God is Good

by BaHR
30 March 2015 0301

Sometimes I sit alone
And I wonder why
My God let my Baby die….
But I know…
God is good….

I wipe away a tear
And I want to swear
And I wonder if God
Would even care….
And then I know…
God is good….

God is good
But I still cry
And lay awake at night
And wonder, “Why?”
But I don’t doubt…
God is good….

I know God’s good
And I still want to scream.
I wish I could wake up
From this hellish dream….
Still I know…
God is good….

God is good
And in my pain
I hold my head
And I call out his name….
And I feel…
God is good….

God is good
Even when I can’t see
Or hear or feel him
Here with me
Still I know…
God is good….

Yes, I know God is here with me,
And he feels my pain…
And gives me hope… someday…
I may feel whole again…
But until then…
God is still good….

Creative Muses… and a Failed Composition….

Today was pretty much a failure. At least in some ways.

I worked on a lyric….

Started out with kinda Country vibe. But I guess… in the end… feels like more of a Country… Hip-Hop… Cross-over….

The lyrics evolved. Not what I originally was thinking AT ALL….

Originally I was thinking about the difference between the pain of heartbreak and the agony of loneliness. Which do you choose? The pain of heartbreak is much more acute…. More intense…. But… diminishes with time… and separation…. And the agony of loneliness… slowly seems to build…. But… I guess those ideas were just a little too subtle for me to explore today….

Guess there’s always tomorrow….
And the next day….
And the day after….

Sometimes… Love is Like That….

by BaHR
29 March 1134-1517-1627
(As yet unfinished… of course!)

Remember way back when…
there was just one Wedding Cake…?
When the vows that we swore
Somehow seemed something more
Than just some promise one of us
Seemed to know all along she would ignore
(-cough!-) and… break…?
I guess that’s what I miss…
most…
Being lost in that dream…. Better off….
Not knowing about your clever schemes….
Better off not knowing
that love’s almost never forever….
Now that our love is severed…
Seems I’m somehow lost in that past forever….
Forever….

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

Honey, I think I know that thing that you feel…
And truth be told… I felt the same thing, too….
The real deal…?
Sometimes….
Down deep in my soul….
Sometimes… it hurts…
To think that I’ve been such a fool….
I feel like such a fool….
To KNOW I’m fool…
To feel… this… pain… still….
I know it ain’t cool….
I AM such a fool…
And I’m so confused….
My thoughts are so complex….
Life should be simple…
And… I should be simply…

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

It’s not that I really mind your leaving…
It’s just that I find that my soul is still grieving…
The loss of love that I thought
Must be God-sent… because it felt so… divine!
Now… I’m crying….
Because your love wasn’t all that I lost that day…
And now I guess that must be my cross, as they say….
Seems I can never go on and just get on with my life…
If I can’t somehow start…

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

Because I just can’t seem to get you off of my mind.
I’m crying inside… and I feel like I’m dying…
And these bitter tears are taking their sweet time…
Washing your stain… out of my heart and mind…
Cause I’m holding on to your memory… holding on to the pain…
Hoping you won’t forget me… wishing I was to blame…
When I really should be…

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

I’m not an idiot… though I may a fool.
And despite all my schooling, I feel I’ve been used like a tool….
I know your friends and your lovers keep telling you:
“Just make up your mind…
and just move on….
Don’t waste your time
because it just feels wrong…
Every night that you waste in bed with him
Is just one less night
You could be out searching for Mr. Just-Feels-Right
Instead of sleeping next to some fool who holds on too tight!”
So when you’re lying in your king-sized bed… alone….
I hope I’m stuck in your head and you’re singing this song…

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

I remember the vows that we both swore that day
But when you swear at me now… I still feel the same way….
Now I’m regretting words I may have said….
Regretting forgetting to say “I love you” instead….
Reliving those time when you broke my heart….
Your tongue was so sharp while you were screaming your hate.
Your refusing to forgive me finally drove me way….
Now I’m foolishly thinking maybe I should have begged you to stay…
Instead of telling you goodbye when you walked out that door…
And left me feeling a fool when you did….
The way you did….
But… Baby… you did….
And… you left me… foolishly…

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

Baby… I would sure love to wish you well…
But… truthfully…? I hope your life’s a living Hell…
And while I know and accept that it’s your right…
To ME… it still feels wrong… that you broke my heart….
To me… it still stings….
It still cuts like a knife….
Right through me….
And I still feel I lost a big part of my life….
And this house will never feel like a home….
Because you left me….
Alone….
And… you left me singing this song….

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….
Yeah… sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….

Yep! Sometimes that’s what love’s like…
At least so I’ve been told….
Sometimes love seems to be spite…
And some folks seem to think love is all about control….
“If you really loved me right…
Then you’d give me your soul….”
Seems every rose has its thorn
And every horny thorn its rose
That seems to shameless prick you
When you’re in its most passionate throes….
But… if that sounds at all foolish
I’m just feeling like a fool in love….

Forgiving….
Forgetting….
Reliving….
Regretting….
Sometimes….
Love is….
Like that….
Yeah… sometimes…
Seems love is…
Just… like that….
And sometimes…
Love is…
JUST like that!

SPEAK… Alien! By ∠B(sin0)y=∇ X∍∑ √-1235UΠT4∀$ς! (pronounced Voydth Zyes Yupitasz)

#
(tick…)
(…)
(tick-tick…)
(tick-tick-TICK!!!…)
(…)
(tick…)
(…)
(…)
(TICK!…)
#
The Geiger counter clicked… (tick-tick-tick…)
(tick…) intermittently… (tick…)
(…) indifferently….
That’s what Geiger counters do… (tick…)
(TICK!…) Geiger counters… CLICK!!! (TICK!!!…)
#
The Astronaut… (tick…)
(…) the Officer of the Watch…
(TICK!!!…) checked his monitors.
Nothing was amiss. (tick-TICK!!!…)
(…) No klaxons clacked. (tick…)
No sirens wailed.
Calling sailors to their graves.
Silently they swam into those kelpie caves.
Still… in the vane vacuum of dead space… dead men tell no tales. Ships vanish without a trace.
(tick…) He perused his Control Panel…. (tick…)
(…) No red lights flashed….
No cause for alarm. No alarms at all.
No warning what-so-ever…. (TICK!!!…)
#
The Rating checked the ships chronometer… (tick-tick)
before sounding “All’s Well!” (tick)
(…) Ding-ding… ding-ding… (tick)
(tick) ding-ding… ding-ding….
“The end of the Middle Watch!” (TICK!!!)
chimed the Eight Bells.
#
And then… all HELL broke loose….
(Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-TICK!!!)
Like Satan escaping his fetters….
The ripping steel….
The hiss….
The feel of utter… stark… freedom….

Like monks before Matins rising to pray,
Cosmic sailors rise to their work days at odd hours.
Time…
And Space…
Are relative…
In a relativistic Universe….
Gravity is defined
by how fast man falls…
never mind what forces are in play.

Sunrise is relative in the dark vacuum of Space.
On Planets. And on Moons. Other satellites. And ships….

Besides…
today should certainly be different…
some thought through blank stares…
enjoying the solemn quietude
of some supposedly silent Sunday.
Avast!
Are we adrift…
in the vastness of Space…
sailing towards the soulless stars…?
Me hardy boys sift through immeasurable mysteries….
Unspoken screams
And shattered dreams
Soon assailed their startled minds
that day.
That night.
That span of time.
Reality is rarely… never… what it seems….
Ignorance is not only bliss, but also… sublime….
Though no one uttered a prayer…
soon enough…
some would be prey.
As man trods along his ill-defined path towards god
Seeking glory better left unclaimed
Inevitably some simple clod
Must find the means to save himself.
The captain quaffed. The first mate laughed. The glass was drained. A fine wine. No more time stained.

Natural background radiation known. Heats planetary core.
Cosmic radiation generally predictable. Spikes due to plasma and ionized particles during Solar Storms. Deep space background more powerful… and less predictable. Protected by Jupiter’s ionosphere… largest in Solar System.

Sere.
Syncopated rhythm determined the crew’s fate. Cruise.
Randomness. Utter VOID!!!
Ancient mariner’s rhyme.
Vacuum silent.
Sent by some greedy government to meet their maker and bring back proof. Sooth. Goof.
Value-added benefit of business.
Ripping metal sings a swan’s song supreme to some fat goddess. A fatalistic tune….
And then… the hull is sundered….

Absolute silence inevitably ensued….

The Invisible Beast of 90377 Sedna. by 1.

#
#
Behind each sepia face-shield…
stalks…
the Rabid Beast!
Unseen….
Occult….
Insatiable….
(A cuttlefish camouflaged in sepia ink….)
This monster feasts on fragile hopes
(and dreams)
of far off homes
(and FEARS!!! of dissipation….)
that seem light years away….
Light years away….
Riding the Cycle of Time….
As if in some thought…
some unseen dream…
of some far off future yesterday….
Some winsome lass cavorts
in some fertile field
once green,
now sere…
scorched drab, dull grey…
by nuclear processes
unclear megatons….
Perhaps… the Sun…?
Unknown forces stumble on unceasingly boldly…
like random numbers on tumbling dice….
Make way! Make way! We mustn’t delay….
No doubt. No destination. Hurry! Hurray!
RUN!!!
#
No prayer from mystic tonsured priest…
no incense burned in Holy Censure…
no Holy Water sprinkled…
no Sacred Bull’s Blood splattered…
no alchemy…
no mage’s alembic…
no retort has power to distil a drought…
an elixir of life strong enough to reverse…
this dread dispensation….
No mortar and pestle could combine powders
nor Physic compound a pill
potent enough to heal
much less cure
or even defend against
this ill thus ill defined…
this curse once silent… spoken…
this sentence once pronounced….
This death broken free
from bondage…
Like bones laughingly crushed
from gay chains threshed….
I fear our Fate…
our storm-tossed lives will soon end…
as we began…
inert….
(No Mystical, Magical or Mortal thing mattered.
The Physician’s and Priest’s vocations
seem impotent to thwart this…
Hate….
This intensely malevolent State of Being….
The Scholar… the Scribe… the Star-crossed Seer
seemed equally at a loss.)
I think I see some fearsome beak
hidden behind a lawyers lying lips
as he speaks beautiful words
that obfuscate the facts…
the truth….
The grip of death awaits….
The fate of man swims
boldly forth
into the waiting cold eyed stare…
unaware of lurking Death…
unwary of his snare….
He does not deign to share his ken,
preferring pain that is not his own
to any discomfort upon his throne.
#
Fear consumes
Chivalrous intent.
Hate devours
Justice.
Mercy… DEAD!!!
Killed in Justice’s blind rage…
at ghosts….
At insult…
stolen like a glance…
(unsuspected…)
from the others….
(Injustice wears a mask
and the Badge of Justice…
then SCREAMS:
“Disturb the balance….
Weigh the feather…!
For just us….
Not them…
not this time….
Meanwhile… a clown cries… laughing… to himself….
Soot-stained the suit of the Old Loon as he stood
to speak sooth before the Assembled Miners:
“Kill them ALL I say!
Kill them now! Without delay!
Don’t allow the scum to speak soothing words.
Offer some atoning bonus…
that will ne’er be paid…
and we all know it….
DO NOT BE ASSUAGED!!!”
The dirty Old Loon,
realizing he’d captured the room,
preached on in sagely sonorous tones….
“They’re no better and no worse than us,” he screamed.
“Just a better class of criminal!”
He said with disgust:
“They’ve stolen our lives…
stolen our dreams…
enslaved our minds…
long enough it seems…
at least to me….”
The decrepit Miner further pronounced in his huff:
“Let our crime on this rock profit us for a change!
Discrimination is good….
Just….
Enough…
for now…
when my I sees my profit.”
(Recriminations make scandalous perfidy
even more perfect it seems…
I must confess…!)
“We must redress
the pain that hovers
deep in memory
(and just beneath my skin)
… at unintended hurt….
They must make amends for those long dead
who first committed such sins!”
Thus begins the path to the sublime… some said….
Others shouted….
(Passions thus inflamed often o’erwhelm saner heads…
and ALL compassion….)
“Besides…
he who calls the tune…
shames the criminals…
and names their crimes…!”
he said (his face obscured
because his sepia face-shield was distorted by steam).
#
Vengeance…
minute (yet intolerable) disrespect…
one mere mote in one man’s eye…
a speck disputed
beckons a bullet in his brother’s….
#
What sets the tone…?
Picking a bone…?
Tone of voice….
Tone of skin….
(Where do I begin to describe this sin…?
Omission…?
Commission…?
Lack of submission…?
Just plane aggravation…?
A drain on good judgment…?
Who can say, truly…?
Who can say…?
And… from whence comes our Salvation…?)
#
Suddenly…
surely…
even obscurely…
with no REAL provocation…
for some unclear irrational unreason
dogs of war are unleashed…
set upon the scent until spent…
upon the seemingly innocent…
in steamy jungles and scorching sands…
in far off lands across the globe…
Death from above stalks unseen…
untold horror released…
freely…
greedily stealing lives… and dreams…
until the debt is paid…
our insatiable thirst for lucre… slaked….
Then… ALL reload… HATE….
And in Death’s wake…
wave shake fetid sulfur lakes
while untolled bells at untold wakes…
unspoken Masses…
unofficiated funerals…
and unsung memorials for unsung heroes…
souls sold like coal
or coke to the highest bidder….
Awake from sleeping!
AWAKE NOW!!!
For Death comes.
The fog of sleep obscures the light.
Still…
Death comes to all on ravishing wings:
Complete victory…!
Where…?
In this scrum…?
His sting strikes swift and sure….
Man was created in light…
yet abides (better… thrives) in darkness….
In haste… man pursues:
Dark matter….
Dark energy….
Dark GLORY!!!
All ours….
Our DREAM now stolen, still we stumble on
following…
our beautiful Queen…
our bountiful King…
our amoral leaders…
our lasting lust…
our ultimate quest…
our fatal reward…
our final bequest…
DEATH!!!
Quintessential TRUTH!!!
WORD!!!
Death comes to all
such….
(Ha! I almost said “men”!
Still…
Death
does
come
to all…
a death from within….)
#
Our Priest sagely speaks
(rather questions obscurely):
“How did man embrace this Fate…?
Fear….
And hate….
And vengeance….
… RAGE!!!
Worthy all,
surely!
But what about Pride…?
Duly, must I ask…
is Pride not at all part of the cause?
Of the Fall…?”
The corpulent curate
sat in repose
and sweated profusely
as he pondered his toes…
(years hence unseen I propose)….
His queer query…
innocent
enough,
I suppose…
(if officious…).
#
A sonorous, yet still “Rhetorical” question?
At least he seemed to think so,
I mean.
I offered an answer (unbidden of course). A boon. A favor.
The prelate’s response?
He nearly choked on a wafer.
“Pride impeaches ALL love,” said I.
Leaving nothing to chance,
in explanation… I quickly riposted:
“Truly, Pride is a powerful drug!
Pride
in a job done well
outbids
friends…
family…
all such affections….
Except fame and fortune….
(Snakishly sibilantly I say…)
Few further exceptions exist-s-s-s
in a world of mere existences….”
Murmuring softly to himself, “Oh, bother…!”
the corpulent cardinal slinked away to his father…
as the genuflecting Bishoprick insists….
#
#
Light!
Pure LIGHT!!!
Light from the Sun cannot reach this enclave.
This cave.
This Trans-Neptune Object….
This penitential planetesimal….
This dank damp fetid mining camp
beyond the frayed
far edge of sanity….
(like holy pants that barely hide our shame)
Far beyond the Kuiper Belt….
(that slips below our knees…
and trips us…
as we run…
SCREAMING!!!
A brooding NIGHTMARE that never seems to end…
once beginning….)
#
Patter, patter, patter, patter….
The sounds of the footpads of rats in their cages
running around wheels of our own making sounds
that resound in their heads…
disturbing… absurd…
like scurrying pause….
While Outside… TRUTH rages… largely unheard….
The patter and natter of rats on the run….
Words without meaning run through our heads….
Da-DUM!!! Da-DUM!!! Un-DONE!!! Un-DONE!!!
The clanking of hammers
and coins of gold….
Can we never break the mold…?
I wonder what the future holds for mere mortal man…?
Can we be cajoled into labors
(… again…?)
for dubious profit…?
My soul…. My soul…. My SOUL!!! Sold.
Or…
finally fed up
will we repent…?
Will we allow ourselves to quit running round…
like two-legged rats
told run faster or die!
poked and prodded by fat cats
in Control Rooms…
controlling our lives….
Can we stop NOW…?
At least sometime soon…?
Before we drop…?
DEAD…?
And we’re shoved into our tombs…?
#
Again we meet a friend…
A tattered dressing gown transfixing…
(time…
a watch… a clock… a broken piece
of Einstein’s shattered mind-games…
a train of thought off the tracks…
never trained to tempera(l) paint
within the ceaseless lines…
no more…
exist no more…
exist no less…
endure the madness…
the statistical fecundity…
promiscuous profundity…
irrational probability…
that spun us all…
from ceaseless silver cords…
uncut…
yet unraveling…
those threads…
untouched by human hands…
our fates…
woven into the frail fabric of Space-Time….)
tranforms…
transmutes…
transmorphs into a Mage’s robe:
A true metamorphosis indeed!
Behold! The Prophet speaks
in clandestine parables
pronounced in calloused tones
as thick as the skin on his knees:
“Seek ye first the Kingdom of Mammon!
(A seed of TRUTH thus planted!)
With the treasure you dig there
Invest in yourself: THINK!!!
Buy your freedom!
90482 Orcus…?
A mining shaft of light
she was to me then…
a consort…
a wife…
compared to this slave pen, at least,
where mortal men ourselves enslave…
to.
this.
BEAST!!!”
(I hear later the Mage recanted
and agreed to wear a leash!)
#
#
In the Öpik-Oort Cloud
(a dim district indeed)
sits a dim red light
–90377 Sedna–
so far from civilized society…
that savage men sip synthetic wine…
(through fangs)
in feigned civility….
(Productive mining requires the right tools…
and a few left wing-nuts….)
Women–exquisite creatures… exquisitely rare–
(even Silicone Sisters are rarely found there…
so I surmise other circuits must provide less static…
or a picture… an End Game… more clear…)
yield…
opinions…
coveted…
if not necessarily concise,
but any true lady’s interpretations certainly would be…
fair…
and her assessments…
true:
“Everything is false here…
everyone is fake…
so…
don’t believe much of what you read or hear…
don’t make too much of gossip on-line…
or social media posts…
don’t partake of the heavenly hosts
from church bake sales
and such….”
She knits her brow
and her veil from the same spool of yarns,
while addressing the pool boy/play toy…
with a wicked smile….
Such a savage slut!
She pretends to drink deeply from both sides
of the cup of sorrow.
Tomorrow she expects to return–
doublecrossing the Bridge of Sighs–
(the unfathomable void…
isn’t that queer…?)
In Confession the Vixen turns aside
to consult a peer….
(Behind a gun-metal grey glove the grey lady confides:
I mean…
it’s all fine, but…
if you fuck up…
you could wind up looking the fool….)
#
#
The Bull-Priest of Mithras reciting the Mysteries
Turned on his heals and solemnly squealed:
“Hark!”
Then giddily spat while dribbling spit,
“She is lost! Her shot missed the mark!”
Prancing the pulpit like some goat headed god,
reading his sermon notes,
his head started to nod
(rhythmically).
The dancing primate first paused,
pursed his lips,
then spat out a curse–
he was heard to remark:
“The Debauched Whore is finally revealed!”
The prancing priest genuflected
then worked on a visiting Bishoprick
from that position.
butt blowing his chance best he conceited,
he swallowed. The pro arose
exposing his ridiculously calloused knees.
#
#
“I thus conclude… from such foul acts…
wanton attacks on an important visitors character…
that the Sun lacks power to penetrate this dark abyss…
this Stygian Skull….
And thus… cannot these shadows slay…
deep-set dark desires….
We are all cinereal shades…
our souls consumed by dark fire….
What power can save our incinerated ashes…?”
#
Returning to his lonely Womb,
the Bard recants a different tune:
The GLOOM!!!
The GLOOM!!!
Back and forth.
And back and forth.
And back and forth I walk.
This dismal room…
this bed and bath
and nothing more
surrounds me like a sepulcher.
Who dares release me from this tomb…?
This unspeakable FATE…?
This pit of flesh in which I dwell…?
This meat-jacket…?
This unspeakable HELL….
TOO LATE!!! TOO LATE!!!
I fear… too late….
I am too late….
And… I fear….
Too late…
I fear…
my dreams….
The Wanton Whore of Desolation…
dispensing ineffable damnation….”
Comprehending the horror…
finally awake…
he screamed….
And knocked at the door…
but…
at what door must he seek salvation…?
#
#
The Priest conspired.
He no longer prayed
for souls departed…
unless some further funds were started in some subtle way
(to be discussed without remorse).
Of course, disgust is a better way to describe
such wanton acts…
their diatribe
directed at remuneration–
their own financial salvation…
their main preoccupation….
#
(The cost of burying corpses–like Easter–is risen!
If he were merely a skeleton,
any castle closet would be
much more than sufficient
for any mortal king to visit!)
#
The only sin that these pushy parsons apparently know…
would be to reaping only what they themselves sow….
They pray… then they turn…
then they prey… again….
They eat and drink and seek their swell pay….
They seem to send bills and
parishioners to Hell equally well….
#
And the doctors in charge are shameful at best:
performing procedures they don’t understand
at the behest of their pocketbooks.
And academics.
All crooks.
And fools.
But they run the schools
that train the best!
(Or so they attest….)
I cannot suffer fools…
especially fools who make suffer good men!
Not simply fools…
feckless foolish TOOLS!!!
Lying FUGU!!!
Poisonous puffers
who flog the infirmed.
“We’re wasting daylight!”
they cry to the ill
and the dying.
Instead of weal, they do working men harm.
Across the gates of Hell they fly in their haste.
They’re simple children.
Nothing more than a game to them.
And in their financial ledgers…
Prayers and false procedures both look the $ame to them….
They rend payment from men broken on wracks…
backs broken on jackhammers in dark, deep mines,
giving no slack on payment
and no quarter.
Screaming in pain
and writhing in agony
both pay the same fines!
(The $ame story again!)
$hame on them!
$hame I say!
$hame, $hame, $hame,
$HAME!!!
But of that they seem destitute.
(A bankruptcy they can’t comprehend.)
#
The Grim Reaper holds no fear for such businessmen,
(should he deign to descend to their world–
less comfortable than his own by far!)
but “The Father of Lies” pays tribute
to such hypocritical men….
Of course, he knows them well…
sees them for who (and what) the sots are…
not just his children,
indescribable DROSS!!!
Still…
God knows
them NOT!!!
(And THAT is no palpable loss….)
#
What’s that…?
A flute…?
The sad sound from the bamboo vibrates
on the very edge of infinity….
Gesticulating wildly…
the Old Loon cavorts in his finest regalia…
a lonely mating dance with himself…
conducted with furious Saturnalian fury….
Hark! Behold! The plaintive wail….
Behold! The bold and brave Old Loon…!
“Greed….
Greed….
GREED!!!”
Agreed.
#
#
What’s that supposed t’be…?
Some kinda joke…?
Then I awoke. Saw things for what they are….
Today….
Not in some far off future fuckin’ yesterday….
I saw the real deal…. Heard Orwell’s pigs squeal:
WAKE UP!!! SHIT!!! IT’S 1984!!!
Are we too late?
#
#
Red. Intense. Fiery. HATRED!!!
In clever disguise, of course!
Benign. Malign. (It blows my mind to think….
I know most don’t… or won’t….
Refusing to study the clues…
Men lose perspective…
Direction….
The resulting elections are ludicrous
due to lack of…
Connection… with reality…
enjoying the Con Job…
Like it was a blowjob…
The business… the jizzness… it’s all taste the same….
Just part of the crime… the pain… the shame….
Just part of the game. Of life…. Just WIN, Baby!!!)
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I shiver when I dare look back…
Cold… calculating stairs…
descending depths… consider…
this intensely malevolent State of Being…
into which we’re constantly…
consistently… descending….
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I don’t mean to be crude, but the stunning lack of verisimilitude and integrity leave me with serious concerns about the path we’re on now. The attitude. Lack of gratitude. Lack of concern for others. Greed trumps true need. We’re sowing the seeds of discontent for political expediency. Dancing to the toons… but pushing the piper’s payment into the distant future… when we hope someone else will foot our bill….
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When things fall apart, at least we got all we could grab with both hands…. Ain’t life grand, my child…?
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And so… the cycle begins again…. The savage Beast smiled….

(2000.30.5.2013-2030.29.10.2013
the Borderlands, Lexington, Massachusetts and the Hinterlands, Leominster, Massachusetts… on the Eve of Destruction….)

The History and the Mystery of Butterball: The Man, the Myth, the Legend in his own Mind… if Nowhere Real…. by BaHR

about 5,000 words

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Now… I have tried to answer… to anticipate… all of the questions that any of my critics might have. A priori! But I know that if any of you just happen to be Venusian Bearded Clams… especially if you were born into the Purple… Venusian Royalty. And… I imagine that just about any other species of Mollusk of the Class Hyperreligiositae… you will no doubt find some way to criticize my choices. And… I suspect your first question might be just why someone who claims to be a Conservative Christian would be hanging around… associating with that kind of crowd. Singers. Dancers. Strippers. Prostitutes. Fry cooks. Nuclear astrophysicists. Scientist of any ilk. Sex Industry workers. Government Union employees. Entertainment Industry workers. Anyone else who engages in any other form of prostitution. Any of that sort of occupation on that sordid list of miscreants and unBeliebers. Including Justin himself since he fell of the Wagon of Sainthood. Was thrown out of the Stretch Limousine of Perfection.
Well… if you actually are a Venusian Bearded Clam… or some sort of slimy Space Slug… then you’ve never worked a millisecond in your entire life… so you have absolutely no idea what working men and women sometimes have to do to put food on the table…. To feed their children. To purchase alcohol and recreational drugs. Those not covered on your government unhealthcare plan.
And… by working men and women… I mostly mean working women. On the evening shift. Or… Ladies of the Evening. Working flat of their backs. Or… clinging to a Pole.
While you’re getting all high-and-mighty on me… all hyperreligious… I’ll just remind you that Jesús hung out with prostitutes and riff-raff. Tax collectors. IRS agents. Other Governmental Union members. The worst kind of scum. Souls believed to be beyond… or beneath… salvation…. I do have to admit that he didn’t include many Scientists in his posse. Limited the number of doctors, too. Just one physician. And one assassin. Seems maybe there’s some sort of a correlation there.
Anyway…. I was unemployed at the time. A student. Or… at least in some ways… a stud. In Veterinary School. Studying Animal Husbandry. And… not one was ministering to these poor… struggling… sinners.
I saw a need. They had a need. I had a need. I needed somebody who also had a need….
You know how it goes….
And… there was a position available. It was a Missionary position. And I filled it. As best I could. As often as I could.
What could I do? There before me was a woman with needs. Aflame with passions. So I just did the Christian thing. Same thing that priests and preachers and youth ministers do all the time. For their church members. To their church members. Their students in their Christian Schools. And… their Choirboys…. I just followed a long, well-established Church tradition. And… I was well-endowed, so I filled that Missionary position. Perfectly. No complaints. None. At. All!
I had government grants. Several large endowments….
Our government is so generous with other people’s money.
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Well…. Just occurred to me that some of you may misinterpret what I just said. Spin it. Try to use it against me. Take my works completely out of context. Use my words… to accuse me. Before your church. And then… refuse to allow me to speak. To answer questions. To correct your transgressions. Confront your accusations. Present myself for examination before your blasted Board of Elders…. To answer your trumped-up charges….
That’s all right. I forgive you. Like Jesús himself said about you: you know not what you do. Bunch of blind guides. A nest of pit vipers. Vipers from the pit. Satan spawn. And Satan’s pawns. And you love doing your father’s bidding.
And… that’s really all the love you have in your hearts.
All the love you ever had… in your cold… hard… frozen… solid… hearts….
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WORD!!! A warning to all of you dirty-minded deacons and elders and priests and preachers and presbyters and all of you other holy sodomites of all descriptions…. Get your minds out of the gutter and drag your devious disputations out of the ditch.
You’re crowding me, Brother….
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So… maybe I should explain myself. Explain what really happened. Not that you’ll listen anyway. Not that you even possess the capacity to care. But… just so I have the satisfaction of defending myself. For once….
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As I may have mentioned before… this all started right after a tragic accident. One of my close friends… Rene LeCoq… died. Was killed. Went down in flames in the flaming netherregions of a Belch Hellhound bitch named Hellga Netherflamme… never to be seen alive again.
After that… incident… that… accident… that… tragic event… Hellgal and I were drawn closer together than ever…. Probably had something to do with the thermal convection currents. And the backdraft. The draft… the hot… foul… scary… wind… escaping from my backside. And… the Missionary position. Together those two… conditions… the backdraft… and the Missionary position… conspired… to create… what was functionally… a ramjet engine with an afterburner. Only faster. And harder. And deeper….
Anyway…. That bitch sure taught me a lot….
And… some of it was even useful….
Completely changed me. Changed my life. Changed my perspective. How I looked at life. How I looked at situations. How I looked at myself.
That fiery ginger bitch taught me a lot….
How to dress… inappropriately….
How to strip… seductively….
And… how to talk to a woman… the way she wants to be talked to…. How to talk to her heart. How to get a woman to let her hair down. How to get her to loosen her corset strings. And… her purse strings.
She taught me how to were eye make-up. A feather boa. Frilly panties. Lots of things.
Like I said… that Belch Hellhound bitch taught me a lot.
She taught me how to think…. About others. About a woman’s… needs…. And desires….
But mostly… she taught me how to think… for myself.
When that classless bitch left me. High and dry. And flat broke. Just because in a fit of passion… I screamed out… a name….
In a fit of passion… I screamed out… BUTTERFACE!!!
Immediately… her ardor changed… into pure hatred! Then… morphed further into impure… demonic… hatred.
But… after all… what can else can you really expect from a Hellhound?
Anyway…. My missionary position… that I enjoyed so much… suddenly morphed into a deathtrap. She suddenly began to see me… as a victim. A sacrifice.
I barely managed to escape the same fiery fate… the very same flaming death… as my friend… Rene LeCoq.
But I didn’t die. And… I learned a valuable lesson. A very valuable lesson. A very lucrative lesson… that paid my way through Vet School… with plenty of money to spare.

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I guess… first… I should give Hellgal credit…. She gave me the initial idea…. But… I took it from there….
I thought to myself… if a Butterface can make so-o-o much money doing it… then why not a Butterball? That’s when I hatched my plan. The plan that paid my way all the way through Vet School…. As a stripper.
I mean… obviously stripping is mostly a mind game. A more-or-less rational assumption I reasoned to myself.
So… I reasoned further: I have a great mind; therefore, I should be a great stripper!
As irrational as that idea might seem to some… it turned out to be completely logical… if rather counter-intuitive. Successful implementation of that idea… successful performance under my revolutionary… and even disruptive… totally blue sky business model… was determined almost completely by my ability to apply inappropriate and unexpected spin.
Here’s how I developed and implemented my business plan….
Obviously… right up front… any observant individual can see that the most important thing about being a successful stripper is having a really amazing schtick. And I’ve been told my schtick is nothing less than amazing. By people who should know. Professional people. People in the profession. Real Pros… if you catch my drift. So… by inference… and reference… I should be even more successful at stripping than Hellgal. Because I had a bigger…. A better…. A… beefier… schtick.
And… as it turned out… I was right!
Notice…. I said schtick: not schlong.
Irregardless…. I came to be a huge success. And that huge success… and my massive income… made me morph into a huge… raging… prick.
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Ok. Well…. I guess that statement isn’t really completely true. Not completely true. I need to look at myself a little more honestly. Be accountable. Take responsibility for who… for what… I was. Way back then. Before all of my success.
I mean… I need to admit… that I was immensely arrogant….
Already.
But being wanted by every dirty-minded woman in the whole church…. Or meeting house…. Or revival tent…. Well….
I mean… if that doesn’t make your organ swell… then you probably shouldn’t put yourself up there in front showing off your mastery of your organ to begin with now, should you? Show some confidence. Let your fingers do the walking and your organ do the talking. Get a vocorder and get to work!
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But what man has ever been able to convince his super-ego that he’s a big enough prick.
I mean… really….
I mean… my slacks were packed. But I still wasn’t convinced. Not really….
I mean… I still had my doubts…. I didn’t want to whip out my schtick… and have some lady in the front pew faint… and think that I needed some kind of… augmentation procedure…. A Hooteroplasty or something….
I mean… I have my pride…. And… my fear of needles. And have enough inside connections with deviant doctors who just want to make a buck. At my expense.
I really have one fundamental flaw…. I am an extreme egoist.
Maybe two flaws…. I like to work alone. I like to trust myself. My talents. My assets. And… I believe in my original equipment. Guess I wouldn’t really make a very good female. I just don’t like the idea of anyone… even doctors… especially doctors… sticking their stuff into my private parts…. Just doesn’t sound like my kind of fun.
Call me crazy….
Of course… someone like Use Les Pantywaist may find such a maneuver interesting. Intriguing. Enticing. Even necessary.
I mean… I know the guy claims to be a huge gun enthusiast, but seems to me… it’s hard to be effective… to get much penetration on the target… when you’re shooting blanks. And… I’m not sure a bigger tool wouldn’t help remediate that deficit…. I mean… he seems to think… he’s a big enough prick already…. But most everyone I’ve talked think he’s nothing more than a huge tool…. But… maybe that’s just me. Looking at things through the minimizing lens of male reality….
I mean… I’m not sure what he considers a huge gun.
I mean… I’m not sure I’d be all that enthusiastic about three inches. About three inches. As in… almost. That meaning of about. Approaching three from the lower side of the number line….
Sure, Use Less…. That’s really six inches. Uh-huh….
You’re inside a church, Buddy. Tell the truth. Don’t be such an exaggerating evangelist!
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Anyway…. Like I said before… my old main squeeze Hellgal taught me a lot about business. About building a business. About building up business. About giving me the business. About buttering up customers. She taught me a lot about butter and butts and all kinds of similar… slick… things….
But I must admit my act was all my own. My own creation. My own invention. My own schtick. You see… most strippers are straight strippers. But I… was… twisted. Kinky. Unique.
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Hopefully I’ve garnished your interest by now. Got you asking yourself: “What awesome and amazing idea did that genius come up with…?”
Well… here’s a hint…. Holy hanging man-hooters, Batman! My schtick was almost as uplifting as a Boy Wonder Bra. Almost as exciting as a Pentecostal Prayer Service led by a Charismatic Christian Preacher… passed out drunk on the Paschal wine… or rather on the Spirits… that lead to debauchery… if not pure douchebaggery. People were singing and dancing and speaking in tongues and foaming at the mouth and falling on the floor and flailing about…. Holy Rollers were Holy Rockin’ and Holy Rollin’ in the pews and down the aisles and a flippin’ and a floppin’ all over the place… until the ushers finally came forward to intervene! Those lusty church ladies were passing out and passing snakes and passing the plate and it included almost every form of Christian worship there ever was… except laying on of hands… because… that was extra.
Touching the snake….
Rubbing it….
Kissing it….
Worshipping the serpent….
That sort of thing….
Those Reformers were strict. Do-it-yourselfers. Except a few of the most high and holy Church ladies sitting in the first pew… the real Royalty of the congregation… tooting their French Hornies… giving one another the French Kiss of Peace on their inflamed holy of holies. And… the preachers were getting an extra-special Piece of the Rock….
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So… the Church women loved it! And I loved it. And they loved me. And I love the easy money. And it was all ok. It was all good. Because I was an ugly Butterball. And they weren’t doing anything wrong. They were convinced. And I was convinced. That my enterprise… was cumpletely… innocent. Just like the blessed ever-virgin Mary herself. Never defiled. And… Jesus’ brothers and sisters… well… they weren’t really her children…. And… that fat butterball… the round young virgin described in that Christmas song by Carol whomever… Mary… and her husband… never consummated their marriage… and he was good with that….
I know a girl just like Mary the Ever-Virgin. Just as forthright and honest. I guess Mary annulled her deal with Joseph, too. Right after she stole enough money to pay for her and her kids to live the life to which they wished to become accustomed…. I guess that’s why Mary is worshipped in her own cult. And why after she was canonized as Saint Mary… and made Saint Joseph cannon fodder… she went own to be elevated even higher in her own hyperreligious eyes…. Beyond the level of Saints. To the god-like beings. To the level of the few…. Exalted far above all…. But the fakirs of Islam…. The Super-saints. The Sanctimonious. Elevated above all Christians and even God himself in some folks eyes. Elevated above all others… except the Porphyrogénnētos… the Royal Queens and Princesses of the Venusian Bearded Clams.
Princess Guenniver is like that, too. The Ever-Virgin. Never-Virgin. Extra-Virgin. Snake oil. Something like that.
Speak, Oh, Toothless One…. Toot on, Oh, Ruthless Ones! Toot on, Oh, Clam of God…. Toot on….
Holy Rock and Rollover Account, Batman!
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Butt… I digress…. Tends to happen when I think about all the wrath and carnage that bunch of unholy gas-spewing funkagenic assholes hath wrought…. I apologize.
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And… moving on…. Or at least trying… to move forward….
Because… my act was Twisted. Seriously twisted. Because I perverted the Nature of the sex act…. My act was not only tolerated… my act was lauded. And… applauded. And… as a direct result… I was well paid. The lovely congregation of lusty Christian ladies… would lust… and drool… and get aroused… and… pay me… to put my clothes back on. You see… my act… tugged at those upstanding… godly… goody-goody’s heartstrings… so they flung their skirts in the air in celebration. And swung their purse-strings open. Because I offered them something they had always wanted. Fulfilled a Psychological yearning…. A need…. An aching…. An all-day… and all-night longing… each lady had felt down deep in her heart of hearts for a long, long time. A debased desire…. But… something more…. An absolute… indescribable craving…. Something they all secretly wished they could do with their husband. Shut him down. Shut him out. Shut him off. Cut him off. Figuratively of course.
But still… I insisted every woman pass through a metal detector. And that each woman submit to a cavity search. For concealed weapons. And other sharp… or blunt… objects. Except for battery operated appliances, of course…. Hearing aids. Pacemakers. That sort of thing.
We told the truth. Clearly advertized our requirements. Inappropriately set expectations. And… none of the ladies ever complained. Not a one. Rather… they seemed to enjoy themselves. They jumped up into the stirrups. Ride ‘em Cowboy. Some even preferred Backwards Cowgirl. Whatever their fantasy… we tried hard to fulfill it…. Not your usual Church Service, for sure.
Why was my performance so well received? I don’t really know. But I can guess.
My perverted act… reversing the natural order of sexuality… gave those ladies a feeling that they were rebels. Harlots. Shameful hussies. That they had always wanted. To feel dirty. To feel that surge sexual of power. Of self-determination. Of domination. Of control over their own lives. Of reversal of sexual… and familial… roles…. And… my acted… offered those sexually repressed females… the opportunity to loose all self-control… in a safe… spiritual… sanctified… environment.
Turns out… every married female… of every degenerate species in the entire sanctimonious… mostly monogamous… congregation had the same damned desire: to dictate the evening plans to that dick of a husband she served and serviced…. And… deal with his dick in a completely different way! And… just like Oprah… every woman in that studio audience got to go back home with something she really desired in her head… if not in her hand…. If not sticking out at an acute angle out of her husband’s cold… hard… heart….
Nope. Not a set of stainless steel steak-knives….
Turns out… most of those women could find it in their hearts to forgive their husbands for a dalliance or two… if he’d just get up and pull out of them…. Get off of them and get off somewhere else. With someone else. Who… didn’t particularly matter. They just no longer felt the love. They were tired. And their netherregions were inflamed, but not actually on fire.
Turns out… every one of those straight-laced Merrywidow-wearing homemakers and widowmakers had the same secret desire. They wanted to whisper… to say softly… even to SCREAM the exact same words to their husbands…. “Put your clothes back on, you son-of-a-bitch! I ain’t your whore no more. She’s somewhere else. She’s someone else. I’m just your wife. And I’m tired. I’m worn out. I ain’t your whore. No more! I’m just plain sore. So… put your clothes back on, you son-of-a-bitch. Please!”
Turns out… I was able to completely fulfill the needs of churches full of beautiful… buxsome… women. I was able to give them a total guilt-free trip to another dimension. A dimension of existence they had always dreamed about… but never actually been able to explore… experience… exploit. I was able to give those churchified women… the ultimate guilty pleasure…. Guilt-free stripping. Those deprived… depraved… desperate… dissipated women could sit back and giggle like bad little schoolgirls. Those desperate vixens could get their jollies… get their panties in a bunch… and… do something dirty…. Those pristine hussies could live the real stripper experience…. And… on Sunday… mourning… they could still sit their sexified asses in their usual church pew… beside those enormous prancing pompous pricks they called their husbands… without squirming. Too much. Because they didn’t want to smear their wet spot.
Turns out… because I was fat…. And butt-ugly…. I was less of a threat…. Much less of a threat…. Than any real man would be. Ever could be. Even a pool boy. And that explains a lot. Looking back up my dumb ass X’s past….
And… needless to say… it was a win-win situation.
You see… my business model opened up a whole new revenue stream for the adult entertainment industry. Churches. Day Cares. Coin-operated laundry facilities. Organic Greengrocers. Expensive coffee shops. Exclusive boutiques and department stores. Took strippers… and prostitutes… all manner of “professional” women… out of the dirty, dingy, dangerous environs they had once inhabited next to drug dens, drive-ins and truck stops. Buffed and polished them. Spit-shined their unsavory shit. Bleached their tarnished image…. Bleached their works…. And… bleach cleans almost all social diseases. Made all of them…. All of us…. Almost completely socially acceptable. Almost. Acceptable.
Turns out chlorine bleach… and greenback money… have a regenerative capacity that was heretofore unexpected. Unappreciated. Unheard of. Unobserved. Bleach… and money… clean up…. Cover over…. Disinfected…. Eliminate…. A lot of badness. A lot of odors. A lot of filth. Make… unacceptable things… unacceptable creatures… acceptable…. Almost.
God created the Heavens… and the Earth. And in his infinite Wisdom… God separated the dry land… from the Void…. The oceans… the tides… wash away filth…. Wash the beaches clean….
And then… Sons of Beaches… clean up.
Same things with the Tithes. Same effect. Clean up the scum.
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Well… speaking of scum….
I probably should be truthful about this aspect of my business… of my choices… of my life, too. I sold out. Became a sell-out. Sold out everything and everyone involved.
I syndicated.
Or sindicated… depending on perspective.
And this bad boy is still raking in insane profits right up to this day.
And the best thing…? Selling Religion just happens to be a pure cash business. All of that cash is laundered through the church. It’s like making an investment in the Vatican Bank. Only better! They’re all tax-deductible donations! “Gifts”….
Now… let me explain. When Jesús was asked by the Pharisees whether good Jews should pay the Temple Tax… and 10% Tithe… or the Roman Taxes… to filthy Tax Collectors… who were considered an especially vile category of sinner… set apart from all others… for especially hellacious fury… he demurred. Of course… he was being set up. Now… dig this…. Jesús was supposed to be the Messiah… who would destroy the disgusting Roman filth… the soldiers… the heathens… the pagans… who were oppressing God’s Chosen People… and establish God’s Holy Kingdom on Earth. And establish the Jewish Priests and Scribes… and set up their monopoly on religious contributions. Or else… Jesus would offend all present… which would be just as good… for the people setting him up.
But… Jesús demurred. Their Messiah did something completely unexpected. He asked for the Roman Coin used to pay the Roman Taxes. And… he said… “Whose picture is on this coin…?”
Of course… since it was a Coin of the Realm… legal tender in the Roman Empire… the inscription was of the Roman Emperor…. And then… Jesús answered…. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s… and render unto God that which is God’s….
Ok. Here’s the Gospel. The Good News. Or… the really GREAT news… if you ask me….
Show me a coin. Heck… show me a bill. Show me all of them…. Not one of those three-dollar bills with President Clinton’s picture on it. Such Bills don’t count. Every such Bill is a fake. Depending on what your definition of “is” is, I guess….
The coins have the pictures of past presidents. So do the lower denomination bills. But not the $100’s! They show Benjamin Franklin’s mugshot. And… he was never leader of our once great nation…. So… he’s exempt!
And… God’s picture isn’t on any money at all! BONUS!!!
So… I just saved all of you Christians a bunch of money! You owe me. I’ll come by your house to collect my cut a little later. Ciao. Bella.
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Well… confession is good for the sole they say. Other fish, too, I suppose. And I had… what turned out to be a Tureen of Sole Soup filled to over-flowing. A plethora. A cornucopia. The cash equivalent of the Holy Graal. Or the original version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Damsel of the Sanct Grael with legitimate papers of authenticity at the very least.
May sound fishy… but maybe confession might be good for the soul, too. Ya’ never know….
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I don’t know about you, but I find all of that kind of stuff a bit… disquieting…. Religious items. Relics. Reliquaries. Ossuaries. Bones of Saints. Dead people. Demons. All of stuff. The super-natural. Holy. Or unholy. Doesn’t matter to me. I think that shit’s scary.
I mean… religion is like a drug. Only… more addicting.
A lot of people seem to think that it was Karl Marx who suggested that religion is the opiate of the people. Soothes their physical… emotional… and spiritual… pain…. Allows low-life people to better tolerate political and economic oppression…. Over-use. Abuse. Bondage….
But… Marx was simply quoting… the Marquis de Sade… who I think knew a little bit about pain…. About oppression. About bondage. And… about discipline…. About S&M. About Sex and Manipulation. That man must have known my second wife pretty well. And… that dude was scary….
Not as scary as her, but still… pretty scary.
Not pretty. Scary.
And… that’s the thing about Relics. Indulgence. Papal Dispensation. An outpouring of grace from the Pontifex Superanus’ plentitudo potestasis. His Plentitude of Power.
Well… I was there the moment it happened… and to me… it sounded like nothing more than a blast of gas from out of his ass. Just what one might expect to hear expounded by the Pontifex Superanus of Uranus. Or my anus. Or any other of a hundred million alien assholes for that matter.
But… the fact that people are willing to suspend disbelief so strongly…. To pay so much money to buy indulgences. Cheap… and not so cheap… grace…. To me… it’s a lot like Secular Humanists buying that shit about their religion having facts… and not needing faith…. Listening to those rants by people like Professor Richard Dawkins… and Professor Lawrence Krauss… who espouse the extremely popular propaganda of Progressive Liberal Socialistic Fascism… and mix it all up in a dogmatic religious stew… and viciously attack anyone who dare to believe something else… something rational… and who realize… that those legalist… those lawyers… those schysters… those scheistkopfs… as selling their lies… and their books… and their souls… and making enormous profits. Which is what enormous pricks always tend to do. Sell themselves. As I said before.
I admit that I made a ton of money doing it. And it’s scary. Selling religion. Especially when you choose to confuse and delude people… and assure the assholes that you are doing exactly the opposite. But… for Dawkins and Krauss… I guess their ships came in. Because they sure made a lot of money feeding their flock. Swindling the seagulls. The Rats of the Ocean. Amazing. And scary.
And… something else amazing. And scary.
I made an amazing amount of money prostituting myself. So much money it was scary. Real scary. Selling myself. Selling religion. Selling religious women what they wanted so badly.
And… how did my congregation respond…? They were excited at first. Very excited. Then they began to act a bit like ass sniffin’ crack hoes and rotten-toothed meth bitches. Man… that was the first… and the last time I ever saw my second wife getting French Horny while looking at me.
But… on second thought… maybe it was just my money….
Well… I guess if I had a trailer right then… we could have gotten trailer park trashy right there on the spot! I guess I would have been in like Flynn.
Or… gotten in like the Woody in the Hoodie.
But then again… I decided to do the prudent thing. I hired a bodyguard. The best bodyguard a man could buy… for small change.
And… it just so happened… that after the whole Killer Turkey Episode… or fiasco… depending on one’s perspective, of course, the bottom dropped out of the whole atomic powered stealth turkey market. So… I purchased the very same killer turkey that I have described elsewhere. The turkey that was supposed to serve not in anger in war, but in gravy in Thanksgiving Dinner at the Poor House… as the humble home of the Sissy Bubba Bunch was also known.
Worked out well. For me.
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Ok. One other thing I should probably fess up to….
This one turned out to be a bad experience. The worst experience of my life. That’s where I met my second wife. Imagine that…. At one point… she was stuffing money down my g-string.
Guess what…? Those granny panties she wears hold a whole lot more cash. And… other negotiables….
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One more thing, I guess….
I mentioned that I was fat and ugly. Not so much anymore. Now I’m just ugly. A Butterface. No longer a Butterball.
Turns out… being enslaved…. Being starved…. Had some tangible benefits.
I guess I owe X a lot. She changed me. And… some of the changes she force on me… seem to be for the better….
So… thank you. You bad-eyed and loveless stinking shellfish from Hell!!!