Segway Is The Truth And The Life

Oh, snap!

Just got done with my first ever Segway tour and I'm buzzing like I drank a whole bottle of water turned to wine.

I'm a little behind on trying out the new modes of transportation invented by you mortals. It took me like 50 years to get on one of your steel birds. Can you believe they confiscated my crown of thorns at security and made me buy an extra seat for the Holy Spirit?

But all that's changed now that I've cashed in the Free Segway Tour coupon someone dropped in the collection plate in lieu of money. I was hesitant at first, given the fact a Segway almost took out George W. Bush, but I realized that's the same flawed logic that prevented me from enjoying the salty goodness of pretzels for so long.

One step on a Segway and I'm a changed god/man. No other contraption of yours can combine the leisure of a crisp walking pace with the comfort of standing still.

You won't believe the kind of lame modes of transportation I had to put up with back in my day. For my triumphant Palm Sunday entry into Jerusalem, I rode a donkey. Not even a camel or horse, a fucking donkey, despite the fact I was neither 5 years old, nor was it my birthday party.

Had I known then what I do now, I'd have fired up one of these bad boys and leaned my way through all those palm fronds like a champ! Wandering the desert and fasting for forty days would have been a breeze with this baby, think of all the energy conserved. And a Segway could've come in handy at Calvary too now that I think about it.

So I'm sold. Segways are the new wings. When you get to heaven, the streets will be paved with gold and clogged with angels zipping along effortlessly.

Verily, verily, I say unto you, leave everything and follow me, as we travel up to 10 mph without moving our legs.

Salvation Denied For Preexisting Religion

With all the health care reform hubbub going on lately, I thought this would be the perfect time to reiterate the preexisting religion clause in your salvation contract.

I don't mean to brag but I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Nobody gets to Heaven except through me. When you ask me into your heart you are entering into a verbal contract. Failure to disclose previous conversion experiences of any kind will void that contract.

Them's the rules.

I don't want to move all my stuff into your heart only to find the last tenant left a yoga mat and a bunch of incense everywhere, or that your knees are almost shot from bending to pray to Mecca five times a day.

Just because you're paying the collection plate premiums each Sunday doesn't mean I have to cover your soul in case of damnation.

New Testament Could Kick the Crap out of New Moon Any Day of the Week

I'm a little peeved about this new vampire craze that's sweeping the young and old alike. Friday's release of New Moon, the latest CGI turd in the Hollywood punchbowl, will kick box office ass all weekend long as teenagers go weak in the knees for their vampire crushes. For those a little older, HBO's True Blood series is bigger than, well, me.

Since when was wanting to have someone drink your blood OK for mortals? I'm the only one who's supposed to be into that. At my Last Supper I didn't even eat, instead I gave this really creepy speech about eating my flesh and drinking my blood in remembrance of me.

That's some really macabre shit right there.

But after 2000 years apparently it's not sexy enough for all those introverted teenagers and forlorn housewives. Drink my blood and obtain everlasting life. That kind of kinky shit should have more staying power, instead the ladies are going for beefcake vegetarian emo vampires who want to talk about their feelings.

Cinematic bloodsuckers at least used to be heinous creatures of the night, something that - for professional reasons - I can't condone but can at least admire. Now they're just perfectly quaffed stud muffins who happen to live forever and read minds. That's like turning my Last Supper cannibalism speech into something about symbolism and sanctity.

Give me a little transubstantiation any day.

I Admit It, ShamWow Most Perfect Creation

Some douchey college kid thought it'd be hilarious to parody the ubiquitous ShamWow commercials. Not especially funny, but it did catch my attention since he uses my name in vain frequently during it. While he may be hell-bound, he does have a point. Those commercials scooge over how that piece of cloth is the most absorbent thing on the planet.

And you know what, it fucking is.

I decided to pick up a few of my own (thank Dad I called within twenty minutes of the commercial and got the special offer) and I'm blown away. They are without a doubt the most perfect creation spawned by Dad's most perfect creation. So I feel like a new uncle every time I wipe something.

I don't care if their spokesman beats up hookers in $750 a night hotels, the Shamwow works.

Tired of wasting all that paper towel cleaning up those pesky holy water spills? Wish there was something better than a cluster of tampons to cram into your gushing stigmata? Need a quicker way to towel dry after your priest anoints you with oil?

The Shamwow holds twelve times its weight in liquid, and I had twelve apostles. Coincidence? I think not. Douchey college kid was right.

How About I Crumble You, John Cusack

A movie about the end of the world marketed with a statue of me crumbling into the sea? Really, John Cusack? This is the kind of film you're interested in starring in these days? Did you like seeing my Rio statue break apart and return to dust? Did you?

Well, I've got news for you, Cusack, I don't care how cute you were in Say Anything, or how often the Holy Spirit and me make "top five" lists and quote High Fidelity in our daily conversation. Just because Being John Malkovich is my favorite movie ever doesn't mean you can blaspheme, you Sixteen Candles piece of shit. Yeah, that's right, me and John Hughes have been chilling in the Pearly Gates lately and he called you a phoney. Suck on that, Cusack.

Just because Dad has long been against graven images doesn't mean you can act in movies where statues of me are demolished, Cusack. And you really think the Mayan calendar foretells the end of the world? You think that's some really profound, edgy stuff? Maybe you should read a little page-turner I like to call The Book of Revelations. Four horsemen of the apocalypse. Lake of fire. A thousand-year tribulation. The mark of the beast. That fire and brimstone shit is way more badass than some CGI water and earthquakes anyway.

The only thing preventing me from having Dad turn you into a pillar of salt and stomping you to pieces myself like your were a snowman is your sister, Joan. I kind of have a thing for her, she's like a shrill female version of you and I don't want to inconvenience her with attending your funeral. But so help me, if you're ever involved in something that destroys my likeness again, you won't be so lucky.

Nobody fucks with the Jesus.

Ye Shall Not Perish But Have Second Life

All these years, people have been misinterpreting my work. I may just be the most misunderstood only begotten Son of God out there. Love your enemies somehow became kill the heathens . Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to, I know, but still. Annoying.

And one need look no further for the greatest twisting of my words than John 3:16. All along, people have been under the misguided impression that whosoever believeth in me shall have everlasting life, when what I actually said was "shall have Second Life", the interactive online virtual community.

An avatar in my likeness also happens to constitute my Second Coming, so... two birds of the air, one cast stone. For those Doubting Thomases out there who think a web-based program designed to keep people with no lives entertained while remaining immobile for days on end is a pretty lame message to be repeated ad naseum on everything from billboards to Tim Tebow's eye black, I couldn't agree more. But eternal truth is eternal truth.

So my advice would be to give this nugget of wisdom a rest, and focus more on some of my neglected work, like "judge not lest ye be judged." That could use some attention. A Christian without judgment of others is like a leper without festering sores.

Take comfort in the fact that Dad so loved the world that as long as you believe in me, while your physical body may atrophy due lack of use and a Cheetos-centric diet, your SL avatar is everlasting.

I Think It's About Time I Lose The Beard

You know, it dawned on me recently that I've been rocking the same look for two millenia now, and never once considered a change.

Part of the reason was probably that you people love my long hair and beard look so much. Must be something appealing to you about the irony of worshipping a guy whose hair is a length forbidden by the most fundamentalist of you and whose beard makes him look like a homeless man you cross the street to avoid.

Majority of you Christians out there ignore the bulk of what I say anyway. You act like blessing those that curse you and turning the other cheek is some mamby-pamby hippy talk, not a decree from the Son of God. So maybe, you need a clean-shaven Lord and Savior to rail on you like a drill sergeant, and force some love, joy, peace, and patience down your throat.

So be it.

No Children, All Dogs Don't Go To Heaven

While I'm on this animal kick, I figured it was time to dispel the naive notion that all dogs go to heaven.

Simply not true.

I don't know where that bullshit rumor got started, but - just as my body and blood are people food - heaven is people-only. And not even all people either, only those with very specific lifestyles and belief systems. If Gahndi couldn't make it in, you really think Goofy will?

You're delusional.

And sorry to burst your bubble but there's no separate doggy heaven either. The very concept of a canine afterlife is preposterous. As if an animal could possess an eternal soul that somehow outlives its brain.

Doggy heaven would require a separate Son of Dog to die for their dog sins so they accept him into their dog hearts. You know how much extra paperwork that would be? We're short staffed up here as it is.

Besides, Dad put dogs on Earth for three reasons and three reasons only: to be carried around in rich ladies' handbags, to sniff for drugs, and to occasionally fight each to the death for our entertainment. Why do you think Adam named them "dogs" anyway.

So stop lying to your kids about their dead pooch being anything but wormfood. Nothing that eats its own poop gets into Heaven (besides Jerry Falwell).

The Jesus Christ Lizard Is A Huge Poser

So you people are naming lizards after me now. National Geographic blew their load on a recent special about the basilisk, commonly known as (snicker, snicker) the Jesus Christ Lizard.

So fucking clever, National Geographic. This tiny lizard is fleet-footed enough to scamper across the surface of water, so of course he deserves to be named after the King of Kings.

I call bullshit.

Reptilian dude's three ounces. Please. Call me when you're a buck sixty-five and can pad across a raging tempest, lizard! There should be a rule that your vague similarity to me must save at least one soul from eternal hellfire before you can adopt me as your nickname.

I already let carpenter ant slide, so I've got to put my perforated foot down somewhere. So maybe it's about time you mortals name some bad-ass animals after me for a change. Like the Messiah Gorilla, Christ Cougar or Savior Shark. Not some smug Geico mascot whose claim to fame is saving you 15% on car insurance.

Just sayin'.