There is a new guy playing professional baseball.  His name is Tim Tebow.  Perhaps you have heard of him.  He says “excited” and “my dream” and “virgin” a lot.  And he never blushes when he says those things, nocturnal emissions be damned.  Once, he was a football player.  He still looks like one.  Alas, his arm is wobbly and inaccurate and god won’t let him play H-back.  Yahweh is capricious and often cruel in matters of sport.

But do not weep for Tebow.  He is writing books like crazy.  They are inspiring and being bought up by Christians throughout the South.  These books make him rich.  Plus, he gets to be on ESPN whenever he likes.  The people at the sports and entertainment network love when he does things like try to play baseball.  It makes good copy.  Speaking of copying, Tebow didn’t really write these books.  Somebody else did.  This real author’s name is in really tiny print at the bottom of the book cover.  Tebow is the athletic equivalent of Sarah Palin when it comes to literary venture.  You betcha’.  I’m so excited.  Writing this book was my dream.

Anyway, I’m not here to pick on Tebow or Sarah Palin.  I’m here to report on breaking news.  Hold on to your hats, because this is a doozy.  Tim Tebow is really the lost son of Kris Kardashian!  I know.  Who would have imagined?  The MO, that’s who.  Simpleton.  Have you not learned of the MO’s omnipotence by now?   But, I digress.

Once upon a time, Kris Kardashian was banging men who were not her husband.  One of these men was O.J. Simpson.  Kris became pregnant.  To her credit, she did not know who the father was and she held out hope that the child would be a small Armenian.  Unfortunately, the child came out black as coal and full of muscles.  Panicked, the Kardashians concocted a tale of a stillborn Armenian baby and quickly put up O.J.’s muscular spawn for adoption.  The child was adopted by some deeply religious people in Florida.  These people were the Tebows.

When they laid eyes on the infant, the Tebows were extremely disappointed.  This child was black as coal.  And, as everyone knows, people become black because they have been charred by hell fire.  Now the Tebows were panicked.  They prayed and prayed, on one knee, one two knees, lying flat on the floor.  But nothing worked.  Finally, Mr. Tebow took the radical action of driving the child to New Orleans.  For, it was only in New Orleans where one could find the cure for a Cajun-style child.  In exchange for a chicken and some cash, Tebow secured the talents of a voodoo woman named Eureka Manning (I know, you just can’t make these things up!).  Eureka slaughtered the chicken, drank half a bottle of rum and told Daddy ‘Bow (for that is what Eureka called Tim’s adoptive father) to rub alligator blood over the child for thirteen straight days.  Daddy ‘Bow did as he was told and a fortnight later he had a son even whiter than you and me.  He did, however, forget the backs of the child’s knees.  If you look closely, you can still see the blackness there.

In the end, the Kardashians got their own show and an empire based on a sex tape and the Tebow’s ended up with a son who was the star quarterback of the the Florida Gators.  Once again, the lord works in mysterious ways.

And the black guy in the story ended up in jail.

Pow.

I watched my neighbor ride by my house this morning.  He had the whole family in the car.  Doubtless, he and his clan were headed toward church.  He is an ardent practitioner of the Nazarene religion.  As an adherent of the True Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I find him to be a misguided soul bound for Hades,  where he and his family will be slowly roasted in a pan upon a giant Amana range until the end of time.  Their screams will be the lamentations of the unrepentant.  It is sad, but it is his choice.  Free will, you know.  I would try to tell him, but I am sure my speech would fall unheard.  The Evil One has stoppered his ears and the eternal sizzling is his destiny.  I would feel worse about it if not for his mowing.

You see, my neighbor insists on mowing the ditch line in front of my house.  In fairness, this habit began before I was living here.  At that time, this house was inhabited by a single mother (my now wife) and my neighbor took this situation as an indication that she was unable to fully take care of herself (her being a little woman and all).  As noted, he is a very Christian man.  In an act of Christian charity, the neighbor took it upon himself to start mowing  the ditch.  I am sure he also petitioned the Republican government for tax relief of some sort.  The Arabs, after all, are not giving gas away these days.  Regardless, this act of kindness has become a habit.

Enter the MO.  Unlike my Christian brethren, who are hell bent on the taming of the wilderness, I have a rather laissez faire attitude toward lawn mowing.  In fact, it is my philosophy to mow as little as possible.  Grass- as well as ditch weeds- grows back.  Thus, the taming of one’s lawn is nothing more than a Sisyphean chore guaranteed to end in futility.  In the mind of the MO, better to bend to the inevitable than continue to push the stupid rock up the mountain.  Then again, few men have the logical nature of the MO.  It is my curse.

The upshot is that this fat bastard is intent on keeping the ditch under his Christian control.  The war on thistle and milkweed ain’t got no end.  “Onward Christian soldiers, mowing as to war.  With the logo of John Deere, going on before.”

My neighbor’s presumption has inspired thoughts of sabotage on the part of the MO.  I have considered shuttling some baseball sized rocks into his path or perhaps the strategic placement of some sort of incendiary device.  Having to replace his mower blades would surely temper his ditch mowing ardor.  Alas, my wife is cool to the idea of sabotage.  She seems to think that this neighbor, while misguided, is doing no real harm.

To this sentiment I say “balderdash!”  What of the mighty monarch butterfly?  If you are unaware, the numbers of monarch butterflies have fallen precipitously in the past few years.  There are many reasons why, but foremost (at least in my learned opinion) is the dwindling of available milkweed.  Monarchs cannot survive without milkweed.  It it what their caterpillars eat.  Ergo, my fatassed neighbor is starving the children (of monarch butterflies).  What kind of jackass would starve children?  A Boy Scout troop leader, that’s who.  On a riding lawnmower.

Worry not, faithful reader.  The MO is biding his time.  Even as I write this, I am praying to the FSM for guidance.  The way it looks now, this guidance could be one of two things.  The first thought is to put a curse on my neighbor, much like the one the gypsy put on the man in the book Thinner.  Except I want my neighbor to contract syphilis.  Dick Rot Away I will say as I touch his forearm.

The second idea is to just throw a bunch of sixteen penny nails in the ditch.  I know the nails thing lacks the subtlety of a syphilis curse, but I find it more expedient.  It takes a while for syphilis to kick in and there is still a fair amount of penicillin in the world.  Fucking Fleming.

If those measures fail, I will just out him relative to his closeted homosexuality.

Pow Pow Abomination Pow.

“And Woe Be it to Man, when the false prophets speak of deviltry amongst us.  And Woer Be it still Whence the juice box turneth against Us.  For no goeth forth and Multiply, but only dancing and the Weareth of Spangly garb and the wooing of those Who Should Not be wooed.  Remembereth, Wooed will equal the Woe.  And no juice boxes.”-    As told to the prophet MO by the Flying Spaghetti Monster (in a dream on a Friday after an extra Bloody Mary that the MO did not really want but drank anyway)

There is this guy named Alex Jones.  Have you heard of him?  If not, I will give you a bit of background.  Alex is a conservative pundit.  He says ridiculous, outrageous things.  This strategy is quite popular, not to mention lucrative.  Alex’s radio show has a larger audience than Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck combined.  Combined.  Pow Pow Pow.  If this does not frighten you, I have some tasty little morsels that may change your mind a tad.

Recently, Alex stated that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama smell like sulfur.  You know, the Devil’s stench.  I’m not sure how Alex knows this, but I can only assume that he has it on good authority.  Certainly, his many millions of viewers believe it to be true.  And, if Alex is wrong, what is the harm?  I mean Hillary and Obama might be the devil incarnate.  Though I’m not sure how one could explain their being in the same place at the same time.  I suppose it could be a camera trick.  The Dark One is a wicked smart trickster.  Look in the dictionary under the word “deception” and you are sure to see a picture of Mephistopheles.  (Also known as Lucifer or Old Scratch).  Regardless, those emails alone give some credence to Alex’s claims.  As for Obama, well, he is black you know.  Slowly turned to charcoal by the fires of hell, no doubt.  It frizzes their hair as well.  Not to mention the smell.  Phoeeeee!  Sulfur stinks.

Speaking of stinking, how about those homos?  Of course, some people want to give gay people an excuse.  Limp wristed liberals, mostly.  These people say that gay people are born that way.  They can’t help it.  Pffffff!  And another pffffff!  Obviously, these Libtards haven’t been listening to Alex Jones.  Alex says that our children are being turned gay by juice boxes.  Yes, you heard right.  Juice Boxes.  These square receptacles are made by a legion of demons whose sole responsibility is to turn all of humanity gay.  Why, you ask?  So that the human population dies out leaving the Earth to be inhabited by mutant, half man, half animals who are being created by evil scientists – scientists who have turned away from god and study things like DNA and Dr. Moreau.

And you thought the Bilderbergs were problematic.  That’s OK.  The MO is here to inform as well as entertain.  Alright.  I made that last part up.  The demons merely want the Earth for themselves, of course.

Anyway, you can help combat these threats to humanity.  First, never drink anything that comes in a box (and sure as hell don’t give any juice boxes to your kids).  Second, vote Trump.  He only smells like money.

And sometimes women’s privates.

Allegedly.

 

 

I had a teammate when I played college basketball.  He was very fond of regaling the rest of us with tales of his sexual exploits.  That none of us cared apparently never crossed his mind.  Often, this is the way of the storyteller.  But willing audience or not, the story must be told.

I remember one particular story very clearly, even more so in light of recent events.

We were in a hotel room in Bemidji.  It was January and very, very cold.  I thought maybe we would die there.  Anyway, as he had a captive audience my amorous – and garrulous- teammate began his crude tale.  About halfway through his story, he rose from his chair and began mimicking a recent act of sexual congress.

Enthusiastically, he slapped the ass of an imaginary partner, exclaiming exuberantly, “Whose pussy is this ?  Whose pussy is this?”  Apparently, these were the sweet nothings he whispered into the ear of his willing paramour.  He asked the question again of his phantom gal pal.

“Whose pussy is this?  Whose pussy is this?”

It was a question none of us had an answer for.

Even though I was but a lad of 19, I thought his display a bit reprehensible.  Moreover, I found his enthusiasm a bit off-putting as there were no real women in the vicinity.  (Though, even if there were, he would have had no way to get to them being that it was about fifty below with the wind chill.)  Regardless, it was a lewd and disturbing display.

I do not know what happened to that teammate.  I also do not know what happened to his college girlfriend.  Certainly, they are no longer together.  It is also certain that this once young woman is now a wife and mother who has no recollection of any of the aforementioned events.  Motherhood, even more than marriage, often brings forth the amnesia.

However, wherever my former teammate has gone, I am sure he is smiling today.  Smiling because he has a kindred spirit in the political arena.  No longer is it reprehensible to talk about women’s pussies in public.  You can snatch at them as you please (no pun intended) and tell the tale with pride.  Grab them right in the pussy, just like a true American would.

You know, I wondered how things were going to be made great again.  Maybe you were wondering as well.  Wonder no more, my cynical friend.  Grab yourself a pussy and join the pussy grabbing revolution.  They are everywhere and they are all ready to be groped.  And, as Trump is a Republican and thus on the side of Jesus, you cannot possibly go to hell for your pussy grabbing.  It is Jesus approved.  Why I am sure Lot took a little salty grab before leaving his wife behind.  Who wouldn’t?

As for the question posed so long ago by my vulgar teammate, I finally have the answer.

“Whose pussy is this?”

It is Donald Trump’s pussy.  And he just wants to make it great again.