Our favorite kind of bigots — the friendly, condescending, “hate the sin” type — are here for us, and even though one of them menstruates (“Unclean! Out of my tent!”) and the other clearly wasn’t born in the true God’s image (A god who isn’t downy white?! What’s next — lady gods?!), they know something we don’t:

Jesus is comin’ back! (read the full article)

Under God.

Two innocuous enough words that lie at the heart of all the traditionalist handwringing, conspiracy-mongering, speaking-in-tongues mania that claws and grasps with venal avarice in an attempt to drag us all back to the ’50s, the ’80s, the ’90s — anytime before Fu Manchu stole the presidency and began plotting to take out the Heartland with his Ice Ray.

I’m not much of a joiner, and I guess that’s what’s kept me from ever bothering to park my ass in a pew to listen glaze-eyedly to an assortment of arcane prophecy and lame parable. I don’t care who begat whom. Just the terminology regularly employed to evoke faith says it all: “flock,” “follow,” “sheep,” “serve,” “Lord,” “surrender.” All that comes to mind is a medieval fiefdom wherein the serfs toil in numbed fealty for a king who dwells in a castle on the hill with an order of priests and politicians as his boot-licking vassals.

Sure, the Church essentially exists to convince the proletariat to accept its lowly earthly lot while taking its money, and Satan is little more than an obscure Biblical reference seized upon by the Elders to be deployed as the world’s most effective scare tactic, but whatev. There are monsters, there are angels… (read the full article)

Yes, Focus on The Family’s ostensible mission statement is the strident defense of every homespun convention that can be invoked under the name of Jesus, Santa Claus, or Uncle Sam, but we all know what the watchdog group’s true raison d’être is: condemning smut while teeth-gnashingly wallowing in it and convincing its members they’re above it all.

This vintage F.O.F. seminar on porn addiction is hysterical on multiple levels: the wonderfully trashy Ho Stroll opening montage, the assertion that the strategy behind our hugely successful War on Drugs should be applied to combating porno cartels, James Dobson’s hilarious “The fags and the dykes, and every kind of perversion!” rhetoric that sounds lifted right out of Myra Breckinridge, and best of all, the most over-the-top drink-the-Kool-Aid audience reactions ever.

I once went to a funeral for a family friend that almost immediately descended into an interminable hour-and-a-half-long Evangelical sermon on the dangers of pornography in which the deceased was barely even incidental. Watching this brought back the same avoid-the-groupthink phrase I kept repeating over and over in my head to keep me sane:

Not a looker among ‘em.

Hat tip to Found Footage Festival.

You have only to regularly tune in for The Soup to be hip to the fact that The Secret Life of The American Teenager is easily the worst scripted drama on basic cable, and arguably, in the entire network landscape. Overwrought, plastic, insipid, and reactionary, the series clumsily cobbles together every paralyzing phobia about sex, and is apparently written by a group of middle-aged Evangelical virgins who still cry while masturbating in the dark.

You see, sex in this jejune little corner of suburban hell is not a natural act that carries with it certain practical ramifications requiring it to adapt to a modern world wherein humans don’t have to be in constant states of reproduction because they’re no longer subject to the whims of weather, plague, and predators. Rather it’s a form of spiritual trespass that incurs dire consequences through all manner of corporal castigation — just like The Entity, minus the invisible rape and blue lightning!

So, pregnancy is God’s way of punishing you for being a whore by shackling you with a precious bundle of joy, and should you avoid baby stigma through the use of contraception or sheer chance, you will also receive retribution in the form of a dead parent whose demise is apparently directly attributable to your climax.

And that makes you a murdering tramp whose guilt cannot be alleviated! Ever! (read the full article)

With 24 canceled, the Cheney clan is forced to enact its own Neocon torture scenarios from the family homestead. As Big Daddy Dick prepares to go all Abu Ghraib on the his contractor’s ass, Liz — the Fah Lo Suee to his Fu Manchu — gleefully films the spectacle for the next CPAC gathering. Through it all, the bound man lamented the folly of his life choice. Why the hell did I abandon my gay submission wrestling porn career for ‘legit’ employment?, he mused through gritted teeth. To build gazebos and breezeways for respectable people! Because I had my Libertarian awakening! This is the cold, dread reality behind the Free Market mythos… He choked back his revulsion and regret. I am the raw commodity!, he cursed. I could’ve pulled in two grand easily for this same thing in a San Fernando strip mall! Chattel! Nothing but chattel now — meat for the Man!

Then the darkness came, and with it, the bliss of oblivion…

A query to God-loving ‘Merica:

If all weather-based, terrorist-wrought, or naturally-occurring disasters are sin-related, then what is the symbolic significance of lightning — I mean, that’s pretty direct — striking the hideous Jesus statue located on the grounds of the palatial Solid Rock Church in Monroe, Ohio and engulfing it in holy fire Wicker Man-style? We know earthquakes are caused by scantily-clad women and volcanoes erupt because of health care reform, but whose transgressions are to blame for Touchdown Jesus getting lit up like an unrepentant, unmarried, buoyant witch with socialized health care? Did some sort of hubris or overweeeeeeeening pride on the part of someone invite this event? Does God hate tacky religious kitsch? Could it really be that occurrences like this is are just frighteningly random and not the result of a sky giant punishing those it deems wrong in Clash of The Titans “Release The Kraken!” fashion? Should you perhaps take a step back and ruminate whether the real arrogance is to personify the universe as an extension of your own will that rains down terror and suffering on those you brand deserving of it?

Barring that, I suppose you could just blame Zeus, Thor, or that prick Yaluk. Or maybe those damn eco-terrorists are at it again. (read the full article)

Because it’s still hilarious. Clearly, only an all-knowing deity would select a washed-up, insufferable ’80s sitcom star and a self-styled shaman/Darwin stalker to school us on the verisimilitude of The Flintstones. Watch all your egotistical, willful Atheist leanings just melt away thanks to a barrage of condescending back-patting, faulty premises, lame anecdotes, awkward gay tension, beyond-trite conclusions, juvenile attempts to cast man-made objects as complex life forms, clumsy banter, and an unintentionally hilarious exposition of the Yahweh-approved blowjob so clueless that even Mike Seaver can’t keep a straight face.

Nailed it!

He called himself “Professor George.” We shit you not!!

Yes, The Rentboy Temptations of Professor George will be a Death in Venice, but with Budget Inns standing in for Venice, as the pious but randy professor takes the wistful blond Lucien down a primrose path of nude massages, happy endings and total ex-gay fucking!