Throwing Poo

It’s Friday, and I haven’t taken a respectable crap all week.  Despite eating nearly two boxes of raisin bran – that’s four scoops of raisin - a loaf (the word mocks me) of double-fiber bread, and enough celery sticks to choke a kindergarten full of five-year-olds, I’m still constipated.  My stomach is puffy, I feel bloated, and my back hurts. I’m pregnant with a brown baby, and nobody has told me that I’m glowing.

Beside the physical unpleasantness, being constipated really bothers because I am such a devoted disciple of roughage.  If my fingers were perpetually stained with the grease from cheesy Gorditas, pizza Hot Pockets, and Sausage McMuffins, then I’d not complain.  But I eat more fiber than a fucking woodchuck.  The only way I could get more fiber in my diet is if I sprinkled sawdust on my food.  And it’s not like I enjoy it, but I’m willing to pay the price in order to crap well-formed dowel rods on a regular basis. 

Now it seems that fiber has forsaken me.  If another week goes by, I may finally be forced to schedule a colonoscopy, which I'll almost certainly enjoy and then turn into a gay size-queen.

To make matters worse, Bob, the electrical contractor who came over yesterday to quote the installation of a cat escalator (Max is getting way too fat), asked to use my bathroom and, as if to mock my pain, squeezed out an unbelievably putrid Conan-the-Barbarian shit.  This inconsiderate cocksucker stunk up the whole first floor of my house, and then said he’d have to get back to me later with a quote because, “I’ve got an appointment with an important customer.”

What, do they need you to rush over and wipe your ass with their pillows and jerk-off on their Pomeranian, you filthy bastard?  Go fuck yourself, Bob.

(Apparently Bob's exploits are notorious.  Three hours later, a siding contractor entered my house, took a whiff and said, "Christ.  You having some electrical work done or what?")

Anyway, I tried listening to my iPod to keep my mind off of my condition, but got distracted and instead came up with some Rolling Stones songs for it: 

  Defecation ( I Can’t Get No)
  You Can’t Always Shit When You Want
  Waiting On A Friend
  Stinky Fingers
  (Hey! You!) Get Off My Bowel
  Just My Constipation

I know these are lame, but remember that I’ve got a week’s worth of toxins coursing through my veins and poisoning my body.  So how about you give me a fucking break.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

If you’ve been paying attention – and judging by the lack of comments, you haven’t – the frequency of my posting has dropped way off the past couple of weeks.  I’d like to say it’s because I’m busy writing a book (show me a douche bag with a blog who isn’t, and I’ll show you a douche bag who procrastinates), engineering a zero-gravity espresso machine for the space shuttle, on a secret government mission to assassinate Flavor Flav, or engaged in some other lofty, pretentious project.  I’m not. 

And it’s not that I’ve decided to spend my waning days enjoying life by setting fire to old people, watching reruns of Maude and eating fistfuls of who-hash right out of the fucking can.  I’m not.

I’ve simply lost focus and...Hey there, Maxie cat.  How are you big guy?  Who’s a handsome boy?  Who’s a big sexy Barry White-looking motherfucker?  You are!  Yes, you are, Maxie!

What was I saying?  Oh yeah, focus.  I’ve lost it.  Not only my focus on this stupid blog, but on my entire fucking life.  My brain has been rapidly vacillating between devising totally retarded get-rich quick schemes (I could make cat scratching posts made of PVC to reduce the shipping weight), planning insane home improvement projects (Wouldn’t it be nice if I put a shower in the basement?) and seriously considering a vast array of radical career changes (Maybe I should be an architect.  Or a carpenter.  Or a political consultant.).  All true.

In between vascillations, I have these bouts where absolutely nothing interests me except eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and reading aloud to the cats every piece of junk mail we receive, including the catalogs.  It’s mostly just the ice cream, though.  

Anyway, I’m going to try to post more often, but I can’t guarantee it.  And if I go totally insane and decapitate my wife for leaving her dirty snot rags on the furniture (allergy tissues, she calls them), well, you can say you saw it coming.  Either way, everyone wins.  Except my wife, of course. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Heading home from Omaha last Saturday (business or pleasure do you think?), I was pants-crappingly late to the airport due to a mix-up with the taxi service.  While I thought it best to schedule a pick-up at a specific time and location, the dispatcher apparently decided it would be better to have the driver call me and ask for play-by-play directions in Crapistani or some similarly marble-mouthed dialect. 

Fortunately, only a dozen other people were flying out of Omaha that day – half the city’s population I’m guessing, and why wouldn’t they - so when I finally arrived at the airport there were only six people ahead of me in the security line.  Unfortunately those six people were a young woman, her mother, and four tiny minions of Satan. 

The first ten minutes were amusing as I watched this gaggle of silly geese unbuckle, fold, zip, snap, pack and load a preposterous collection of plastic, collapsible kid-shit onto the conveyer belt, leaving a minefield of pretzel crumbs and stale Cheerios in their wake for me to moosh between my little piggys.  Then it came time to go through the metal detector.

As soon as Mom stepped through with the infant in her arms, little Joey, the oldest, left behind for a moment a mere four feet away, began to howl.  Either fearing for his young life or simply wanting to escape the clutches of “Nana”, he suddenly jerked away, slipped around the metal detector and latched onto his mother’s leg.  Mom shrieked, alarms sounded, and security guards wandered into action.  The sudden loud commotion caused the twins to panic, abandon Nana, and stumble through the metal detector as well.  More alarms, more vaguely interested security guards.  Mom dragged Joey back through the detector, and again the twins, now crying as well, followed suit. 

This continued on for five full minutes as Mom pleaded, children screamed, alarms sounded, security guards feigned to gain control of the situation, and Nana grew more and more confused.  It was like I was watching the Benny Hill Show only without the music bed and perky ta-tas.  Even a security guard commented that he'd never seen anything like this. 

Normally I would’ve just stood there laughing my ass off, but nothing is funny enough to be worth getting stuck in Omaha.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Special Guest Star: Tom Cruise 

Once upon a time, in a distant land on the west side of Cleveland, a handsome youngish Prince roamed the empty halls of his castle.  Even though his subjects lived in peace and adored him for his modest temperament, even-handed justice and considerable lance, the Prince was forlorn.  His birthday, the fourth day of the seventh month, was only hours away and he feared the worst. 

For his time, the Prince was considered a man of science.  He had proven himself an adept meteorologist at an early age, accurately predicting the seasonal changes through his innovative measurement of accumulated atmospheric dragon flatulence.  It is also widely believed that the Prince’s loathing of filthy peasants was not based on class superiority, but on his unprecedented theory of the presence of microscopic germs, which he called “stank fairies.” 

Despite his scientific proclivities, the Prince, like most of the ignorant masses of his time, was susceptible to superstition.  Black cats, midgets, albinos and universal health care advocates were the spawn of demons, meant to be persecuted and shunned.

So it was nearly a year ago when the Prince was sauntering though the streets of his kingdom, in search of “a Princess, if only for one night” (the frequency of such journeys resulted in his nickname “Lance-a-lot”).  Rounding a particularly grimy corner, the Prince was beckoned by the call of a blind gypsy wearing tightie-whities and pedaling bootleg copies of “All The Right Moves.”  Curious, the well-hung Prince approached.

“Yes, what say you, blind man?”

“Buy a DVD?”

“Are you kidding me?  Video technology hasn’t even been invented yet, little fool.  Hell, most of these wretched dirt eaters still think mirrors are a tool of the devil.”

“True enough, good sir.”

“Besides, that movie totally sucks.”

“You are wise, youngish Prince. Let me consult your future then.  But first, a piece of silver to appease the Thetans.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” the Prince replied before digging into his satchel and retrieving a quarter.

“Your generosity is only outweighed by your enormous penis, kind Prince.”

“Yes, yes.  My future now,” the Prince said, grabbing his member, “before I take it out and beat you to death with it.”

“Very well, master.”

The gypsy removed his cheap, plastic sunglasses and his white eyes rolled back in his head.  Grabbing the Prince’s hand, the strange Outsider’s body began to shake violently.

“Oh, kind Prince.  The Thetans have whispered your Legend into my ears. Darks times are coming, good Prince.  Days of Thunder, nights of lightning.”

“Knights of lightning?”

“No, nights.”

“Of course.  Wait, how did you know what I meant?”

“The blind can sense such things.”

“Really?  Wow, that’s cool. But then how did I know…”

“Just forget it, kind sir.  The Abbott & Costello routine is hack.”

“Fine,” the Prince Taps the gypsy on the forehead. “Then tell me more about this looming darkness.”

“On your thirtieth birthday, a hideous, foul-smelling evil will bring a reign of terror over this land.”

“But I’m already thirty-three.”

“Bugger.  Look, I’m not very good at math, OK? You were Born On The Fourth Of July, right?’

“Yes.”

“Great. Let’s just say your next birthday then.”

“Fine, but you’re not very good at this.”

“Yeah, well, all the Prince jobs were taken up by snotty, entitled assholes.”

“Careful,” the Prince replied, shaking his cock at the gypsy.

“Oooh, right.  I forgot about that. Anywho, death, destruction, and despair will fill the land.  The ‘three D’s’ we like to call it.  That’s it.” 

“That’s it?”

“Yes, for two bits, that’s all you get.”

The Prince was not at all pleased with the abrupt ending to the gypsy’s tale and stepped close to whisper in his ear.

“What if I vanquished you to my dungeon, where my best men will pluck out your eyes and stuff them into your asshole?”

“Well, I’d probably find that ring my wife has been missing, but I honestly don’t think that is going to happen.”

“And why is that?”

Just then, three large, muscular Africans with giant knobs stepped out from behind the stone wall.

“See, I’ve got A Few Good Men of my own,” the gypsy smiled.

“Whoa, hey,” the Prince said, backing up. “No need to get tough. Why all the muscle?”

“Well,” the gypsy replied, “fortune-telling is a Risky Business.”

“Fine, fine.  How about we just call it even?”

“Even it is,” the gypsy said, and vanished without a trace, right after packing up all his fortune-telling gear and grabbing a cup of gruel from a nearby inn. 

Being a fair-weather existentialist, the Prince had ignored this mystic warning for the past eleven months.  But now, with the foreseen day of reckoning looming so close, he could think of nothing else. 

To be continued…

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Few things will put me in a shitty mood quicker than stepping in a puddle of unforeseen and mysterious fluid while wearing socks.  Unfortunately I live in an old house with hardwood floors, two cats and a wife who spills more coffee than Michael J. Fox working the counter at Starbucks, so I end up going through a lot of pairs.

However, when I entered the bathroom on Tuesday morning, the squish du jour was exceptional.  Unlike with the usual suspects - gelatinous hairballs, puddles of Kenyan Blend or pools of coagulating dead-hooker blood – the sheer volume of juicy revulsion oozing up between my toes defied normality.  Something was wrong.

After screaming, crying and vomiting like a twelve-year-old bulimic at an Aaron Carter concert (or Nicole Richie at dinnertime), I decided to investigate.  Turns out my old, corroded plumbing had failed.  And if this embarrassing personal problem wasn’t bad enough (I’m told it happens to everyone), the pipe under my bathroom sink had also sprung a leak and was the feeding the new wading pond on my floor.   

So I fixed it.

(Note to self: work on increasing the dramatic affect of conflict resolution).

****

The other day I was cleaning out my closet - it’s amazing how quickly those latent homosexual experiences pile up - and found this old video of me catching my parents during foreplay.  Enjoy. 

Repressed Memory 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

This Old Homeless Shelter

Flip That Burger! (At Your New Second Job Which You Need To Keep Making Your Ballooning Mortgage Payments)

Extreme Makeover: Your Parent’s Basement Edition

Design On A Dime, But We’d Like To See The Dime First If You Don’t Mind.

Steal That Fixture!

While You Were Out, The Bank Repossessed Your House

Curb Appeal: “Please Don’t Kick Us To It!”

The Real Estate Prose:
The Roses Were Red
Ready To Be Plucked
So You Took Out A Subprime Mortgage That You Knew You Couldn’t Afford, Like You Expected To Win The Goddamn Lottery Or Something
And Now You Are Fucked

(Yes, I am ripping off my own previous post.  However, after last week, an update seemed appropriate.)  

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

This week I found two of the funniest videos I've seen in a long time:

Business Time by Flight of the Conchords - I cannot stop watching this, or singing it to Nerdy Squirrel, Esq.

The Maria Bamford Show - Absolutely brilliant. 

That is all.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Most of you already know that I spend a lot of time on the road….weary traveler…Willy Loman…single-serving friends…blah, blah, blah.   I’ve grown as tired of writing about it as you have of reading about it.  The bottom line is that we’ve all got our crosses to bear, mine just happens to have two Rolls-Royce AE3007 jet engines nailed on either side.  Still, I just can’t seem to let my travel woes go.

The real problem is that, when you travel for business, the very best thing that can happen is that you arrive on time, make your appointments, get the room you reserved, eat shitty hotel food, pass out on your germ-infested bed, and hope the people next door aren’t newlyweds or gay men dosing Viagra and ecstasy.  In other words, even the good travel days eat it.  Since there is so much suckiness already built-in, the little things that inevitably go wrong get magnified, and ordinarily polite, decent people turn into raging, pus-filled ass tumors.  People like me.

Since I’ve recently come out of the tea-drinking closet, I can admit that I carry some tea in my luggage just in case.  You might say it’s my tea bag.  I’m tea-bagging it.  I like tea-bagging.  *ahem*  Anyway, an emergency supply is readily available if I need a little pick-me-up during the course of the day.

Last Friday morning I was flying home from Chicago after a late night and a very long day.  This is a trip I take on a pretty regular basis, so I know the routine.  Hell, I know the O’Hare gate agent, the guy that sells the soggy, God-awful “Wolfgang Puck” sandwiches, and half the motherfuckers on the plane itself.  By the way, that plane is an Embraer ERJ-140 jet, and seat 12A is the best one on the aircraft.  I’ve probably logged enough hours to actually pilot this tub if the shit hit the fan.  Of course, if I ever found myself in that situation, I would probably be too overcome by the need to quote lines from Airplane to do anybody any good. “What’s our vector, Victor?” “Roger, Roger.” “Stop calling me Shirley.”  You only get an opportunity like that once in a lifetime, you know?  Literally.

Anyway, I was exhausted and in desperate need of some caffeine.  The flight attendant, a badly-aging whore with varicose veins in her face and breathe that smells like the ass of a coffee-drinking buffalo who just died from colon cancer,  pushed over her drink cart/walker and proceeded to tell me that she didn't have any tea. 

Now, as I mentioned before, I’m familiar with this particular route and this particular aircraft.  The attendants don’t normally carry hot water on their cart during these short flights, so they have to retrieve it from the hot water dispenser in the galley.  And I know where this dispenser is.  From seat 4A, I can actually see the fucking thing.  This wretched cunt was just too goddamn lazy to walk the ten steps to go get it for me.

“No?  How about just a cup of hot water then.” 

“Water?”

“Hot water, please.”

“Um.”

“From that dispenser in the galley right there.”

“Well, it’s a short flight and…”

“If you’re too busy, just give me a cup and I’ll be glad to get it myself”

(sighs) “Just a minute.”

A few seconds later she returned and expressed her displeasure by plopping down the hot water on my tray table, neglecting to offer me my complimentary pretzels, and ignoring me for the rest of the flight. 

Meanwhile, I enjoyed the best cup of tea I’ve had all week. I take it black, like my men.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Even though I’m neither British nor queer, if there is any difference between the two, I am a great lover of tea.  On average I probably down four or five cups of this leafy, caffeinated, anti-oxidizing goodness every day.  As a result, I live an alert, productive and totally rust-free life.  But I wasn’t born a tea drinker.  In fact, given my childhood fear of the Chinese, abhorrence of the strong-arm tactics employed by the East India Trading Company, and deep-seated distrust of monarchies, my eventual fondness of this highly-civilized beverage was quite unexpected.  One might say that I began drinking hot tea in the same way inmates begin having hot man-on-man sex.  Necessity.

It was nearly fifteen years ago, when I was living in Texas, that I began experiencing severe stomach problems.  At the time I made a living importing component parts for U.S. manufacturers, where I spent my days scheming ways to screw people out of one or two more percentage points.  My boss was a scumbag and my customers were morons.    I absolutely fucking HATED my job.  Each workday required a massive dose of caffeine just to get me though, and each evening demanded an equally massive amount of alcohol to combat the self-loathing.

Seeing as I was in Texas, the home of the icehouse, jalapeno cornbread and the five-meat barbeque dinner, all of which I vigorously partook, pinpointing the source of my stomach problems was no easy task.  Then one day, after pounding a pot of coffee (I had my own brewer right in my office), I doubled-over, dragged myself to the bathroom, and proceeded to puke out my upper intestines and crap out my lower ones.  My body, it seemed, had decided that coffee was no longer on the menu.

Still, my genetically groggy demeanor demanded that I have something to get me through the day.  Since I couldn’t afford cocaine and crystal meth was just a glimmer in the eye of some young NASCAR fan with a chemistry set, tea was the only viable option. 

I really hated tea at first.  It tasted like someone put a handful of mulch into a cup and then peed on it.  But I needed a delivery system for my caffeine habit and tea didn’t knot my stomach like a Boyscout aiming for a merit badge.  I mean, if some guy has the guts to feed his addiction by shooting heroin into his cock, then surely I can tolerate an unpleasant beverage.  So began my journey.      

Fifteen years later, I have become a discriminating tea drinker, with the gratuitous inventory and horribly stained teeth to prove it.  My early mornings require a heavily-steeped cup of Twining’s English Breakfast Tea; a robust and full-bodied blend from Assam and Kenya.  A steaming cup of Twining’s Earl Grey, a bright blend of Indian and Asian black teas flavored with bergamot oil (sans the lemon slice, my way of sending a big “fuck you” back to the Queen Mum), gets my afternoon going.  Late in the day, I crave a simple Chinese green (even though they still scare me a little, what with their pointy throwing stars and mandatory abortions).  Any brand will do.

Still, as an American male who drinks tea, I face intolerance and discrimination on a daily basis.  The ignorant masses accuse me of choosing a depraved lifestyle.  The familiar barb, “If God had wanted men to drink tea, he would have given them erect pinkies and tiaras,” inevitably hits me in the back every time I order an Awake tea in a crowded Starbucks.

Believe me, I would like nothing better than to be able to grab onto a warm, inviting cup of coffee, insert my stick and gyrate until the cream spills out.  But I can’t.  Not because I want to be different, or because I hate God, or to get back at my disappointed father, but because it is physically repulsive.    

So the next time you’re in a coffee shop and a man orders a cup of tea, show some compassion and understanding; his story may be similar to mine.  We are not vegans, Scientologists or soccer fans.  We have not made a poor choice.  We have not made any choice at all.  We are simply being who we are. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My colon is mad as hell and it’s not going to take it anymore.

On Saturday we had the families over for my birthday party.  Since it was a nice day, and since we are cheap, and since our relatives are animals that will eat anything you put in front of them and even some things you don’t, we decided to simply grill up some burgers and brats.

Normally I don’t eat a lot of meat (both literally and figuratively, assholes).  But Nerdy Squirrel insisted that we cook extra for the party to ensure the safety of our cats.  As a result, we ended up with a lot of leftovers, which, like some sort of late-blooming Depression baby, I am compelled to eat.  Couple that with having tickets to two baseball games this week, during which one is obligated to eat at least two hot dogs with onions and stadium mustard on each, and you have the makings of a perfect storm in my ass.

As of Thursday morning, I honestly cannot stop farting.  But I can live with that.  The real problem is that my air biscuit early warning system has crashed.  That’s right, every decent human being’s worst nightmare: unpredictable, uncontrollable farts.  It’s like my asshole has turned into a yammering wife (how’s that for role reversal) who is constantly nagging at me about what not to eat.
  
So, I’d like to send an open letter to my body, the gastro-intestinal system in particular, to clear the air, so to speak. 

Dear Bowels & Pals,

First, I’d like to thank you for 43 years of outstanding service.  You are an integral part of the proud, professional team of organs that work together to keep me from shitting myself.  While you rarely receive the attention or accolades that the brain, penis and other organs enjoy, make no mistake, your work is important and provides the foundation for everything I do.  How, I ask, would I be able to hold down a job or maintain a marriage with regular doses of Dinty Moore stew brewing in my underpants?  I could not.

Second, I realize that the past five days of ingesting highly-processed red meat-like products have produced an overburdened, unsafe and possibly even hostile workplace for you.  As such, I cannot fault you and your team for a few unexpected and very public outbursts.  Let’s just say that a few extra stains in my underpants will not result in a permanent stain on your record. 

Finally, if the recent underperformance has been an attempt to bring attention to the serious matter of my diet, than consider it well-noted.  I can assure that no wiener, frankfurter, or bratwurst will disrupt your harmonious work environment anytime soon.  In fact, for the next few weeks, a steady diet of raw vegetables, bran and fresh fruit should allow you to take some extra time off.  And, as always, I encourage you and your staff to take advantage of our casual Friday policy.

Sincerely,

Crunchy BC

P.S.  I would welcome the opportunity to discuss with you performance incentives for on-demand output.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Pygmy pussytoes

Stuckenia Vaginata (scientific name)

Bulbous yam

Finger rot

Hairy crabweed

Cockspur

Rubus Cockburnianus (scientific name)

Stinking willie

Fleshy clapdaisy

Burning bush

Pinus Stankewiczii (scientific name)

Erect milkpea

Check COMMENTS for the answer.

(OK, so I'm 43 and I spent my Sunday afternoon typing dirty words into the USDA plant database, but I did it for YOU. Besides, finding Rubus Cockburnianus alone makes it all worthwhile.)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

On my way out of church last Sunday, I was fortunate enough to find another religious pamphlet titled, “Are You Ready To Talk About Your Church?”  While not nearly as fascinating as Doom Town, AYRTTAC at least attempts to be interactive by proposing a scenario and asking questions of the reader.  Apparently the lettered answer you choose throughout the quiz tells you what kind of person you are.  However, the three types of answers (A, B & C) suggested by the AYRTTAC authors did not, in my opinion, cover a realistic scope of personalities you might find.   So I added a few more.

The scenario: A new family moves onto your street and you’re having a conversation. How would you respond to the following comments by your new neighbor:
 
1. “Thanks so much for all your help.  It’s so exhausting to move.  There’s so much to do.  I have to find a new dry cleaner, a new grocery store.  Why, we’ll even have to find a new church."

A. Yeah, moving stinks.
B. Yes, I know how hard that is. I’d be glad to steer you towards a few places.  And we attend a wonderful church that really helped us get settled when we moved here ourselves.  I’d be glad to tell you about it.
C. I can recommend an outstanding dry cleaner.

D. What the hell are you thanking me for?  I’m not going to move any fucking boxes.  I just came over to tell you to stay the fuck off my lawn.  That goes double for your shitty little mutants. 
E. The chinks run the dry cleaner, the camel jockeys run the grocery, and we don’t take kindly to any perverted cults around here, weirdo. 
F. Wow, is that your daughter over there?  She’s mighty tasty.
G. Unless you’re talking about finding a new Church’s Fried Chicken, this is probably the last conversation we’ll be having.

2. “Really, what’s your church like?”

A. Well, just like any other, I guess.  We have our share of problems.
B. Really welcoming, and full of all kinds of great people.  I leave worship ready and inspired for the week.
C. Well, to be honest, I don’t get there all that often, so it’s hard to say.

D. Seriously, I own guns.  Lots of guns, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to use ‘em.
E.  White only, like the good Lord meant it to be.  Also, we have our own uniforms.
F.  You know, if you ever need a babysitter, I’m available.  I would just need to know how much time I’ve got, I mean, how long you’d be gone.
G.  It’s a small church.  Actually, it’s just my wife and me.  We meet at IHOP on Sundays, discuss current events, and then spend the afternoon reading the paper and drinking coffee.  We love to have you join our church.  You’ll just need to provide a year’s worth of tithing up front.

3. “Well, we have quite an unusual background religious background.  Back where we used to live, we attended a Methodist church, but I was actually raised Catholic.  Before we met, my husband went to a non-denominational church, but we got married in his parents’ Episcopal church.”

A.  Good grief.
B.  You know, we have all kinds of religious backgrounds in our church.  It seems to be a place that couples with different backgrounds can agree on.
C.  Well, you’ll probably be looking for another Methodist church then.

D.  See that window right there?  That’s where I’ll be, watching you assholes every minute.
E.  You people some kind of religious mongrels?  Still, as long as you ain’t got no colored blood in yous.
F.  Do your kids like to swim?  I have a swimming pool in my backyard.  I even have swimming suits if they need them.  They can get undressed, um *hard swallow* get, um, changed in my cabana hut.
G.  And then what happened?

4.  ‘What does your church believe, exactly?

A.  Same as everyone else.
B.  I should refer you to our website, so when you have a chance you can learn more about who we are and what we believe.  I think you’ll like what you see.
C.  Umm, I’m not sure. You should ask our pastor.

D. (Taps on the window from inside his home and, when he has their attention, vigorously cocks a shotgun.)
E.  Like any others; we endorse slavery and perform pseudo-cannibalistic rituals. Oh, and regular cross-burnings.  The little 'ens like to roast marshmallows on the ambers afterwards. 
F.  Excuse me, all this talk about swimming has really got me worked up.  I need to go rub one out.
G.  Maple is the one true God; thou shalt not worship any other flavored syrup.  Thou shalt not covet your spouse’s Harvest Grain & Nut pancakes; get your own damn order.   Decaffeinated coffee is a false idol. That’s pretty much it. Now, let’s talk about that tithe.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)