ECLIPSE

A SHORT STORY

A long time ago in a land far far away, the people spent their days digging the dirt to harvest their meagre crops, battling the fickle elements.

And in the evenings, when they lay exhausted in their huts, the people came to thinking:
Why am I here? Why now? Who made me?

And in the mornings, the people woke and asked:
Why does the sun rise there? Who makes it come up? What if it doesn’t rise, and some day never comes?

But for many days and many seasons, the sun always rose, and the people were dazzled in its brilliance. Though the rains changed, the winds changed, and all things changed, the sun stayed true.
And the people said:
Let us trust in the sun, the one constant thing in this dangerous world.

But one day, many seasons later, though it rose high in the sky, the sun suddenly turned black, and from its brilliance just a moment before, it seemed like a dead thing. And darkness covered the land, though it was day.
And the people panicked and cried:
O Sun, Sun, why have you forsaken us?
The sun returned, and beamed again.
But the people who had put their faith in the sun grew weary. For if the sun could not stay true, there was wrong in the world.

And so a wise man came forward, and cried:
People, the Sun grows angry with us. For we take and take, dry our tears in his warmth, dry our robes in his light, seek his guidance before the night, but give nothing.

And so the people were humbled, and sorry,  and decided the sun must be offered gifts in return for its own.

And the people gathered sticks, and built a pyre, and when the harvest came took an offering to the pyre, and when the sun reached its zenith, made a fire, cooking for the sun a share of their crops.
And the sun rose again, and for many seasons more stayed true. And all the crops grew well, the harvest abounded, and there was food and drink for all. And no more did the people witness the horror and darkness of its disappearance.

But one day, many seasons later, in the time of the wise man’s grandchildren, the sun again without warning turned black in the day.
And the people witnessed horror, and ran away, the animals panicked, and the darkness seemed to loom an eternity before the sun reappeared in the high sky.

And the people cried:
O Sun, Sun, we offered you our crops, bid you welcome every day, placed our trust in you, yet again you forsake us. O Sun, great and only Sun, why in your anger do you turn black and abandon us in the day? Will you turn the whole world upside down? When you cannot stay light in the day, how can we trust you? How can we trust anything under your command? Will you next turn day to night, night to day, rain to drought, darkness to light?

But a wise man came forward, and cried:
O people, you cry like ungrateful children. Shame on you all. Again the Sun grows angry with us. Can you not see? For we take and we take, compel him to rise each day, and yet in return give nothing. No, you cannot see. For the Sun’s greatness has blinded you! When you grew fat and lazy, and took to feasting and reveling and sleeping, you lay in slumber, hours after the Sun rose as you asked him to. No, you grow fat on his kindness, but doubt him when he grows angry at your ingratitude.

So the people were chastened, and downcast, but stayed ignorant. So the wise man said:
O people, when did you ever give more than you had to? Our harvests abound, yet we give but a meagre portion of our crops to the Sun. We are not hungry, we want for nothing. We must give more.

So the people gathered sticks, and big logs, and built a pyre, much bigger than before, and when the harvest came took an offering to the pyre. And though the greed in their hearts urged them to give less, they gave more, and pledged to go without food for the day of the harvest. And in their zeal they agreed to sacrifice more, and they looked at their hands and counted, and agreed to fast every tenth day.

And in their hungry rapture, when the sun reached its zenith, the people made a fire, and were happy to cook for the sun a big share of their crops.
And the sun rose again, and for many seasons more stayed true. And all the crops grew well, the harvest abounded, and the people fasted on the harvest day in the sun’s honour.

And the sun always rose, and the people were dazzled in its brilliance. And though the rains changed, the winds changed, and all things changed, the sun remained true. No more did the people witness the horror and darkness of its disappearance.

And as the seasons passed, a young man observed the sun, and the sacrifices made, and his heart grew scornful. And he told his friends, when the elders were away:

Friends, every tenth day we starve, on the eleventh we are tired, and only by the twelfth can we work the land. And on the twentieth day again we starve, to save our food for the Sun. Friends, we give the Sun too much! Have you ever seen the Sun turn black in day? No, such things are a lie. The elders, when they were young, ate every day. Yet now, they want us hungry.

And the young man and his friends agreed a great injustice was upon them. And the young men decided, on the day of the sacrifice, to keep their offerings from the sun. And when the people gathered at the fire, the young men hid in the bush, kept their food in a cave, and ate secretly.
And at the fire, the elders saw the offering was smaller than before. And the chief asked:
Where are the young men, and their offerings for the Sun?
And the elders sought the youngsters, and when they discovered the young men in the cave behind the bush, they were angry.

And the young men spoke among themselves, and in his defiance the leader of the young men challenged the elders.
Old men, he said, all our lives we have seen the fruits of our labour tossed on the pyre. For what? Every day the Sun rises, and stays burning bright. The Sun is mighty, and has no need for our gifts. The Sun ignores us, cannot hear us, cannot speak with us. We fool ourselves.

And the leader of the elders was angry with the young man.
Fool, with your ingratitude you have cursed us all. May the Sun have mercy on you.

And in his arrogance, the young man mocked the elder, and defied him. Yet the next day the sun rose again, and stayed bright all day, and for many days after.
And again the young man mocked the elder, and mocked the sun.

And the old men grew feeble, and with each passing season, the people agreed more with the young man, and grew tired of fasting on the tenth day.
But one day, in the time of the defiant and scornful people, the sun suddenly withered, turning black with anger.
And now it was the time for the youngsters to see the horror, and the animals to panic, the people to scream, the babies to cry. The darkness seemed to loom an eternity before the light returned.

And the people turned on the defiant young man, and discussed how to punish him.
This man has brought a curse, the ancient chief said. He is an accursed thing. In his defiance and arrogance he has doomed us, and cannot be trusted. He must go.
And yet another elder said:
We have not offered enough to the Sun. We must offer more than crops.
And another said:
We must fast every fifth day.

And another said:
We must call the young man in, and see if he is humbled.
And the young man, now with wife and child, met with the elders, and was shaking and chastened.
And though he was sorry for the curse he’d brought, the chief commanded him gone.

But chief, the young man declared, I have no place to go. Here is my life.
And so another elder told him: If you are to stay, you must give more. You must atone for your wickedness.
And so the young man was commanded to give all his animals and crops to the sun, and throw them on the pyre before all the other people.
And as the days passed, and the sun remained light, the people were pleased, for they had made the right decision.

Yet the young man and his family grew hungry. And his children cried, and his wife grew angry.
Husband, she said, you must provide for us.

And as the days passed, the young man found he was still cursed. And he gazed at the sun as it rose, and cursed it:
You have brought me only pain. I am an outcast, compelled to live in darkness. Though I gave everything to you, I am poor, and despised. Though they forgave me, they despise me. I starve every day now.

And as the sun rose, and grew brighter, the young man was sure the sun mocked him, as if to say:
You once cursed me and lamented starving every tenth day. May you now feel what it is to starve every day, ungrateful wretch.
And the man became a creature of the night, to avoid hearing the sun mocking him. And his children cried more, and his wife grew more weary, and one night chided him:
You hide in the day, and are a creature of the night and darkness. You have cursed yourself again, and wallow in your misery as we starve. Wake up!
And the man was chastened again, and humbled, and promised to provide for his wife.

The next day, the man returned to the bush and the cave where he hid the food as a youngster. And from where the food was once hidden, he watched the people go by, and waited for a man who carried bread. And the man leapt from the bushes, and hit the man on the head, and took his food.
That evening, the family ate, and his wife asked her husband where he found the food.

And the man replied:
The Sun appeared to me, and cast a ray of light in the bushes, near the cave I ventured when I was young and foolish. And there, I saw the bread.
And the man urged his wife to not doubt him, and she smiled, and they lay together.
The next day, the man by the bushes woke with a lump on his head, and saw his bread was taken. Yet he could remember nothing, and did not know what happened to his food.
That evening, the outcast again returned to the bushes, and waited for another man to pass by with bread, and he again snuck up on the man and stold his bread.
And again, he told his wife the sun again appeared to him in the cave, and guided him to the food.

Now the people heard of these strange assaults, and grew weary, till an elder commanded some men to visit the bushes, and find the thief and attacker.
But the outcast was no fool, and did not return to the bushes. Instead, he observed the men sent to catch him, and he ran to their homes, and stole their food and drink.
And on the third night, he told his wife the sun again appeared to him in the cave.
After the homes were robbed, an elder declared:
When the men leave home to seek the thief, others must watch their homes.
And the outcast left his happy wife and happy children the next day, and avoided both the bushes and the homes of the men sent to catch him.

And he watched from his creeping and his crawling the homes of the other men vacated.
And he stole from the homes of the men sent to guard the homes of the other men trying to catch him. And for the fourth night, he told his wife the sun again appeared to him in the cave.

Now the people were made to feel foolish, and grew furious, and an elder commanded the people to visit the outcast’s house, for he was an object of suspicion.
And the outcast saw this happening, and went to steal from those assigned to visit his house. And though he feared his wife might betray him, he remembered his lie to her, and she repeated this to her questioners.

The Sun appeared to him, and cast a ray of light in the bushes, near the cave he ventured when he was young and foolish. And there, he saw the bread.
And the people asked the women how many times this had happened, and she replied:
Four nights in a row.

And the man returned to his home as the people questioned his wife, and declared:
Friends, welcome, I have a great bounty here. For in my humility and disgrace, the might and perfect Sun has forgiven me! Eat with me, and let us praise the Sun’s mercy and bounty.
And though the people were still wary of the man, and his words, they were hungry, and foolish, and ate with him.
And the man declared:
Friends, I fear the Sun cannot keep guiding me to food every day. I am need of some animals, and seeds. Can you help?

And at this point, an elder convened the group and they whispered and huddled and spoke quietly. And the elder told the man:
Yes, young man, you were an outcast but are now among equals again. We feared you were a thief, but now hear you are the recipient of miracles. Please come to the place where we make the pyre, and there we will have a ceremony to welcome you, and to recognise your special bond with the Sun.

And the man was now very proud, and smiled, and the next day wore his finest clothes as he waited for the people to embrace and honour him.
And the people gathered round, and an elder told them to gather close, and gather closer, and closer still.

And the young man called out:
This is a tight embrace. How honoured I am.
And the people grabbed him, and cheered, and laughed, and raised him on their shoulders, and chanted his name, and sang of his visions and miracles, and the young man was in rapture, and declared his love for the people, and the sun, and repeated the miracles, and the people carried him close to the pyre.

And the elder yelled out:
You are a hero, and an outcast no more, and a miracle worker. Through you, we talk with the Sun. May the Sun continue blessing and feeding you, and feeding us all, and may the Sun be happy with our sacrifice.
And the young man, the new hero, was in ecstasy, and the crowd surged, as he rode on their shoulders, and they cheered, and sang, and shouted with joy, and threw him on the fire.

THE END

POSTSCRIPT: Did you really think the people were going to believe the bullshit that thieving, lying, smug, ungrateful asshole spouted?  A few tweaks here and there and we could have our religious text here. Any asshole can create a religion, conjure up commandments.

This is dedicated to Paris, city of life and light. Don’t #PrayforParis, the world needs less bullshit religion and dogma. Live for Paris, in its spirit of hugs, kisses, dancing and joy.

fraternityforeternity

Schizophrenic Empire

American piety is an enduring mystery. The world’s first modern nation was established by polymaths and progressives like Jefferson and Franklin. Eleven generations later, it’s somehow a hotbed of dogma and mysticism. This has nothing really to do with what follows.

A strange land, this capital of conspiracy theories is also a paradise for patriotism and pseudo-nationalistic sentiment best expressed by flags on front porches and a continuing belief in the unique freedom and opportunity of the United States. Waffling Jaffa Weekend Edition foreign correspondent Maxwell Christiansen III interviewed a man named Maine back in 2005 and returned later to rekindle what few sparks of latent conversation they retained. They reunited beside the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland, Ohio.

In the ’60s Cleveland was so polluted the Cuyahoga caught fire, twice. If not for the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame, the city would have died of shame, much as Detroit these days longs to do. Maine and M3 began discussing issues from personal hygiene to human destiny, and Maine launched forward like a rocket into space.

“At one point, Empisini believed that despite the rags-to-riches stories which Laissez-faire capitalism endlessly paraded to prevent outbreaks of class war or mass suicide, the majority of those  pillaging what little remained of Earth’s resources, the majority of those who years before exerted titanic energies to place a misguided foul-mannered philistine in the White House, and the majority of those who for reasons Freud would love to discuss spent the pre-recession years bankrolling brainless bimbos who carried around small idiotic hounds in handbags and drove SUVs and MPVs in every large congested city, fouling the air, ruining the economy, and further insulating themselves from reality and the rabble in their pompous and pointless existence, had themselves grown up either in positions of shielded privilege, excess, and consumeristic nihilism, or had simply been made too stupid and insensitive by years of indoctrination to any longer care about the ultimate outcomes of their excess.

“In the early part of this decade, one looked at the nouveau-riche with an air of superior contempt, reciprocated by noses turned quite porquine from every upward-glancing sneer. It could have been assumed that the ceilings of suburban malls and homes were snot-spattered, coated with trails of mucus from all the upturned nostrils flaring with contempt at those not bedecked from every orifice and appendage in Gucci and Armani.”

The point Maine wanted to make was that, well, the world has changed. The recession creeps slowly, like the noxious fumes of a flatulent elephant skidding across the endless skyscapes of the African savannah.

Maine complained about the myth of meritocracy. M3 responded.

“It’s not so much the myth of meritocracy, but the myth of limitless financial potential. It is good that our society has respect for the genuine rags-to-riches heroes, but it is economically impossible for us all, or even a sizeable minority, to emulate these feats. We must be realistic about this.”

On Maine’s laptop Walk of Life began its distinctive intro. A flash-flood of electric artificial memories swept across the texture of his mind, percolating as he dreamed and half-remembered winding driveways carving through pristine lush and sunny suburbs, the novelty of CD players, the glory of corporate-endorsed superbowls.

“The ’80s were great,” says Maine. “Everyone was loaded. Everyone was getting laid all the time. Everyone had moustaches. Well, not the women, but, well, what a decade! Reagan, Rocky, MacGyver, Apollo Creed, the A-Team.”

M3 played the part of wet blanket, damp towel, and snotty tissue.

“Your memories of the ’80s are tinted rosy, paper-tiger bits of consciousness, lush and beautiful, powerful and seductive, but ultimately baseless and flammable. Prior to being corrupted by teenage stupidity, reality TV, and Rupert Murdoch, you were young and innocent as William Blake, awake to endless possibility and possessing an imagination unhampered by the doubts of scornful elders and closet-bourgeois women who derided all dreams wider, brighter, lighter than the parameters of values they dissected then digested in the dining-room of the mind, beside the furnace of morality, fuelled by notions of respectability. And of course, respectability is a phoney norm, shifting in the quicksand of a changing complex world – morality is a monster, toxic and ten-headed, voicing one thing here, another there, with each of its fang-lined faces just beyond their neighbours’ reach.

“Yes, Maine, morality is a multi-headed monster, a demon always strained by endless civil war, its opposing voices unable to silence one another, instead only spitting and regurgitating words and maxims, platitudes and diatribes, sensations, scandals, myriad hysterical speculations.”

Anomie, not ennui, is the curse of Schizophreniland. Who am I? Barbara Cartland? William J. Clinton? Edmund Hillary? Who’ll be my role model, now that my role model is gone, gone? He ducked back down the laundry chute, emerging in a starch shirt, smiling and self-righteous, a bible in his left hand, and a dildo in his right, beaming with a white hygienic smile, speaking just the words “I come in peace”.

BALLDROPS AND SUMMERTIME – WAFFLING JAFFA SAGELY AND URBANELY REFLECTS ON IMAGINARY THINGS OF ZERO TO INFINITE CONSEQUENCE

BALLDROPS

Waffling Jaffa had nothing to say once, much to the consternation of his countless constipated fans. They thrashed and screamed on streets outside his central semi-suburban city office. He fought them off with sceptres studded penis-shaped, glistening with gold-engraved outlines of swine flu syringes.

The hordes who populate that fetid corner of the internet had to end their pavement vigil, because WJ dangled no infants from his balcony, signed no autographs. Instead he wallowed in masturbatory self-indulgence before deciding to live vicariously through Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

He dreamed of his characters’ thoughts and wants. Let us presently remember. There was Randall Christiansen, cousin of our established hero Maxwell Christiansen III. Randall still dreams of high-powered jobs where he wears suspenders, smokes cigars. He imagines a world where whisky bottles fill office drawers. He sees clouds move across the pink sunset savannah, elephants stampeding in rhythm, rising dust receding.

His creator aims to associate with worker termites and have his mind awakened by the bites of soldier ants on his ass. He hides from stampeding Neanderthals before emerging from his hovel with sulphur-soaked spears, piercing the monsters. He watches their entrails fall on the earth. Vultures and hyenas squabble over carcasses. Jackals follow suit. Rats and maggots follow jackals. They lie to the side, replete before defecating. Diarrhoea stains the savannah.

***

SUMMERTIME IN THE FIRST WORLD

In suburban shopping malls, bloated middle-aged women lick phallic ice cream cones with spotted tongues. Melting in the humid air, drops of sorbet drip on the swaggering women’s bright-red blouses.

Spunk-like slime congeals on the underside of their overhanging guts. They continue on, oblivious. They hear the recession is over. Self-declared creative types and communists everywhere despair. The recession was to be the defining thing, the one great semi-tragic orgasm of a nameless generation defining itself in status updates and indulgent rambling diatribes like this. This author is enlivened, alive, and imagines someone cares. He reads illegible scrawled doodles written in the midst of nights spent half-awake while thinking how to sleep.

Thinking about sleep makes him tired.  He decides to adopt Hinduism, knowing he might then be reincarnated…as Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

Life in shallow water (part 2)

The memoirs of Fenugreek McIntyre

Three is a sacred number. All famous fiction is written by obsessive-compulsives. Writers try fermenting flashing liquid thought into vulgar, tangible language. For creation myths, they resuscitate metaphors of apples and serpents, holy trinities and dreams within dreams, in models mirrored faithfully for all time to follow. Three is eternal.

Three is the number of our shallow-watered household. Maxwell, Paul, and Theophrastus were not destined to be together, any more than Sun in this tiny corner of sky was destined to befriend Earth and orbiting Moon. But three found themselves in a moment together, and forced to talk by threats of lustful, lonely sleep, they circled round the lounge in baited conversation.

“What surprised me the most,” said Maxwell.

By virtue of upbringing and heightened sense of self, Maxwell long pursued his dreams in shining mirrors. A positive fatalist, he always knew himself destined for greatness. When his teeth and gleaming skin shone right back on him, he beckoned angels of precise and finely-crafted vision.

“I took the leadership course, ran cadets up Rangitoto, wore the Prefect’s badge in High School. These scumbags ought to know I am the natural pre-born leader.”

“What surprised me most…”, and he forgot what to say.

Paul Coogan, doused in sympathy, took pity on Maxwell. Armed with nothing but naive drunken foresight, Coogan moved his lips, finding in his throat the seeds of some great speech. Whether he could carry it out, time alone would tell.

Theophrastus was distracted, squeezing a boil on his big toe, watching pus pour out before wiping it on the living room floor.

Christiansen continued. “What surprised me most, about this life,” he breathed inside deeply, as if still believing his own heart held keys to constant knowledge.

“Okay, fuck it, what surprised me most, was how accurate my instincts came to be. I was raised to believe in the primacy of instinct. But I became educated, lost my balance, fell from one foot to another. Am I dissapointed? No. It has come to my attention that when faced with danger, most people are ig-noble. Though when watching action movies, they sympathise with fearless heroes, most people in real life are cowards bent on pure short-term self-preservation. Risk-averse and keen to be uncontroversial, people I once dissected and analysed to be trustworthy always, always dropped me.”

Coogan waited before hoping to explain why he maintained optimism, held no grudges, bore no crutches, smelled no crotches, and so on. He waited more.

Theophrastus Bambanungu had many unique abilities. After drinking rice wine, he could smell through his ears, hear through his tongue, and see through his asshole.

Best of all, Theo never forgot what other people said, because everything he heard was echoed, echoed, echoed.

“…people who upon dissection I analysed to be trustworthy always dropped me,” Theo heard Christiansen say again.

“That’s because you’re a cunt,” Theophrastus said.

Silence filled the room. Theophrastus continued.

“What surprised me most was how long pus stays sticky for.”

I RESOLVE TO BE MORE OF A DOUCHEBAG

We built mountains of pomp this time twelve years ago. Mixed feelings of gratitude and self-importance spurred us into celebrating the onset of a thousand-year eon.
Fireworks shot shadows into the night and our glinting eyes gazed skyward while our britches quivered with half-baked apocalyptic fear. After all, it was sworn by soothsayers speaking in cuboid electronic living-room hearths that little green insects invented by pioneering geeks had been pre-programmed to spread panic through the world when Y2K arrived.
But with the exception of a few un-future-proofed government-themed arcade games in Havana (“Fidel The Kung-Fu Warrior” and “Che the Ice-Cream Deliveries Hombre” included), all machines ticked over.
We breathed easy as lights stayed lit, toilets flushed and drinks poured. In the early hours, filled with a sense of sanctity and solemnity, indigenous people rowed boats across the harbour. Across the sea a group of islands practically once unknown basked in the first rays of the millennium’s rising sun.
The first hours and days of the New Year straddle, as a corpulent woman posed for a nude portrait sprawls, over all divides of past, present and future. Time seems arbitrary even though the temporal construct defines our obsession with such events.
Calendars take on cleansing roles and resolutions are made with wild, hedonistic, drunken ambition.
Sins and shortcomings are washed away as if riding in a car crossing two dimensions, front windscreens first, erasing all old limits of our vision.
Dissecting these rituals and shifts in consciousness would be a pointless exercise. If January 1 didn’t mark the New Year, any other day would have to fill the role, only because humanity’s desire for renewal is eternal.
Since most of us are well aware of our failings, we must believe some great transcendent force – Christ, love, a portentous calendar shift – exists to redeem us. Redemption is a futile goal if we’re incapable of change. Such is the value of a resolution, even if it’s not fulfilled.

Life in shallow water (part 1)

Life in shallow water (part 1)

The memoirs of Fenugreek McIntyre

Maxwell Christiansen III is a dreadful individual. Smug, rich, spoilt, he wafts through life like an inoffensive fart, his toxicity only noticed by the most discerning folks.

Paul Coogan comes from nothing and often risks returning there. His family were once well-read and pointlessly wealthy, but his first home was a caravan park. He wears cheap aftershave to mask the smell of cigarettes, no longer farts in public lifts, but still riles the sensibilities of those he meets in respectable society.

Theophrastus Bambanungu smears his shit on public restroom walls, masturbates incessantly, and plays computer games till crack of dawn. He has constant body odour and sustains only sarcastic, memetic conversation.

Coogan’s family recovered from recession and gained toeholds in middle-class suburbia. His parents were distant and religious, occasionally abusive, but hardly stuff of endless sessions on a headshrink’s sofa. Coogan’s biggest mistake was abandoning Machiavelli, reading Blake and buying into philanthropic optimism.

Christiansen was smarter, as smartness in a cynical society counts. He discloses no secrets, confesses no likings, keeps demons well confined. To avoid misjudging the character of friendly strangers, he associates only with fellow King’s College old boys and first and second cousins. Ethnics are acceptable, so long as they’re in med school or their parents live in Epsom. Maintaining apparent sanity and a sterile reputation is of total importance.

Bambanungu hangs out with the Chinese boy-men in the all-night net cafes. On his Facebook page, losers he met on XBOX forums speak wonders of his virtual-world prowess. Bambanungu once had to stop gaming for two days to pursue a marathon masturbation session after a 16-year-old in hot pants walked into the net cafe.

“You will be missed, brother,” Cheng Lin from Singapore said.

“What an ego boost,” Theo thought. If only real-life was as easy. He has more virtual friends than actual ones. Underneath Facebook photos of good-looking girls, he and Turkish perverts write comments like “what a body!”

Clearly weaned on cheese as stale as the B-grade ’50s movies he watches for tips on tentative seduction, his charm is rare, pathetic and always superficial. He was teased at school for having a fat arse. His tormentors never knew he only looked obese for wearing multiple layers of underwear to mask the stains of constant premature ejaculation.

For Christiansen, no comment or feeling is spontaneous, no action unsanctioned by his social circle, no behaviour incompatible with current standards of decency. What fuck-ups occur among his clique can be excused by diagnosis, the terrible burden of wealth, or some prehistoric injustice toggled like a crutch. His virtual and real-world personas are identical. This is unsurprising, since both are equally contrived.

FUN TIMES WITH TELEVANGELISTS COLLECTORS’ EDITION SPECIAL CHRISTMAS SUPER-EDITION

BACK BY UNPOPULAR REQUEST: THE COLLECTED COMPENDIUM COMPILATION of

“FUN TIMES WITH TELEVANGELISTS”

  •  Fun Times with Televangelists #4 October 30, 2009

For Creflo Dollar

CREFLO MY SHIMMERING SUNBEAM, YOU SHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS EVEN WHEN THERE ARE NO CLOUDS, LIKE SUMMER WITHOUT THE SWEAT AND HUMIDITY, LIKE WINTER WITHOUT THE DRIPPING NOSTRILS, LIKE SPRING WITHOUT HAY FEVER, LIKE AUTUMNS WITHOUT THE DECOPMPOSING LEAVES. THE HOLY SPRITE BLESS YOU.

BROTHER PLEASE NOTE MY FRIEND BARRY IS DEEPLY UNWELL. UNFORTUNATELY IN A RECENT CALAMITY HE FELL HEAD FIRST INTO A PIT OF SULPHUR WHEN HOLIDAYING IN ROTORUA NEW ZEALAND. SINCE THIS INCIDENT HE HAS DEVELOPED A PERPETUAL MALODOROUS FLATULENT STENCH FOLLOWING HIM EVERY WHERE. GOOD SIR WITH YOUR SPIRTUAL AND FINANCIAL ASSISTANCES WE HOPE TO HEAL BARRY.

TRAGICALLY THE TREATMENT FOR BARRY IS COSTY, INVOLVING REGULARLY GRAFTING REMNANTS OF OBESE PEOPLE’S BUTTOCK-SKIN ONTO BARRY’S FACE. MY BANK ACCOUNT DETAILS YOU ALREADY HAVE, PLEASE ALSO GIVE ME YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS SO WE CAN FACILITATE AN AUTOMATIC PAYMENT REGIME. MAY GOD BLESS YOU AND PRECIPITATE VAST VOLUMES OF CLEANSING WATER ON YOUR HEAD FROM ON HIGH

 For Benny Hinn. (May God Heal His Hairline)

Hi Brother Benny, I love your hair and dress sense. I know a guy called ‘Rentboy’ who looks exactly like you.

I liked your latest message (Ep 242) about the fragrance of God, how to release oneself from bondage and gain Jesus’ penetrating love.

As you say, without God we are dry inside, but when we gain this penetrating love we “become moist and fertile in our holy place.”

The necklace and dog tag engraved with Psalm 91 and the Lord’s Prayer is nice. And for only NZ$190! It must be made of platinum!

My younger brother Freddie has been a big fan of yours since his lobotomy and is now saving up to buy this necklace. I think it’s a good buy – all wise men agree that a $190 necklace is a guaranteed way to become a better person.

I love seeing your show, especially when you cure people of cancer on TV. I used to believe in science, medicine, and logic, but have now rescinded these foolish ideas and only have eyes for you. Bless.

For Creflo Dollar

 GOOD DAY AND GRACIOUS PRAISE TO YOU, ELEGANT SIR,

DOCTOR, AS A REGULAR APOSTROPHE OF YOURS I IMPLORE YOU TO OPEN YOUR EAR-ORIFICES TO THE TRAVAILS OF MY COMMUNITY:
MY STEP-NEPHEW FREDDIE WAS BAPTISED IN THE BLOOD OF RIGHTEOUS BEAUTY AFTER OBSERVING ONE OF YOUR MOVING TELECASTSTS.
UNFORTUNATELY FREDDIE NOW HAS DEVELOPED A SEVERE GROWTH IN THE RECESSES OF HIS STOMACH. THIS MALIGNANT AND DEMONIC TUMOR HAS OUTGROWN ITS ORIGINAL HABITATION AND HAS EMERGED ON THE EXTERNAL SURFACE OF FREDDIE’S HEAD.
BROTHER, WE HAVE PRAYED, AND WITH GOD’S MERCY, THE TUMOR HAS DESISTED ITS EXPANSION BUT REMAINS ON FREDDIE’S FACE AND HAS LED TO HIM BEING OSTRICHISED AND SUBJECTED TO AN EXPONENTIALLY-MULTIPLYING MULTITUDE OF EMOTIONAL INCONVENIENCE.
WITH GOD’S BLESSING I WOULD LIKE TO USE YOUR FUNDS TO HELP HIM. MY BANK ACCOUNT DETAILS: “03-0706-523012294-077 JOHN EEKES TSB BANK WELLINGTON.”
ANY CONTRIBUTIONS AND LOVE GIFTS WELCOME. AS YOU SAY “I’M GONNA REMAIN PATIENT”
GOD BLESS YOU PASTOR , PRAISE BE

August 29, 2009 For Creflo Dollar

BROTHER PLS HELP ME NOW, TIMES ARE HARD WITH REZESSION AND WHAT NOT. GOD PRAISE THEM WHO GIVE WITHOUT REQUEST. MY YOUNG BROTHER PAULIE HAS TERRIBLE HAEMMORHOIDS WHICH HAVE SPREAD FROM HIS NETHERLANDS TO HIS HEAD. WE BELIEVED IT WAS A DEMONISTIC POSSESSION AND CALLED A CLERIC TO EXERCISE HIM BUT NO LUCK. EVEN WITH THE POWERS OF THE HOLY GOAT, PAULIE REMAINS CONFINED TO THE HOME WHICH HE HAS STARTED TO OUTGROW DUE TO THE EXPANDING PILES. PLEASE GIVE ME SOME FUNDS TO HELP HIM, MY BANK ACCOUNT NUMBER 03-0706-523012294-077JOHN EEKES TSB BANK WELLINGTON ANY CONTRIBUTIONS AND LOVE GIFTS WELCOME “I’M GONNA REMAIN PATIENT” GOD BLESS YOU PASTOR SEND MY REGARDS TO DAFFY ALSO JESUS PRAISE