As I wrote previously, one of the best methods to spread my message to the masses is by forging vague likenesses of myself into stains and foodstuffs and condensation.
Click here for a run-down the Huffington Post put together of some of my best work.
Forget eating communion wafers that you have to pretend are me, now you can eat Cheetos that actually look like me!
To view the video for the Sanctified Slide, click here, but do so with the knowledge that it will cost your eternal soul to perform it.
This is why everyone else makes fun of you, Christians!
As if the Electric Slide and aerobic dance videos weren't ludicrious enough on their own, you have to drag me into the mix.
When will you lunatics learn that holing your families up in the alternate-reality bubble of"Christian" media is why your children are going to start cults someday.
Sure, many of you could stand to drop a few pounds, but you can do so with any mainstream exercise video. Why, for fuck sake, would you choose to dance at the direction of a Billy Blanks rip-off who claps instead of punches?
Can't you take your thoughts off me for two seconds? It gets a little creepy.
This is the kind of shit that makes people believe you'd actually come out with a Wii game like this:
I make the impossible possible. An example of which was the New Orleans Saints winning Super Bowl XLIV. So in celebration of the Saints marching to the Lombardi Trophy, nobody has to go to church next Sunday.
I know how dry those sermons can be. And pews stink. So take the week off and bask in the glory that is the good guys finally winning one. As you may know, Dad and me are greatly concerned about each individual outcome of NFL games (and all football for that matter). Why do you think so many players pray during the games?
I've been known to tilt games one way or the other, especially if it means I cover the spread. And what can I say, I enjoy seeing the Manning face.
If I never see another fig in my life, it'll be too soon. Figs are the worst. An abomination even.
I mean, they taste like feet to begin with, and they look like hell. Then the one time I'm actually hungry enough to lower myself and try to pick a fig from the stupid fig tree, they're out of season.
Some may say I overreacted by cursing that piece of shit fig tree and dooming it to wither, I say that tree got what it had coming.
And yes, I know that in the past I've been very supportive of the Grammys, especially when my homeboy Kanye West performed "Jesus Walks" at the 2007 show.
But since then, the Grammys have devolved into some sort of twisted pagan rite. One needs look no further than Lady Gaga, my arch-nemesis, who again stole from Dad's Word with her thrown into a fiery furnace bit last night.
Most notably, I haven't seen a single hymn nominated for a Grammy. Sure, most hymns are performed by tone deaf parishioners on Sunday mornings and not by multi-platinum recording artists, but that doesn't mean they should just be excluded altogether.
They don't even need to be proper hymns, necessarily, just songs about Me. And yeah-yeah, I know I have gospel music's Dove Awards, which feature nothing but songs about Me. But please, there's no paparazzi at the freakin' Dove Awards.
So for next year, I'm going to do what it takes to get My name back in the Grammys. I'll send Gabriel to manifest in a pillar of flame before a few choice artists and make them an offer they can't refuse: either rework their songs until they're about Me, or lose their first born to the Angel of Death.
Perhaps that seems a bit harsh, but the music industry is cut throat, after all.
Dad, Holy Spirit, members of the Angelic Host, distinguished supernatural beings, and fellow celestial citizens, our Holy Scriptures declare that from time to time, the Messiah shall give Heaven information about the state of our Kingdom. For all eternity, we have fulfilled this duty. We've done so in periods of bliss and serenity. And we've done so in the midst of euphoria and rapture; at moments of great joy and even greater joy.
Since I was immaculately conceived to this office, I have prepared a place for every citizen in my father's many mansions. But there's been concern lately about jobs, and our 100% unemployment rate. I want to remind everyone that in Heaven your yoke is easy, your burden is light. Your salvation is not of works, for the wages of sin is death, but eternal life is a gift.
(Applause)
There's also been concern about the war against Evil. I can assure you, we will be rapturing all saved souls and getting our angelic troops out of Earth by 2012. And we will not rest until we capture Beelzebub and cast him into the Lake of Fire.
(Applause)
And as for infrastructure, the streets will be repaved with gold, and we will invest in clean forms of metaphysical energy.
We will also work to secure our borders, to keep the lost souls weeping and gnashing their teeth outside the Kingdom, where they belong. And for those souls who seek forgiveness of sins and conversion to our way of everlasting life, we will ensure they have a clear path to salvation.
Let's seize this moment, and continue to exist in perpetual ecstasy, for the Kingdom is in the midst of you.
Thank you. Dad bless you, and Dad bless the Kingdom of Heaven.
Seems like only yesterday you humans lived centuries on end, begetting whole gaggles of future centenarians. Back in the day, longevity heavyweights like Methuselah, Seth, and Adam all lived over 900 years. Heck, at the spry age of 600 Noah built an ark capable of carrying two of every creature.
Nowadays the oldest anyone could possibly hope to live is about 115, big fucking whoop. Sure, modern medicine has tacked a few extra years onto your average life spans recently. And I'll be the first to admit, I only made it to 33 myself. But for my ancestors, health care consisted of some prayer and maybe a little lamb's blood splashed over a doorway.
As I wrote previously, one of the best methods to spread my message to the masses is by forging vague likenesses of myself into stains and foodstuffs and condensation.
This is why everyone else makes fun of you, Christians!
If I never see another fig in my life, it'll be too soon. Figs are the worst. An abomination even.
The Grammys are idolatry. There I said it.
Most notably, I haven't seen a single hymn nominated for a Grammy. Sure, most hymns are performed by tone deaf parishioners on Sunday mornings and not by multi-platinum recording artists, but that doesn't mean they should just be excluded altogether. 
(Exalting Applause)
There's also been concern about the war against Evil. I can assure you, we will be rapturing all saved souls and getting our angelic troops out of Earth by 2012. And we will not rest until we capture Beelzebub and cast him into the Lake of Fire.
Seems like only yesterday you humans lived centuries on end, begetting whole gaggles of future centenarians. Back in the day, longevity heavyweights like Methuselah, Seth, and Adam all lived over 900 years. Heck, at the spry age of 600 Noah built an ark capable of carrying two of every creature.
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