LoL Random

Jesus and the Therapist Rabbi

Jesus: Therapist Rabbi, you have much experience in offering advice on relationships. So tell me this: is it normal if a man asks a woman to dust his penis with flour and then inspect it for fingerprints?

Therapist Rabbi: Ah, no. I don’t think that’s normal.

Jesus: Well mother didn’t seem to mind doing it to me!

Jesus and the Parable of the Wall

And it came to pass that Jesus, Peter and the rest of the disciples entered the town of Marisa, a town that had over time endured much hardship, for famine and pestilence were frequent visitors to the place, leaving the inhabitants with little hope for any kind of future life.

And when they heard that Jesus had arrived, some of the townspeople approached him and asked, ‘teacher, we are a most wretched people. No matter how hard we strive our town is beset by misfortune. Yearly our crops fail and our people succumb to death and disease. Why has God let this happen? We are a pious people who praise the Lord’s name with devotion, but he ignores our suffering. Why? Has he forgotten about us?’

Jesus replied, ‘no, he has not forgotten you. The Lord does not forget his people, especially those in dire need of restitution. Let me prove this fact with a parable.’

And he told the parable.

Picture the scene. A man is enjoying the surroundings of his comfortable, upmarket home. He has a well-paying job and a wife and children who admire and love him dearly. Life is good for this man.

 It just so happens that today is the national holiday of Tom Kippur. Tom Kippur, you remember, is the day commemorating the defeat of a Roman flotilla at the hands of a brave, yarmulke-wearing fish (the feat was also immortalised in the popular song, ‘Oy! His Name was Oily Herschel!’). As a special treat the man’s wife and children are out visiting a local museum exhibition of famous people’s bunions. The man is uninterested in such podiatry matters and decides to give it a miss. 

At first he’s glad to have the place all to himself (kids: they sure can be a handful!) However, as time passes he becomes bored and starts looking for something to keep his mind busy. His eyes scan the living room and he spots a hole in the wall. Where had that come from? Then he remembers: it had been made by his youngest son whilst playing with a pretend sword. Although only made of wood and not really a sword (it was more of a pole, really) the thing had still managed to make a considerable indentation. The man, thinking that he may as well fix the thing while he has the time, walks over to the wall. On closer inspection he estimates the hole to be about 2” in diameter and 5” in depth. Should be no problem, he thinks, and he goes off to fetch the bits and pieces required for the repair.   

But before he reaches the door the man suddenly stops dead in his tracks. He then turns back and stares at the hole in the wall with a curious intensity. A very strange thought has entered his mind.  It’s a kind of thought he’s never had in his life, yet he’s having it now.

And, what is more, he feels utterly compelled to act upon the thought.

Utterly compelled.

He knows he must do what he is about do. It has become nothing less than a categorical imperative for him to act on the thought that has barged its way to the front of his mind. So this is what he does. After looking around to make sure there is no one to observe his actions, he drops his robes to the floor and inserts his phallic member into the hole. Having completed this opening manoeuvre with a striking lack of ceremony (foreplay does seem a little superfluous, given the circumstances), he begins to hump the living room wall in the most vigorous and un-sensual way imaginable.  

But as he’s doing this, something rather unfortunate happens. His wife and children return earlier than planned! (the bunion exhibition had apparently been put back a week, but those in charge had not sufficiently informed the public of the fact, thus creating many unhappy customers who had shown up eager to stare at the trivial foot ailments of Jewish royalty). 

So with his whole family about to enter the living room, the man clearly needs to move swiftly. But then something even more unfortunate happens. His shaft has become stuck in the hole and he can’t get it out! It’s wedged in tighter than Satan’s arse cheeks and no matter how hard he pulls it won’t come loose! (Now I know what you’re thinking: wouldn’t the general anxiety of the situation cause the man to lose tumescence and allow Mr. P. Floppy, Esq. to slip free with the minimum of fuss? In normal circumstances, yes, but for some reason that didn’t happen here. I don’t precisely know why. Let’s not start pulling the threads on this one, ok?)

Waves of panic choke his senses and he begins to have visions of what his life will be like if they find him in this state. 

Awful, nightmarish visions.

For a start his wife will divorce him, take custody of the children and tell everyone of his grubby wall-based sex fetish, destroying his standing with their neighbours who will in turn gather signatures for a petition to have the local housing authority evict him from the known world. Although such an over the top action will fail ultimately in its specified aim, he will still have to move away to a place where he is unknown, which will hardly be anywhere, as news of his bizarre antics will have spread far and wide, and in the end his life will spectacularly explode in a series of killing sprees just after hearing for the twenty-millionth time a variant on a ‘wall-banger’ joke from a person who genuinely thought he was being side-achingly clever and bum-wipingly original, and was therefore somewhat surprised to receive a spear through the thorax for his troubles. And as all these visions hurtle through his mind, he is still affixed to the wall by his fleshly twodge-nozzle. In desperation he closes his eyes and offers a final frantic supplication to the one in heaven: ‘God, please have mercy on me in my hour of need! I beseech you!!! Do not let me be seen like this! Please, dear Lord, I beg of you!!!’  

And then at last! His prayers are answered and he wrenches himself away from the wall. Almost delirious with relief, he folds away his wicker-stalk, pulls up his robes and calmly affects a nonchalant ‘I-was-just reflecting-on-this-most-interesting-passage-in-Deuteronomy-oh-there-you-are-darling-I-didn’t-hear-you-come-home’ demeanour an instant before his wife and children enter the room. They greet him warmly and tell him about what happened at the bunion exhibition, and how they were all slightly disappointed they didn’t get a chance to view an artist’s rendering of Herod’s disgusting pus-filled big toe, but on the bright side they could always go again when the venue reopened as their tickets were still valid.

Jesus looked up at his audience, indicating the story had finished. ‘Just think about this’ he said. ‘If God helped that man with his jammed wanger, don’t you think he’s going to help you with your own struggles? For you should know that with God anything is possible!’

The townspeople stood in uncomfortable silence and exchanged a series of awkward glances with one another, for they found what they had just heard to be crazy as fuck.

Eventually they shuffled back to their unhappy lives, now knowing full well that God had truly abandoned them.

Peter, meanwhile, said to Jesus,

‘I specifically told you not to use the ‘Penis Caught in Wall’ parable.’

Jesus and the Pharisees

It came to pass that Jesus entered a village.

And in the village Jesus made an instant impression by preaching the Kingdom, discussing the Law of Moses and playing Pig Yahtzee (a pastime involving rolling pigs as if they were dice and shouting a neologism when they landed in a certain position).

And the Pharisees, jealously, scoffed and said to him, ‘all you do is talk words. Show us a sign that you are the Messiah.’

In response Jesus said, ‘watch and observe the glory of thy father’s kingdom.’

And lo, he began to do star jumps.

And the Pharisees were speechless at such a thing and they went away immediately.

But Jesus continued to do star jumps for approximately four hours before a boy threw a brick at his head and rendered him insensible.

Something in Poor Taste

NAZI WAR CRIMINALS WORDSEARCH

D X I F N J N Z D K U S R O G
P C Z J L E B R P E E S O W U
S A I L I Y Z Q C I J E S Q F
S L E B B E O G C T C H E L R
Q I R Q Q H N H B E N Y N O V
T A T G L X M N S L M P B O S
B C M D O A C L A X J S E R D
N O O E N R F W D M Q Q R E Y
C J M N C R I P X H R R G L T
C J A A A R U N J C T O F M Y
T V X N R P O C G D L O B M P
O F K R N B E R E E P S G I R
C V M B G D O N I T Z S A H H
 I G J P P F P X Z G A H W L K
Y Q M N I Q E J V E B T C Q B
______________________________________________________

BARBIE BORMANN DONITZ
EICHMANN FRANK GOEBBELS
GORING GOTH HESS
HIMMLER JODL KEITEL
ROSENBERG SPEER
Can you find them all? 

Jesus and the Unruly Swans Parable

It came to pass that Jesus was wandering around the centre of Jerusalem. As an itinerant preacher, wandering was what he did best: for it was only in opening his mouth and engaging other human beings in conversation that things tended to go wrong.

And as he walked, Jesus overheard two farmers talking about their profession.

And Jesus, being entirely ignorant of the farming profession, felt compelled to offer an opinion. Interrupting their private conversation with a customary lack of decorum, he said

‘If a man ploughs his field with swans it will prove a disaster. They will flap their wings and resist wearing the yoke, for the swan is by nature a rebellious creature. Who can forget the swan revolutionary Derek Smalls, who once led his swan battalion to break the arms of Herod’s men and hiss at them for disturbing their nests? Better to use a gentle, kindly creature like the ox, a natural subservient character.’

The two farmers were speechless at Jesus’ words and behaviour.

But another man, who had heard Jesus speak on earlier occasions, said, ‘but no one is going to have swans pull a plough. It’s a stupid idea. All your parables begin with something that has no bearing on reality, and then you say you shouldn’t do that. But no one is doing that thing in the first place. Your parables are a chariot wreck of bad analogies, torturous logic and pathetic non sequiturs.’

And Jesus looked crestfallen. ‘Really?’

‘Do you actually think you make sense? What are you even trying to prove by going around saying such things?’

‘I’m… I’m announcing God’s Kingdom’, said Jesus unconvincingly.

‘You’re not doing a very good job of it. Did God tell you to announce his Kingdom by talking rubbish? And who the hell is “swan revolutionary Derek Smalls?” Did you just make that up? What the hell are you talking about? You’re an embarrassment to yourself and your religion.’

The man walked away. A small crowd had gathered during the exchange and were now looking at Jesus, who seemed about to cry.

But John the Apostle, the disciple who tolerated Jesus’ idiocy the most, came forward and put an arm around his shoulder to comfort him.

‘I believe in you, master’ he said to Jesus tenderly.

‘Thank you, Terry.’

‘My name’s John.’

‘Whatever.’

Occam’s Razor

We were never close.

Me inattentive to your whims,

You like an absent father-in-law.

 

Chased away by progress like a frightened rabbit,

You vacated the sky some time ago.

You now fill another gap, or, more likely, another dimension.

Where neither man,

                                        nor woman,

                                             nor falsifiability

                                                                  can reach.

You’ve been made redundant.

 

Hmm.

That’s too bad.

Good luck with your forthcoming job search.

Parable of the Unwise Haberdasher

Possibly offensive stuff. Sorry.

It was the day before the Sabbath and Jesus was in Jerusalem, where he had been attracting large gatherings. And someone in the crowd asked of him, ‘good teacher, tell us a parable that will help strengthen our faith and teach us to live a morally upstanding life.’
And Jesus replied, ‘my friends, I will do so. I will tell you the Parable of the Unwise Haberdasher.’ And Jesus comported himself with care and began to tell the parable.  

A haberdasher has a stroke of good fortune and finds three sheets of fine material.

The first he sells to a young man who wishes to make a smashing pair of cargo shorts.

The second piece he sells to a rich heiress who wants to make a jacket for her ridiculously small dog.

 The third piece he keeps for himself. After laying it flat on a work table in his establishment and smoothing out the creases with a hot iron, he climbs upon the table, lifts up his robes and takes an almighty dump directly onto the material. Having done this, he carefully pulls the corners together to form a kind of sling, and then starts dancing and swinging the material around his head whilst reciting a strange incantation about brown cherubs.

He does this for about two hours.

But he’s so immersed in what he’s doing (he’s ‘in the zone’, as it were), he accidentally lets go of one of the corners and the contents of the makeshift sling go flying everywhere and make an awful, awful mess.

He looks in dismay at what he’s done and thinks, ‘why have I done this? The other two bits of cloth I sold and made a tidy profit, but this cloth I defecated on and waved in the air like I just didn’t care. Now I have a ruined cloth and my own shit to clear up. Dear God, I have been most foolish in what I have done and I repent of my actions!’’

God then spoke to him from his throne in heaven and said ‘My forgiveness is always available for those who repent. You are thus forgiven, my son.’

Having finished the parable, Jesus looked at the crowd. ‘This man had lost sight of what he was good at: selling cloth to his consumers and making a tidy profit. He’d forgotten this simple fact and instead did something weird with his poo. That was a mistake. But in doing what he did, he had obtained something special. He had obtained full forgiveness from God. That prize is available for everyone gathered here today. For those who have ears, let them hear.’

On hearing the parable and absorbing its contents, one group present said that if this one particular man deposited his faecal matter on expensive material, and then worsening the situation by accidentally scattering said faecal matter during some bizarre dance ritual, but in doing so attained forgiveness from the Lord, then all people must do exactly the same thing if they are to attain forgiveness as well.

But another group thought it important not to take everything in the parable literally. It simply warned against recklessly attempting something outside one’s area of expertise that would likely result in sinning.  This is what the parable meant. What it did not mean was to go out and make some kind of workplace dirty protest in an effort to garner God’s forgiveness. That was just stupid.
 
In the end, the two groups could not agree on which interpretation was correct, so decided to have a war about it.
 
Thousands would die in a bloodbath over one man and his turds.

A Spurious Sense of Entitlement

Contains a bit of swearing and general misanthropy

 

A man unencumbered by dignity thrashes nonsensically at fatal news delivered by a disinterested physician.

A change in lifestyle, routinely ignored for decades, was called for – but alas, it is late now. In disregarding advice from, amongst others, wife (nag), boss (prying), GP (ill-mannered) and children (wankers), a vast aggregation of chickens have come home to roost. Squatting on your life, like Larkin’s toads (should they then be ‘perching?’) they wait like feathered ghouls. Cataloguing your dying days with accountant-like precision, they dole out information with a disarming clarity.

Your previous defence to such traumas – banging a wooden spoon on a saucepan to quieten the cognitive dissonance that buzzes around your skull like a bee trapped in a jar – now no longer works. But reality denial persists stubbornly. Quack nostrums are therefore sought: crystal therapy, psychic healing, reiki, line dancing, homeopathy. Remember the joke – the one about a man who died of a homeopathic overdose?

Punch line: he forgot to take his medication.

You laughed before, but what once brought derision is now grasped at in desperation. ‘I want to believe… anything!’ When failure ensues, as it will, you rage petulantly at the existential angst that you experience, something you had not felt previously. ‘Where did this come from?’ you think. ‘I never felt it before. Was it always there, lying dormant like a… lying dormant like a… like a…’

Oh, shall I finish your simile for you? Let me see, what would fit:

Lying dormant like a volcano? Puh-lease, call the cliché police.

Lying dormant like a repressed memory? Hmmm, not bad.

Lying dormant like a growing and increasingly inoperable cancer? Bingo.

 From now until the end it’s a steadily rising tide of futility.

Scared of the upcoming inevitable, you seek understandable solace in what you thought were unknowable mysteries. But as if by magic, the unknowable has now become the knowable. Agnosticism transformed into fideism. Eternity in the bosom of a loving deity seems probable, nay, a certainty, given the suddenly compelling evidence and the bucketfuls of wishful thinking one brings to the proceedings. It is an argument that, when all the extraneous details are boiled away, contains one tiny but monumentally hubristic premise. It is this:

 I deserve to live forever.

And why might that be?  

I just do, that’s why.

 

 Here lies the epiphany: human beings and their spurious sense of entitlement.

So sickness and tumours lay your body to waste. Propped up on pillows like the Elephant Man (minus the quiet, restrained dignity), you honk indolent madrigals from your deathbed.  Shockingly, people still come and visit. They swim into your purview through a hazy fog of medication:

An estranged ex-lover is tearful at your plight. She wonders if there’s anything she can do to help. You say a handjob would be most agreeable. She leaves immediately and you’re upset. You later realise it wasn’t an ex-lover you were talking to, but a confused old man who’d accidently wandered in from a nearby geriatric ward. Nevertheless, you’re still annoyed that he didn’t perform the service asked for.

A casual acquaintance makes no eye contact and wants to leave after only ten minutes. His excuse? He has another friend dying of a terminal disease on the same ward and needs to see him as well today. ‘I’ll be killing two birds with one stone’ he says, an unfortunate metaphor, given the circumstances. You can’t decide whether to believe him or not.

A friend who exhibits such a crushing lack of self awareness that you’ve often wondered whether he’s spent his whole life with an undiagnosed mental condition. You decide to say this to his face during the visit. He looks hurt that you did such a thing. (The reason you did such a thing: you’re slowly dying in pain and couldn’t see the point in humouring the fucker anymore).

Some other generic things occur:

 A muezzin calls apothecaries to come 5 times a day with empty panaceas.

An avuncular rabbi makes a humorous remark at your mortality.

A priest brings with him copies of Top Gear Magazine for you to read (he was unwilling to conform to stereotypes, apparently).

So you scream in silence whilst inscribing delusionary screeds on A4 pads for future generations to discard without a moment’s thought. You will be remembered by a few, that’s for sure (you weren’t able to alienate everyone who knew you) but no epitaph will last much more than a generation. After that, (give it a century or two) there will be no sign of you ever having existed at all. You’ll be nothing. Time’s passage will work like Winston Smith, sitting in his Ministry of Truth cubicle, steadily falsifying records and eviscerating people from history. But in your case there’s a difference. With you there is no subterfuge, no party propaganda, no systematic rewriting of history. No, the process is entirely natural. And somehow that makes it much worse.

Much worse.

If only a totalitarian government felt you important enough to go to the trouble of bowdlerising you from the past. You could then say ‘there’s no shame in becoming an unperson, you know. It shows I was someone special.’ But no, you’re not even granted that morsel of respect. Time, remorseless and with no judgement, disinterestedly plucks you from the historical record. If evolution is the blind watchmaker, then time is the ceaseless devastator. Nothing can endure .

It’s all so rude, isn’t it?

And impersonal.

Rude and impersonal.

Makes you wish you were dead.

….Oh.

Is This Creative Writing?

Sorry, more religious stuff, but as there’s not been much posted recently…

I hate it when I hear people saying that the bible is behind the times or misogynistic . This quote from the book of Deuteronomy effectively answers those accusations:

If your ox gores your neighbour’s wife, restitution must be paid. Pay your neighbour 30 shekels.

If your ox gores your neighbour’s lawnmower, restitution must also be paid. Pay your neighbour 40 shekels.

 

 The bible: treating people equally for 2000 years. Or thereabouts.

Jesus and the Media

It came to pass that Jesus was to appear at an informal meet and greet event in the centre of Jerusalem, where many local dignitaries and influential people were to attend.

However, of late Jesus’ appearances in front of other people had been poorly received.

So on the instructions of Peter, it was decided that Thomas was to pose as a member of the public and throw Jesus some softball questions, thus giving him the chance to appear sane and approachable.

And so on the day Thomas asked him, ‘good teacher, your relationship with God is clearly very important to you and you must spend a lot of time in prayer and contemplation. What then do you do in your spare time to escape the pressure of being the Messiah?’  

And Jesus, already grinning with childish anticipation at the chance of sharing with others his tiresome hobby minutiae said,

In my spare time I enjoy making chutney, dancing by myself in a room of mirrors and watching my favourite film, Krull. I’ve seen it over 600 times and never tire of it. It’s often said that someone watching the same film over and over again is a sure sign of arrested development and/or latent pathological tendencies in need of prompt professional diagnosis to ensure the safety of the general public. But that is nonsense. I’ve talked about this with the countless small animals I’ve trapped and killed in my garden and then nailed to my bedroom wall, and they assure me that it’s all normal behaviour for a young man in his thirties who still lives with his mother. They also say that Krull is, like, totally the best film in the history of, like, ever, and that anyone who speaks a word against it is worthy of being stalked over a period of months and then bludgeoned to death with a fence post.

 

The event had turned into a disaster.

 

Peter, however, denied all responsibility for it.

 

Three times, in fact.