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Parting Glances: JWs Go Trumpeting Door-To-Door

By |2019-05-15T17:10:05-04:00May 15th, 2019|Opinions, Parting Glances|

1. In the year of the Trumpeted Mongrel 666 Beast of War endlessly chasing his flea-bitten tail, a prophet of restless dudes scaled Mt. Rush-No-More, seeking counsel with the electrifying powers that sometimes to Be (or, not to Be).
2. Thus spake the Prophet Dude: “Eternal CEOs of centuries flushed down the oft-clogging, gas-driven drain of time. Ye who have dazzled and conned naive humankind with awe-inspiring displays – triune, quadraphonic to behold – hear my humble – but mainly cool – complaint.
3. “Yea, verily! Ye who made the Sunoco stand still in its skyward climb. Ye who made Noah’s rebuilt, tax-free ark a crib for lowly ass and bellowing pachyderm tourists (our present pets).
5. “Ye who turned well water into Palestinian Perrier. Give us thy hands-on blessings of total space out for this the Age of Lukewarm Tea Baggery.
6. “Give us a push-button rod to conjure with, a change-channel staff to comfort us. Give us thy constant rerun soaps. Gridiron images of total adoration. Placebo messages of world dominion. Free-floating! Whiz-bang! Be here now! Do whatever thou wilt!”
7. Then atop Mount Rush-No-More spoke a voice from a burning George Bush, unlike any theocratic tumbleweed past, present or (hopefully) future. “O lowly assembly line kinda guy!” it said, echoing like 10,000 autoharps in perfect E-flat Pluribus Unison.
8. “May We, the autonomous Big Three, presume, that thou art not content to keep Sabbath, ritual, holy day? Lease and buy our chariots, used and otherwise? Kiddest thou us not?”
9. Then answered the Prophet Dude (sun-glassing his eyes for the sight of the DayGlo, smoldering shrub was too much for mere mortal sight), “These are trying, ball-busting times. Years of zillion-dollar hidden tax-return debt. Trickle-down disaster. (All knowing Big-Three: Grant us, thy hallowed hocus pocus to help us make it through the night once more.)
10. “Yea, and howdy doody!” he continueth. “Ye whom the Angels, Cardinals and Cubs praise sky high, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, let our three-score-10 (so short a blue note gig) be sweet and 24/7 entertained, in this badass epoch of mumble-grumble, wife-swap politics, and rightwing, bleach-blond navel fuzzing. Give us top booking. Amen.”
11. So moved by this bogue supplication, the Burning Bush toned down its thousand points of light, and in an omnipotent, omnipresent, omnivorous, omnibus, oh-my-gosh voice spoke forth again.
12 “O Prophet Dude, we, the autocratic Trinity Broadcast Network, think thou hast indeed a legitimate axel to grind. Take, then, our magic buyout. With kith and kin go raiseth hell.
13. “Better still. Many are these cellphone charms to chose. (One model never fits all ears). Yea, truly, Prophet Dude, these gizmos are prestidigitation! Images. Tunes. Eden postures. Instant hand-held, high-watt joy.
14. “Be now gods like Us! Never bored. Wide awake. Pandora power mad. But these new add-on commandments, O Prophet Dude, must be obeyed!
15. “Make thou no YouTube graven pussy images. No iPod XXXing during prime time. TXT us when in Unisex Stalls. (See if indeed We Three give a damn.) And always recharge in a holy socket. No AC-DC hanky panky. Flush accordingly.
“Over and never out. Pax! Nix On Snobeesmo. Repentance! Ah-men!”

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