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The Great Bumpkin Recounts!

Parting Glances

You're not going to believe this, but – no pun intended – do bare with me. Truth is stranger than biblical fiction.
Right on the dot, May 21, at 6 p.m., I had the biggest orgasm I've ever had in my whole life. It wasn't total rapture (with a capitol R), but it was damnably close. It was, however, heavenly. Yes, heavenly. Probably as near proximity to that eternal venue reserved for true believers as I'll ever get. About 30 seconds worth.
If it – the long-lasting, loquacious, erotic luxury in my loins – was by way of compensation for not being one of the elect (but a loving, caring, fun-loving human being nonetheless), all I can say is the intensity, duration, wave after wave of mind-blowing pleasure – O God! don't stop! – well, it snapped my garters!
I suppose there's poetic justice that occasioned my unasked for release of tension, worry, fear of eternal damnation, retribution, unmitigated revenge at the hands of an angry deity (with a surprisingly loving son), but I just happened to have my Good Book opened to the story of Onan who spilled his seed on the ground. Well, one good gardening tip just led to another!
My disappointment – if indeed I was disappointed when actually I was bewitched, bothered, bewildered – all of the above, none of the below – was that there was hardly a tremor on the Richter Scale. The much touted, promised 8.5 logarithmic shocker, worldwide crash down, rip open, tectonic, plate warper, "vengeance is mine" earthquake just didn't happen. (God as spoilsport, the Weather Channel might say.)
What's this world coming to when we can't trust those who have a pipeline to the Big Trio Upstairs? I, for one, don't mind a little white lie now and then, but, for Gee-Whiz sake, when May 21, "That's All There Is Folks!" turns out to be a Jonah-and-the-Whale whopper, it's enough to make one lose faith in the fundygelical experts.
If they can't be trusted who on earth can?
Thankfully, Rev. Camping – who lovingly announced to all and Sunday, er, sundry, that the world as we know it was going to be no more – did give us ample time to get our affairs in order (not that I for one have had one affair lately let alone several). That was decent of him. And, one supposes, very Christian too.
It speaks well of the rev that he was willing to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars of generous tithe and 300 Ks donation money – the Lord loves a cheerful giver! – to warn everybody to "shape up, so you can ship out" on the Good Ship Lollypop, headed for the Big Pie in the Sky, in the twinkling of an eye: to be eternally bored in one grand, never ending singspiration.
O, if only I could carry a tune, other than "Hello, Dolly." Probably the next best thing to do is just militantly hum along "Onward Christian Soldiers" until Oct. 31 rolls around. That's Rev. Camping's fine tuned revised standard version Doom's Day date.
Cynic that I am by nature and trade I suspect that the Halloween extension deadline's just a ploy to get gays to stay home and pray and not get in frills and go out and party. It's no secret that God Hates Gays and will do anything to spoil an internationally sanctioned holiday outing for them. Drag or no drag.
All joshing aside. Truth of the matter is that in some polymorphous perverse way we owe a debt of gratitude to the likes of Rev. Camping, Rev. Fred Phelps, the faith-for-profit TV faith healers, their mentally retarded right-wing ilk. As role models their actions speak just as loud as their watchwords. TOTAL IGNORANCE IS BLISS!

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