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.
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.
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