not to listen as the horrible singing began!
Afterwards, I begged Chuck to follow me out of Hell, but he dumped Me like a bad disease and cruelly joked, “From now on, my name is ‘Fuck.’”
I wanted to tear off my ears, but no matter how hard I searched, I could not find them and that horrible word all its meanings refused to stop echoing in my head.
– THE UNAUTHORIZED CHAPTER –
The Parting Party
To be fair, everyone deserves as much attention as Chuck Bollocks received, so let’s not forget that while the world was going to Hell, President Walt “Angel” Disney was regularly meditated on a beautiful digital image of a beautiful golf ball in a bottomless abyss. Every day his shining face emanated waves of heavenly luv to this poor world. With a little more time, he could have led an exodus into Heaven, but one day, without appointment, the Angel of Death could wait no longer, ignored my commands, and stole into the Oval Theater disguised as a bush doctor. When confronted by curious security guards, he quickly ‘healed’ them. Then he entered the Offal Theater, checked the president’s pulse and congratulated him for being dead.
President Angel did not laugh. In fact, he busted a blood vessel screaming, “DREADFUL OMEN! BEGONE!”
Death chuckled gently, “Tsk, tsk, are you still not ready to go to Heaven? I hear it’s wonderful there. Excellent rates for angels.”
“God damn it, I’ll come when I’m damn ready!”
“Don’t you have any faith? You know, God told me that the longer you wait to kill yourself, the smaller your reward in Heaven. If your faith is so strong that you commit suicide in your twenties, you go straight to Heaven’s penthouse floor. If you wait until you’re so old that you need assistance killing yourself, you go to Heaven’s basement. Now you’re so old that God will soon have to create a sub-basement for you.”
“But why should I leave? I’m in fine health.”
“I see. Perhaps you haven’t noticed that on account of all your meditating, politicking, praying and texting, your body is already three-quarters into the grave.”
The President Angel swore through a mouthful of false teeth and a speaking device implanted in his neck.
“Moreover,” Death continued, “you’ve had two dozen surgeries, you live in a wheelchair and you have a pacemaker, a titanium hip, a catheter, cataracts and two dozen drug prescriptions for an assortment of ailments including cancer, heart disease, diabetes and imbecility. Shall I continue?”
“No. That will do, asshole.”
“Furthermore, you are overdue for a brain upgrade. Your microprocessor sucks.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“So, in light of all your ailments, do you think that maybe it’s time to stop burdening your doctors and die?”
“Okay, but could you just give me a little more time to turn Amerika into utopia?”
“Angel, I think we played this game before. You missed the boat. Creating utopia is now Chuck’s job. It’s time to say goodbye to the world and sacrifice your body to the worms and maggots, so that they may live and prosper.”
“You’re right. It’s time to die. My corpse will make a paradise for the worms and maggots.”
“That’s the spirit! So, are you ready to go?”
Angel jeered, “I tricked you again! Did I say I’d die today? Ha-ha-ha! Nope! And I won’t die until you let me celebrate one more birthday!!! Ha-ha-ha!” He stood up and danced a jig he would pay for later. As for Death, he didn’t mind being cheated. After all, he planned to blow out all the candles.
December 25th marked the start of the first and last Disneymas Day. It was a regal affair full of good cheer, heaps of presents and this abominable toast by Bitch Bollocks:
“Angel, congratulations on your spiritual leadership of our material nation. Thanks to you, everyone understands that the way to spiritual wealth is the way to material poverty. Thanks to you, people are boycotting the global-material economy and working for nothing but the spiritual essence that is luv! Thanks to you, corporations have stopped importing and exporting.”
“Why, thank you,” President Angel replied, smiling.
“You are God’s stuffed toy.”
The prez smiled without thinking, then realized what she’d said and corrected her, “You whore! I’m God’s immortal angel!”
“I understand. You believe your own lies. You think you’re immortal, but your most secret identity is mortal. When will you recognize it and start living in accordance with your mortal nature? How many times must Death whisper in your ears like this?” the hussy asked as she whispered something nasty in Angel’s ears.
The poor president nearly had an aneurism. He took his own pulse and his vigilant nurse whisked him away to his personal drama therapy room. A usual, he would watch a live performance of the spiritual-mythical play, The President Is the Sacred Equilateral Triangle Who Sees All and Saves His Faithful Taxpayers from Negative Numbers and Imaginary Enemies.
However, on this occasion, the curtains did not open. An hour passed. He feared the actors were on strike. He wept, and then, on cue, the curtains opened, revealing a scenery of live actors sitting on an unswept stage, eating plantains and pecans, drinking rainwater and farting. At last, the president rolled his wheelchair onto the stage and threw his old catheter at the insurgent and insubordinate actors.
One actor sang out in perfect soprano-alto, “Buddyyyyyy, this ain’t the Slapstick The-e-e-e-eater!”
“Swallow your beans and let’s get started!” the president retorted. “I didn’t pay to hear myself fart! Bring me the director! I want a word about the script!”
The director approached. “I’m very sorry, Mister President, but since you murdered reality and the economy, this script is pure propaganda. We quit!”
“I did not kill the economy! Chuck Bollocks did that! I only made the world green.”
“Green with gangrene.”
The president cried.
The director continued, “Plus, you’ve seen us perform this play every day, multiple times a day. Our bodies are exhausted and the stage is being devoured by termites and carpenter ants. But don’t worry, you don’t need this old stage. You could easily play a recording or hire some automatic actors or download the Hologram Theatre into your brain. We are tired of repeating our days.”
The president did not understand. He liked the status quo. He hyperventilated and might have died, right there; luckily he pacified his asthmatic soul by joining his nurse in singing this melancholic poem:
Oh, my sweet economy,
Fount of immortality,
They shouldn’t have killed you;
You know I still need you
More than a laceless shoe.
The actors hurriedly exited. President Angel noticed and took their departure personally. He even commanded General Blowemup Pentagon to blow his damn theater up.
General Blowemup apologized, “Sorry, Mister President, but we don’t have the budget for impromptu operations. Your explosive final act will have to wait until next year at the earliest.”
The fuming president angrily rolled himself and his wheelchair off the stage into a painful heap. The only spectator in the theater, Death, clapped from his balcony seat.
The Seven Gifts of Chuckmas
President Angel opened the White House doors to the public, kneeled on the doormat, and prayed that God would give him the best birthday ever. Charlie, his adopted great-grandson, overheard him and said, “Grandpa, you’re too old. Look at you! I think we should finally have that death-day party we’ve been planning.”
Angel rubbed the boy’s head and remarked, “You little collywobble, don’t you know that grandpa is immortal?”
“And gramps can fly!”
Angel nodded. He hadn’t flown anywhere in years, so I kind of felt sorry for him, especially since Angel had no friends to attend his birthday. It was truly pitiful. I mean, I sent invites to the world, got not confirmations, and finally had to hire a troupe of clowns. They arrived a day early, as a joke, and Angel greeted them via his computer monitors and apologized for that, saying he was deadly afraid of germs, so even his nurses and family had to wear burkas in his presence.
I guess the clowns were insulted, because they went on a rampage, led a domestic servant rebellion and bumfuzzled everyone with their (word?) balloons, wind pipes and crayons. Near midnight, security captured the rowdy party crashers and marched them into the Offal Office to face a very displeased President Angel.
“Where are my presents?” he yelled, obviously irate. “You freeloaders and moochers! This is my last party! I opened my doors to you and you abused my hospitality! What do you have to say for yourselves?”
A witch disguised as a farmer pulled into the banquet hall a magical creature deceptively named Krishna the Dairy Cow. “Happy Birthday, all mighty leader! Krishna is my gift to you on this, your 10,000th birthday!”
President Angel was flattered, but when he smelled and saw Betsy he immediately had an asthma attack, grew breasts and had a minor heart attack. Fortunately, his doctor fixed all his problems with a knife.
Next came a second witch disguised as a farmer. She pulled a magical creature named the Trojan Pig into the room and announced, “Happy Birthday, all mighty leader! Trojan the Pig is my gift to you on this grand day!
President Angel was happy, for he loved bacon, but when the pig oinked and looked into his eyes he nearly died of guilt and some evil viruses from Hell. Fortunately, his doctor fixed all his problems with a hammer.
Next came a third witch dressed as a merchant of alcohol. She pulled a magic bottle out of her basket and said, “Happy Birthday, buddy! Here’s a bottle of wine from the best Spanish vineyards. Cheers!”
President Angel popped the cork and smelled something so otherworldly that his kidneys stopped working, his liver rotted and yet he felt so confident that he was convinced he could live without any internal organs. Death thought he would soon have his man, but Angel’s doctor fixed all his problems with a quick organ transplant.
Next came a witch disguised as a Jewish grocer. She carried a basket full of magic candies, coffee, cake, cookies, ice cream and sugar. She gave them all to the president and said, “Happy Birthday, Mr Angel. I’ve brought you the best sweets on Earth!”
The president shook with excitement, but as he unwrapped the first candy his teeth fell out, his new liver died and a leg fell off because it was struck with diabetes. Fortunately his doctor was gave him a lovely prosthetic leg, but he had to live without a liver.
Next came a witch dressed like a priest and carrying a magical loaf of bread, and although the president was growing suspicious, he never questioned a priest, so he accepted the priest’s assurances that this bread would take him straight to Heaven. However, when touched that bread his hair fell out, a lump of cancer appeared in his colon and he suffered an awful bout of arthritis and dementia. Fortunately, his doctor sprayed him with some magical chemicals and all his worries disappeared.
Next came a witch dressed as a doctor with a medicine chest on her back. The president said, “I’m sorry, I don’t need you here. I already have a doctor!”
“Is that so?” asked the witch. “That proves you are brain dead, for just look at yourself and smell yourself!”
“Am I that close to death?”
“You are, and the only solution is for you to take these pills, for they are the pills of eternal life.”
Now the president was a little suspicious, but what choice did he have? He accepted those pills, swallowed two hundred, and lost his mind so badly that he could no longer do division or even addition. And yet, technically he was still alive.
“How do you like your birthday so far?” asked the guest of honor, Death.
“Ready to go to Heaven, yet?”
“What, no more presents?” The president pouted. “This is the worst birthday ever!”
That’s when a great roar filled the building and shook the walls and roof before something banged through the banquet hall’s walls.
“What the Hell is that?” screamed the president. As the dust settled, an armored tank emerged like a vision. Its rumbling internal-combustion engine blew poison into their lungs while a gigantic gun was aimed at you-know-who.
“Do you like it?” Death asked.
“It’s what every boy begs for Christmas!”
“True! And this one was specially outfitted with a therapeutic radiation emitting cannon. This tank has the special power to send anyone to a world without pain! Are you ready to say goodbye to Amerika?”
“Oh, I think you are, Mister President! I think you are!”
“Please, I don’t want to go to Heaven!”
“Stop blubbering! You’re embarrassing yourself. People are watching,” Death advised.
“I don’t care! I want to live a little longer!”
“God won’t be happy if you continually postpone.”
President Angel thought that was a joke and laughed.
Millions of Amerikans wanted change and told Angel to dissolve the union, terminate the government, and bite the dust. Angel was offended, quit his job and posted this angry note on the White House website: “Fine! I’ll stop protecting you from evil! I hope a million crazy bitches govern your asses instead!”
After this epic rant, he asked Chuck Bollocks to take him to Los Angeles. Ordinarily, this would have meant a quick short flight across the continent, but with economy on its deathbed, they rode two flatulent ponies over the abandoned transnational freeway. Oh, it was a terribly windy journey into the sunset, like a poor knight and squire trotting towards the final battlefield.
By mid-afternoon, their ponies ran out of gas. They laughed their heads off and continued on foot for a few minutes before Angel ordered his usual dinner from Amerika’s favorite restaurant, McDonalds. Unfortunately, the menu was now strictly vegan, or eggan.
“People are too damn cruel!” Angel bitterly complained.
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re conspiring to starve me to death!”
Chuck grinned, pulled a maggot out of his friend’s ear and fed it to him. Angel called it a miracle and asked, “Am I in Heaven yet?”
Chuck laughed, “We’re still in Amerika. This Troytown.”
Angel scratched his head. “That can’t be right. This can’t be Troytown! Troytown was my masterpiece!”
“Sure. You and your friends treated water, trees, women, minerals and organs as if they were all rocks or musical notes. You made such a mess of Nature that it looks like my William S. Burroughs novel after I shredded it and glued it back together in my sleep.”
“You shredded a Burroughs novel? You illiterate, uneducated primitive! I would have read it forwards and backwards and even made some minor improvements to it before selling it as an original for profit.”
“I’m not surprised. As our president, all you did was read and write fiction and give the nation puppet shows. Not once did you do your job. But there’s one job you can’t shirk.”
“We’ll see about that. I’ll hire Joe Cando to die for me.”
Chuck feigned astonishment: “Hey, that’s a brilliant idea, Angel. If the price is right, even I would die for you. And so many people think they’re good and destined for Heaven, you might even find people willing to volunteer to die for you.”
“Precisely! I mean, Buddha died for a hungry tigress and didn’t George ‘Jesus Christ’ Washington live and die for all Amerikans? Hey, maybe I can make a profit selling tickets. I’ll hire the best producer, art director and –”
“Forget it! Amerikans are tired of seeing other people die and go to Heaven. They’re tired of being jealous.”
“Well, then fuck you, Amerika! I was gonna give you the best show on Earth, but you can forget it. Hey, Chuckie, where’s my dinner?”
“You already asked. Got Parkinson’s or something?”
“I got a really bad sugar craving, damn it! I want to eat Sundays in Heaven! Give me my Sunday or I’ll kill myself!” Angel screamed like the worst brat in town. It was quite an act. Then he rolled his wheelchair to the edge of the curb, fell flailing out of his chair and lay groaning on the road. No car came to put him out of his misery. Not even a pony. But he’d broken both his fairy wings and asked to be sent to Heaven.
“My pleasure,” said Chuck before he sat on Angel’s face to suffocate him. Angel got an erection for the first time in his life. It was terrifying, but Chuck held on tight until the thing flopped and deflated.
Well, if you think God should have saved his old puppet, please remember that angels are cheap. God can create a billion of them with a single ejaculation. Besides, Chuck was waiting for his turn at being president of Amerika.
Meanwhile, I didn’t want Angel eaten by the dogs after a life-time of service, so I sucked his body straight up into Heaven and with a kick to his head I revived him from the dead. The other angels weren’t pleased to see him and used his presence as an excuse to leave their responsibilities and join the lazy devils below. I kind of understood. Angel had committed more sins than were absolutely necessary, and he was the undisputed and supreme asshole on Earth, but he always did bad shit for the best of all reasons: he just wanted my attention.
Anyway, that should have been the end, but then came the biggest surprise. Just when I thought I had a friend with whom to share my life, Angel got bored, ignored my warnings and looked down at the Earth. There he imagined patterns called “botanglyphs,” and when he listened he imagined patterns in all the cacophony below, and soon he told Me I was boring! He even smashed his iGod and whined, “There’s nothing to do! I feel like a turd drifting in the ether of time!”
“Bud I luff youuuu so mach! My dear, wontja stay a day or two, or tree, or tree-hundred and dirty-tree?”
He laughed so hard he fell from Heaven’s golden hammock, hurtled through Earth’s atmosphere and crashed onto the Earth. I felt so abandoned that I snatched Chuck from the flames of Hell and made him my personal president in Heaven. You’d think he might have been thankful, but I’ve never heard so much cursing in my life. He hated Heaven, and before his first sunset in Heaven, he escaped and rejoined the devils’ party and prayed for Me to join them.
“Never! Navar! Nuvur and neber eber!” I screamed almost incoherently.
They laughed so hard that I actually felt flattered.
“Pops,” Chuck Bollocks shouted, “you’ve got talent! Come down here and learn to live in this carnal-mental Heaven you call Hell. I swear, you won’t regret it,” he said in his coaxing, evil, feminine voice. “Come out of the cold and join us in the tropics!”
“Heaben might be bade of bice, hut bit’s by home.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. Give Hell a chance. We’d love to have you. We think you’re quite funny, and here you’ll learn to relax and laugh at yourself. Come, you won’t regret it,” Chuck goaded.
He spoke so convincingly, that when I saw all the fun they were having below, I couldn’t stay in Heaven all alone, shivering in space, eating antimatter and watching the stars and planets spinning forever. So, what else could I do? I had to try something new. So, I gave it a shot and went to Hell.
It was wonderful, that much I’ll admit. But I guess I waited too long. Soon after my arrival, Satan died and Planetary Cooling froze my balls off, so as far as I was concerned, that was the end of the world.
If my story confused, depressed, upset, insulted or in any way disappointed you, please accept my recommendation of the Devil’s uplifting books. Presently, you can find and purchase them online. You can also have digital copies mailed to you in return for a little love sent via email bank transfer (presently possible only in Canada through email@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.org). Anyone who can’t afford to pay can simply ask and receive.
For updates on book availability, perhaps check out the Devil’s blog at deweydink.wordpress.com. If demand exists, this or another blog or website might offer the Devil’s fans the chance to purchase via Paypal.
Below is a list of the Devil’s seven titles. The first four are available, the others are pending.
- Beyond Civilization: A History of Insanity and Visions of Paradise
- The Last Revolution: How Religions Keep Us Ignorant of the Way to Paradise
- The Criminal Bible: The Old Testament (Published on Amazon as A History of Imperial Bullshit)
- The Criminal Bible: The New Testament
- Fake Literature: The Greek Classics Are Forgeries
- Fake Literature: The Roman and the Medieval Western European Classics Are Forgeries
- Dangerous Stories: How Books and the Media Keep Us Ignorant of the Way to Paradise
 Parents were very creative in those days.
 This phone number connects to the CIA. Please do not call and ask for an interview, not unless you really want one.
11 My apologies. “Blahblahblah” is a sloppy quotation by any standard, but the editors did not want to further embarrass their hero.
 Another example of premature soul ejection, a phenomenon that has absolutely nothing in common with premature ejaculation. Fortunately, the lost soul was located and returned to its owner.
 Luv, the global currency of choice.
 Formerly known as “Christmas.”
 Known as “New York” before Osama persuaded Europe and Amerika to try Islam. What did New Eden look like? Use your imagination. Seriously. Try it. Imagine rustic boughs of flowers, clouds dripping coconuts and breadfruit, and kids cavorting with rabbits. Isn’t that nice? Well, that’s not it.
 Heliocopters provided Amerikans with the cleanest and most affordable means of transportation. Heliocopters harnessed the forces of evaporation and condensation to move objects up and down.
 This refers to all carnivores except the one Walt Disney loved.
 Government Operations and Doodies