Times have united us recently, despite my being in a functioning coma and hungrier than Teri Schiavo.
We must say, you've come a long way. Well into the past, so it seems, are the days when your purveyor of moral cleansing would turn his back to the paying studio audience and preach his word in Wookie. And with that, it appears, went the safety locks on childrens' zippers. Kyle Farnsworth no longer needs be feared. Dance to Thriller, everyone.
But, yeah, while all that is good, and whatnot...not all is necessarilly cool, dig? First off, can you people get in touch with upper management and kindly ask them to lightning-smite any "clever" asshole in the future who swells with pride and accomplishment upon "discovering" that Jesus-is-a-zombie joke? No, seriously, the sooner you could get on that, the better.
That's not really church related, however, so we'll just call it friendly customer service, and whatnot. In the actual mass, though, there's a song played during the breadline that goes "Jesus, you are the bread. Jesus, we come onto you." This flew past everyone? Seriously? We understand the sheltered social nature of the group as a whole, but did no one at all take into account the unfiltered immaturity of ourselves and other like-minded individuals? We are large in numbers. And when you sing us shit like that, the only thing we can imagine is a group of bishops and cardinals gathered in an empty cathedral, playing a highly competitive game of limp biscuit. And last to cockvomit is Pope.
Most importantly- and this is a serious matter, we promise- is the reason, the inspiration, the cause behind why you're (hopefully) reading this. All throughout our gathering, there was a child wailing his ass off in the back. This could've been out of hunger, or boredom, or he really wanted his homily in Wookie again. All possible, and all reasonable explanations. But now, nobody here wants to speculate, so please excuse our dear aunt Sally, but based on the steady crying nature for a good hour, we think something must've smelled like donkey dick back there. Everything else, and the baby would've given up by the gospel reading. We're almost certain a dead animal crawled up into that back corner and died. If as much turns out true, we reccommend getting someone on the case. That's what Jesus would do. He would dig that furry fucker out and turn its blood into wine. Nothing dies on Jesus and lives to tell the tale, goddamnit!
Oh, and speaking of dying and living to tell the tale, was it truly necessary to say a prayer for the wretched soul of Jason?
Quite obviously, it's too late for that.
Best,
Nikita Khrushchev (by way of Pisses on Wolves)
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