(no subject)
THE SPIRIT OF MAN cannot endure when faced with the nasty prospect of decay. What hath God wrought? I'll tell ye verily what he hath wrought. Bad things. Things that neither you nor I enjoy, and which cling to the soles of our shoes. And yet God persists in filling our world with dirt and disease and food that doesn't taste that good. Stop it, God!
But does God stop? No, he does not. He's an A-S-S-H-0-L-E. Our tiny world continues to rot in the stink of rotting scum that oozes on our hats. How long can we take this abuse? Well, when you think about it, we've taken it for all of recorded time. A week ago last Monday, God overstepped his bounds when a sick bird fell in my soup. What an awful thing that was! I had to throw the soup out! Why did God do that thing? Clearly he did not have to.
And it's not just me. A lot of my friends are upset, too. The Good Baker Willoughshire, of Hammond-Upon-Willoughshire, has one bent leg and coughs so often into his dough that nary a Christian soul graces his shop. And old Widow Merriweather, of Trousers-Upon-Merriweather, is bereft of her husband these fourteen years. He was killed, squabbling over a rag with a bone salesman. Is that any way for a man to die? I think not. And what of Little Tim, whose only toy was a stone he would wet to make it shiny, and who died when the brewer's son forced him to swallow a flatiron?
Clearly this must stop. We will not sit back and take this idly. We must punish God. But we must do it in such a way that he will not strike us dead.
We must pray sarcastically.
We will sacrifice unto Him things which we like, but are not really wild about. Bread with caraway seeds, for instance: bread is good, but with caraway seeds...
We will build Him a mighty and a grand cathedral, but we will build it underground.
We will light incense unto Him that will smell of melons and hair.
We will go to Vespers, but we will arrive late.
We will all confess to the stonemason's sins, the sins of Barney the Younger.
We will suck corn on the Sabbath.
We will convince stutterers, knaves and Barney the stonemason to enter the priesthood.
We will entertain thoughts of placing the warm leather covering of the Bible against our bottoms when it is cold.
We will baptise all our children "Moe."
We will build graven images of Barney the stonemason.
If we all do these things now, God will soon repent of His evil ways and be kind to us once again. No longer must we feel the oppressive weight of His fist of iron. It is time to unfurrow the brow of humankind. Long live man! Yea, man! Go, man, go!
This early British manuscript was found in a little wooden pot, neither artistic nor functional, buried in Figglesbee-on-the-Highland-near-the-marsh. The author is unknown and historically insignificant, but was obviously acquainted with the infamous Barney the stonemason.
But does God stop? No, he does not. He's an A-S-S-H-0-L-E. Our tiny world continues to rot in the stink of rotting scum that oozes on our hats. How long can we take this abuse? Well, when you think about it, we've taken it for all of recorded time. A week ago last Monday, God overstepped his bounds when a sick bird fell in my soup. What an awful thing that was! I had to throw the soup out! Why did God do that thing? Clearly he did not have to.
And it's not just me. A lot of my friends are upset, too. The Good Baker Willoughshire, of Hammond-Upon-Willoughshire, has one bent leg and coughs so often into his dough that nary a Christian soul graces his shop. And old Widow Merriweather, of Trousers-Upon-Merriweather, is bereft of her husband these fourteen years. He was killed, squabbling over a rag with a bone salesman. Is that any way for a man to die? I think not. And what of Little Tim, whose only toy was a stone he would wet to make it shiny, and who died when the brewer's son forced him to swallow a flatiron?
Clearly this must stop. We will not sit back and take this idly. We must punish God. But we must do it in such a way that he will not strike us dead.
We must pray sarcastically.
We will sacrifice unto Him things which we like, but are not really wild about. Bread with caraway seeds, for instance: bread is good, but with caraway seeds...
We will build Him a mighty and a grand cathedral, but we will build it underground.
We will light incense unto Him that will smell of melons and hair.
We will go to Vespers, but we will arrive late.
We will all confess to the stonemason's sins, the sins of Barney the Younger.
We will suck corn on the Sabbath.
We will convince stutterers, knaves and Barney the stonemason to enter the priesthood.
We will entertain thoughts of placing the warm leather covering of the Bible against our bottoms when it is cold.
We will baptise all our children "Moe."
We will build graven images of Barney the stonemason.
If we all do these things now, God will soon repent of His evil ways and be kind to us once again. No longer must we feel the oppressive weight of His fist of iron. It is time to unfurrow the brow of humankind. Long live man! Yea, man! Go, man, go!
This early British manuscript was found in a little wooden pot, neither artistic nor functional, buried in Figglesbee-on-the-Highland-near-the-marsh. The author is unknown and historically insignificant, but was obviously acquainted with the infamous Barney the stonemason.