The Easter Bunny Is A Pussy

Toe-to-toe with the Son of God, Easter Bunny can't even last three measly rounds

For years I've been forced to share my holidays with other fictional characters out there. Most notoriously, that fat fuck Santa Claus has stolen countless wishes for Christmas toys that should have been submitted to me in prayer form. I can't get the satisfaction of saying "No Timmy, I can't be bothered by your ridiculous request for a new fire engine when I'm busy ruling over Heaven and Earth" if the little ankle-biting bastard doesn't even bother asking me.

But I'm not here to complain about Claus, he'll get his another day. The reason I'm up late pecking away at my keyboard is because I want to announce far and wide that another nemesis of mine, one Easter Bunny, is a fucking pussy.

Now, everyone already knows the Easter Bunny is a tad on the fruity side. Mincing around with a basket filled with brightly colored eggs isn't exactly gonna win you any masculinity points, that's for sure. But somehow those silly little Easter baskets always steal some of the thunder from the celebration of my resurrection. I mean, I come back to life after being dead for three days, triumphing over the grave after bearing the sins of the world, and some little hippity-hopping homo gets equal credit for the holiday fun just for rotting little children's teeth with jelly beans and chocolates. I think he and the Tooth Fairy are in cohoots; quite a racket they got going.

Anyway, I finally decided it was time to man-up and challenge that nose-wiggling glory-stealer to a kickboxing match. A few of my connections in the mob tried to get me to take a dive in the 4th, and I considered it to help pay off some of my other gambling losses. But when it came down to it, I just had to pound the little eunuch rabbit into the ground. He toppled like a house of cards in the 3rd, and I left without so much as a scratch on me.

Next year there will be no Easter baskets little Timmy, and no Virginia, there is no Santa Claus!

I Work In Delicious Ways...

As mentioned last time around (and as you may have read the account of in My Word, the best selling book of all time thank you very much), I've been known to turn water into wine and make a dead fig tree instantly blossom. Yeah, I'm pretty much the greatest thing since pretzeled bread and I don't mind telling you so.

So if you somehow missed Mom's immaculate face burned into that grilled cheese sandwich a few years back (it sold for about 27-G's on Ebay), you were all blessed by a second chance to see Mom's image in food form. Recently, Ebay also featured the Virgin Mary pretzel, complete with little baby Me in her arms.

It's easy to scoff at this miracle and attribute it to a crackhead pretzel maker, or to claim that the misshapen snack looks more like a melting snowman than the mother of God. In fact, there's a whole circle of hell fired up just for you skeptics out there. I like to think I have as good a sense of humor as the next god, but at the end of the day I don't fuck around when it comes to manifesting a vague image of myself in random foodstuffs. Mom may have garnered a bit more attention, and a lot more scratch, from her manifestations but as you'll see here, I have a long history of popping my face up in tasty treats and other places.


Ted Tolberman, a 42-year old comic book store owner, rescued my moldy visage from a bag of Lay's and was given the choice of a Wonka-esque tour of my many celestial mansions, or the granting of one wish. With his newfound blessing he promptly wished for a bag of chips without moldy Messiahs on them.

Ted is a sarcastic bastard, and it'll be fun watching him roast like a honey salted peanut after I strike his junk food-eating ass dead of heart disease in about two years.

Gladys Nelson, 79, and a devout Catholic, served me up in potato pancake form one morning to her grandchildren. Really, I had just popped in to have a word with Mrs. Butterworth when no one was looking (I'm not very pleased with some of the rather suggestive labels she's been wearing lately), but Gladys spotted me and insisted little Bobby take a photo with his camera phone before I had a chance to dissolve into the batter.

Julio Marjelas, 33, discovered me peeping at him as he ate at a Japanese restaurant in San Francisco. I could make up something about appearing to warn against the environmental ramifications of shrimp farms and their effect on the mangroves in South America... but really I just showed up to catch a glimpse of the perky waitress. I gotta thing for Asian bitches. Sue me.

Before long I moved into liquids. Appearing on coffee cups and hot chocolate mugs all across the Pacific Northwest as your caffeinated Lord.

Naturally, given my newfound penchant working in the liquid medium, I moved into water stains on bathroom walls. No better place to watch you mortals go about your filthy business.

And for those you who have asked me to come live you your hearts, I've even showed up on chest x-rays. That's no tumor, just your Lord and Savior chilling like a villain.

Everyone knows all dogs go to heaven but few are aware it's not without some major proselytizing on my part. What better place to preach the Gospel according to Bark than right where my canine children are most likely to stick their noses... each others' assholes!

Finally, given the political nature of our times, I thought it may be interesting to show up at some important speech by the leader of my favorite nation in the world, America. Now this one is kind of subtle, but if you squint and turn your head just right you can see my image appear on the wall behind G Dub. I had to be extra sneaky on this one due to that whole separation of church and state thing.

Thou Sayest I Gotta Go To Rehab, And I Sayeth, "Nay, Nay, Nay."

Greetings, my brethren. Gather around for another important parable from your favorite Messiah who's brought you sermons containing divine wisdom about such topics as temperance, prudence, and constancy. This time its about smack.

I don't know if your feeble mortal brains could ever grasp just how sweet life is at the top. In Heaven, it's all about who you know, and let's just say my Dad's kind of a big deal around here. So you'll forgive me if over the millenia I've lived the life of excess and maybe developed a bit of a problem. Even for omniscient sons of god like myself it can be hard to know when to say when.

People have been telling me I've had a problem for ages. Sure, everything started innocently enough, I just turned a little water into wine at a party. No big deal. Then I made a big splash in the stoner scene by multiplying a few loaves and fishes for the multitudes. Little did I know the ganja is a heavens gateway drug. I mixed with the wrong crowd and started dealing. I realized that with faith as small as a mustard seed, I could move mountains of blow (that "let he who is without septum, rip the first line" bit killed). It didn't take long for me to get into the psychedelics. Hell, I smoked DMT before most of my best sermons!

In no time I'm getting turned on to a little brown sugar and I basically became a full blown junkie after that. I just kept going deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. Before I knew what hit me, I thought I could walk on water and I was going around telling everybody to eat my body and drink my blood. That's how fucked up I got!

Finally, when I saw a picture on perezhilton.com of me at the crucifixion with a mysterious white powder around my nostrils and the words "Son of the Most HIGH" written across it with that stupid Windows Paint program, I knew it was finally time to admit I had a problem. So after spending a good chunk of the last 2000 years dragging my feet, I finally decided to check myself in.

I realize now that I've been selfish and a lot of crazy shit has been going down in my name throughout the ages. So, my apologies for inspiring all those Crusades, witch burnings, and abortion clinic bombings. Truth is, I was so crunked I didn't know my ass from an empty tomb in the ground.

Arise, Dented Fender, And Sin No More

So I finally got around to renting An Inconvenient Truth the other day. It'd been lingering in the ole Netflix queue for almost a year, but I kept sliding it down to make room for the latest DVD release of 24. I've developed the guilty pleasure of watching every episode of that show back-to-back-to-back... so I can experience exactly what Jack Bauer experiences in real time. After all, I've got nothing better to do.

So anyway, after my 24 cache was exhausted and before I got around to bumping Nip/Tuck Season 3 up to the top of the queue, I got distracted by welcoming my boy Kanye's Mama to the Pearly Gates and next thing I know Al Gore's riveting documentary's shows up in my mailbox. One hundred minutes and a heaping pile of liberal guilt later, I'm at my nearest Toyota dealer buying myself a Prius. Thou shalt curb thy carbon emissions, my brethren.

But wouldn't you know it, my precious new hybrid isn't parked outside my apartment for five fucking minutes when some douche driving a SUV sideswipes it. I've yet to find an autobody shop that doesn't break my balls, but thankfully I remembered I'm the omnipotent Son of God so I simply rose my car from the dent. All's well that end's well, poppets. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.

How Come The Devil Gets All The Cool Sports Mascots?

As the Devil's Holiday approaches again, I can't help but consider all the little shavers out there who'll be donning fuzzy costumes and hitting the streets soliciting candy. Nothing warms my heart more than little anklebiters plodding around in obnoxious costume, turning tricks if they don't get their treats. So innocent. So pure.

Anyway, with the subject of mawkish costumes still on my mind, I started surfing ESPN's website to check the football scores. Looks like betting the celestial farm on a Nebraska/Notre Dame BCS Championship Game was a bad idea. My NCAA football gambling debt is reaching biblical proportions.

After punching my pillow and using my own name in vain, I collapsed in a cold sweat only to realize something completely random: Satan gets all the cool sports mascots. Devils, Blue Devils, Sun Devils, Green Devils, Blue Demons, Demon Deacons. Sure, I guess the good guys got the New Orleans Saints, but that just rubs salt in the wound.

So I guess, I just figured it's about time that JC got in on the action. If the devil, not to mention animals, insects, plants, inaminate objects, Native Americans, and nonsensical state nicknames can be mascots, so can your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

I realize that the University of Something-or-Other Jesuses sounds a tad gay, but all you have to do is mix it up a little. Throw a snappy adjective in front of it: the Ragin' Saviors, Jumpin' Jesuses, and Thunderin' Christs are all acceptable.

C'mon, I created you in my image, the least you can do is cheer at a cartoonish likeness of me prowling the sidelines of your sporting events.

A Minute With The Lord: Let Me Be Clear, I Did Not Die For Dane Cook's Sins

I know there's a lot of crazy rumors flying around religious circles out there that I'm an advocate of unconditional love and that I'll let anyone's sins slide, no matter how egregious, as long as they ask me to come live in their heart. Well, that may be true of murderers, adulterers, and parent dishonorers but when it comes to entertainment, I hold you mortals to a much higher standard.

Dane Cook can (and thanks to my ultimate judgment in the matter, will) rot in hell for all eternity. The man couldn't act his way out of Jerry Seinfeld's apartment. Employee of the Year, please. More like Employee of the Queer. And he thinks he's so goddamn funny. Believe me, laughing at one's own jokes is a greater sin than blaspheming the Holy Spirit. In my day, we would have stoned his ass worse than a whore of Babylon.

Fuck Good Luck Chuck!

Tell You What, If My Second Coming Doesn't Top Britney's... I Owe You A Coke

So there I go again, just when I'm hitting my stride and not even death is able to contain me, I go and disappear into the clouds without a word. What can I say, I like fucking with you mortals. Besides, August is definitely the time of year I take a break from the daily soul-saving and heart-inhabiting grind to indulge in a little Me time.

Anyway, I'm back after a nice long celestial roadtrip through space and time. Just one of the many perks about being the omnipresent Lord and Master of all that is. Spent a week with friends in Extra New York City in the year 4078, did some star-snorkeling through a Horsehead Nebula in the Orion constellation, and traveled back in time to watch the last dinosaur kick the bucket. Then I chilled back at my pad in Heaven for a bit with some of my bros (Farley, Henson, and that new guy Pavarotti) and got more crunked than Amy Winehouse. Even got to throw down the two-fisted gorilla dunk on Anna Nicole before finally getting around to this blog.

And a lot has happened in the past Earth month. OJ's facing possible prison time again, Owen Wilson couldn't live with that crooked nose anymore and tried to off himself, and that nappy-headed ho Whoopi Goldberg joined The View. So I figured it's finally time for me to make my triumphant return and cast my eternal judgment on the important matters of our times.

First off...

Kathy Griffin tells me to "suck it" at the Emmys:

Kathy, really? Upon winning an award for your Bravo Network reality show Kathy Griffin: My Life On The D-List, you told the world:

"A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this. He had nothing to do with this. Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now!"

Kathy, baby, how can you be so cruel? Sure, you're probably still bitter for being cursed with that horseface of yours. But how can you take all the credit for your success, when I was the one who stayed up all those late nights reading lines with you through the years? And you can't tell me that daily batch of fresh Tollhouse cookies I bake for you has no positive effect on your performance. Not to mention I was assistant sound editor for your show... I'm listed in the fucking credits! I know Catholics and everybody else out there with huge hard-ons for me accuse you of blasphemy...

... I just think you're being a bitch.

Mormon prophet believes arranged marriages between children and their adult cousins somehow serves my will:

Fundamentalist Mormon sect leader Warren Jeffs is on trial for accomplice to rape. Yeah, Warren, there's nothing more pure and holy than a 14-year old girl forced to wed her 19-year old cousin. Great idea, bud. Also, a good way to win points with me is by making chimpanzees perform abortions or sprinkling your grandmother's cremated remains on your eggs in the morning.

Douchebag.

Notre Dame football's embarrassing 0-4 record making me look bad.
As the nation's foremost Catholic university, Notre Dame's storied football program is an embarassing 0-4 after being crucified in each game this season. No amount of drunken Irish prayer seems to be enough to right this sinking ship, as the team's off to the worst start in its 100-plus year history.

Not only does it steam my potatoes that a university willing to throw my name around so loosely is playing football like a bunch of pussies, but I've lost about ten grand so far to my bookie.