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Religious swindler and Trump spiritual advisor Paula White has comforting words for those who fear death from the coronavirus.

In an interview on “The Jim Bakker Show,” White claimed that she had been taken to heaven where God showed her new construction to cope with the recent surge of souls. 

“God has commissioned builder angels to expand the size of heaven. He will make sure there is plenty of room for the new admissions.” says Paula.

In this ugly new world of fear, quarantine and plague, we are so lucky to have Paula directing our thoughts Heavenward, although apparently, she’s the only one who gets to go there and come back, like some divine commuter in Jesus's HOV lane. So, for those believers gasping their last on a respirator, there is the comfort of knowing that they are not going to be stuffed into tents or crammed into cages like common refugees when they reach the Pearlies. Right now, even as their blood oxygen is dropping to zero, hardhat angels are banging together Heavenly condos for them in a blizzard of lumber and drywall, barely pausing for a manna break.
 
Those of us who have been assured that our final destination is the fiery pit have cause to worry, though. Is Satan making his imps do the same? We can only hope so. Nobody wants to be crammed into Hell, which already has a bad reputation for creature comforts, without having an adequate opportunity to socially distance.
 
In the meantime, here on Earth, fossil fundamentalist Pat Robertson has had a revelation that the coronavirus is caused by oral sex, and not just any oral sex. According to Pat:
 
“Some of these young uns are doing all kinds of unnatural things with their sex organs,” said Robertson. “When people do that, they transfer all kinds of chemicals from ladies’ private parts and that’s where I think the virus came from. We never had this kind of thing when I was coming up. But no one was committing oral sex back then.”
 
Yeah, Pat, they were. You just missed out on it. But your revelation is a huge theological advance anyway. All of your fellow fundies are still blaming the virus on the usual suspects—God punishing us for gay marriage, fornication, transgender bathrooms, porn and masturbation.  But you have put the sin spotlight on the one sex act that is commonly performed, with varying degrees of skill, by heterosexual men, who are generally the heroes in the Bible. And the virus is transmitted by lady chemicals, which is Robertson’s delicate description for vaginal secretions. If you want to be even less delicate, and we are capable of that here, cooze juice is full of corona.
 
Fortunately for guys, virus transmission is a one-way street. We’re not going to have to give up donating our man chemicals orally to the girls to stop the spread of the virus, so the men of Alabama and any other place where they take Robertson seriously can keep on begging for oral sex just like they always have.
 
Unfortunately for us hetero peeps, this is one logical explanation for men dying of the beer bug more than women. Lesbians ought to be taking a big hit, too. Has anybody checked on them?
 
So that’s it. The cure for coronavirus is cutting out the cunnilingus. No more slurping the clam, or nibbling the fur burger, or licking the carpet, or gobbling the snatch, or eating hair pie. Dining at the Y is out, as is munching muffin, chowing box, tonguing the beaver or mopping out the boner garage.
 
So that’s it, girls. We’ve got to keep our faces out of your naughty bits. Pat Robertson has spoken.
 
You’d better just hope nobody tells him about eating ass. 

White House Counselor Kellyanne Conway asserted today that the death toll from the coronavirus is less than it seems, because many older Americans are exhausted from the Trump Administration’s efforts to Make America Great Again.
 
“It’s a hoax that this virus is what’s offing our senior population. These elderly Americans are merely fatigued by the successes of President Trump,” the Siren of Spin said. “Some American seniors are just too feeble to endure the glow of this era of American splendor. Many of them are choosing to ‘check out,’ so to speak, at this peak of American greatness.
 
“We, of course, regret their loss, but we can hardly blame them for kicking the oxygen habit out of sheer joy at what the last four years has brought. The failed Obama Administration should have had accomplishments like ours to boast of. From putting up several miles of wall, to re-opening one coal mine, to courageous tax cuts that nobody worth less than a few million even noticed, to getting nice letters from North Korea, our President has outstripped all previous Presidential achievements in a mere four years, and did it while lowering his golf handicap.
 
“Likewise, we reject the notion that retired people are dying in despair because their 401(k)’s entirely vanished, and that their Social Security is next. Those proud Americans are succumbing to pure joy that America is First again, and are choosing to buy the farm at this apex of American success.
 
“To be an American at this time of epic American glory can be tiring, and we are sorry to lose these citizens who are blissfully heading to Heaven, their lungs exploding with pride at all President Trump has done. They will be missed. But if by chance you’re still around, and your doctor says that, unfortunately, you have to share a respirator with a minority person in order to survive, go ahead and do it.
 
“You’ll still want to vote for Trump in November.”

Out of a morbid sense of onrushing doom, Americans are seizing the chance to give up kale and acai berries. They're  filling their carts with double-stuf Oreos and bags of chips the size of sofa bolsters. As we citizens of the pandemic scour the barren supermarket aisles for frozen Cinnabons and Sara Lee cheesecakes, radicchio and Swiss chard are rotting on the shelves.

This just goes to show the common sense of the average American. When he or she is vibrantly optimistic about the future, they’re at the gym, pedaling madly on a stationary bike and hydrating with some low-calorie blue drink that’s so loaded with trace amounts of useless homeopathic crap that it costs four bucks a bottle. When they’re forcibly stuck at home, with nothing to do except watch their 401(k)’s disappear like they wish the Kardashians would, they snuggle into the couch cushions, drink Jim Beam and eat caramel popcorn.
 
Hand a quarantined person a plate of raw veggies and they’re liable to throw it back in your face. “Stick them Daikon radishes where the sun don’t shine,” they say. “And fuck your ranch dip, too,” they might add, as they dip their pork rinds into chunky blue cheese dressing.
 
It’s Easter egg season, but nobody’s bothering to hide their baskets. Just keep those Reese’s peanut-butter eggs coming. And hollow chocolate bunnies. And solid chocolate bunnies. The only Easter candy sales that will suffer from the virus are the stuff that nobody likes, but looks good in the basket—jelly beans and Peeps.  Those things are the jicama of candy.
 
Meat is making a big comeback. Prime rib and mashed are pushing tilapia and wild rice right into the garbage disposal. Those Impossible Burgers? They’re impossible to sell nowadays. When Americans are staring death in the face, they want to be cramming a real Whopper into their meat chute, and dabbing real grease off their lips with as few napkins as possible, because they’re saving the rest of the inch-thick wad they snatched off the counter as a substitute for toilet paper.
 
After a couple weeks in quarantine, you may fear the bathroom scale more than you fear your neighbor coughing at your screen door. Discipline yourself. Only eat a Dorito when Trump lies about the virus, or shows that he knows less about infectious disease than he does about the Constitution. It’s only one press conference a day. You may not finish the bag, but for sure you won’t starve.
 
Bottom line is, we’re all coming out of this dead or fat. It’s an election year. Vote for whoever promises you the cheapest insulin.

A White House insider, speaking confidentially, confirmed to this column that a decision has been in the made in the White House to drop the term “Chinese virus,” which Trump has been for the coronavirus, and adopt the term “Democratic virus.”
 
“The real enemy, as the President sees it, is not only this virus, but the fact that many Democrats have it. Sure, it began in China, and calling it the 'Chinese virus' results in a few Asians getting mugged in the streets, which gins up the base, who are constantly wondering what Orientals are doing here in the first place, but the President feels that the only responsible thing to do is switch that animus over to the Democrats.
 
“It was Democrats who brought the virus over from China. We’re 99% percent sure of that, because no Covid-19 patient has been seen carrying one of Ivanka’s handbags, which are readily available in Wuhan. You’ve got a lot of time to read while you’re in an isolation ward, yet none of the books from the Trump family library, like Art of the Deal or Triggered, has experienced a surge in sales.
 
“This, in our opinion, is telling. It’s telling us that those sick people are Democrats. Sure enough, the virus is spreading fastest in Democratic places, like New York and California. People are still partying hard in Republican states, like Tennessee, Texas and Florida. Are they protected? Yes, by the Bible, which may prevent coronavirus in Republicans. That’s what Paula White, the President’s snappy spiritual adviser, whom God, in His Wisdom, created to look good in a tight skirt, says. It’s a plain fact that reading the Origin of Species does not protect you against any disease. Prove me wrong.
 
“That’s a lot of evidence, but I’m sure more will be uncovered. For instance, Joe Biden claims to have been born in Scranton, Pennsylvania, but where’s his long-form birth certificate? People say that he was actually born in China. Missionary parents, that’s why he has normal eyes, but Alex Jones says he was adopted by real Americans when his birth mom and dad both died of another horrible Chinese disease that they got from eating weird Asian shit back then. 
 
“And Biden is going to take away your guns, just like Obama did, and make everybody bake gay wedding cakes for free. And, by the way, senile, senile, senile. Also, socialist, socialist, socialist.
 
“That’s how we’re winning in November. Provided the Biden Bug doesn’t kill us all.”

The Orangutan in the Oval Office, in addition to calling for national unity for the first time in his political career, also called for a National Day of Prayer to stop the spread of God’s latest plague.
 
This is kind of like the Pope calling for an International Day of Whoring. It is tough to imagine Trump on his knees, humbly imploring the Almighty for anything. Although he is surrounded by evangelical preachers, at least when he wants to be for photo ops, they are all universally the sort of preachers that own their own private planes. None of them cancelled services Sunday in response to health authorities’ call for social distancing—these fine Christians don’t want to get their yachts repossessed by not being able to pass around the collection plate.
 
No, Trump would rather cheat than pray any day of the week. But, as does so often, he’s really failed to think this prayer thing through. By asking the entire nation to pray, he’s not just asking white Protestant Americans to bow their heads in a mega-church and beg for virus relief. He’s actually asking Muslims to put their heads on their prayer towels and implore Allah. He’s asking Hindus to jangle their prayer beads. He’s asking illegal immigrants to stop sneaking over the border for just one fucking minute and loft a petition heavenward on behalf of the nation they’re trying to smuggle themselves into. He’s asking Mormons to beg for mercy from the virus until they sweat through their prayer underwear, and also to quit voting for Mitt Romney. He’s asking Scientologists to get all Scientological, or whatever they do, over the coronavirus.
 
Even if we manage to belch a unified national prayer towards the clouds, it will not have any effect on the virus. God will not drop 350 million Covid-19 testing kits upon a thankful nation no matter how hard we pray. True, He allegedly dropped manna from the sky once upon a time, but now that would require FDA approval. He won’t even go the mysterious ways route, and have the World Health Organization find an extra hundred million test kits it had accidentally left in a bus station locker. WHO would generously offer them to the USA one more time, because they pity us for being able to come up with new chicken sandwiches way faster than we can manufacture vitally needed medical products.
 
The virus will just ignore the nation’s prayers and plow ceaselessly towards the heartland, like an infected teenager skateboarding through a nursing home corridor. When God does not answer our prayers, His apologists will say it is because we baked too many gay wedding cakes, or watched too much porn.
 
Trump will provide his idea of leadership, which is bragging on how great his leadership is, no matter how many of the elderly and infirm keel over on his watch.
 
We’re fucked. Put an Amen on the end of that, and you’ll be uttering a prayer that has a chance of being answered.

“He’ll be in a home. And someone else will be running the government.” Donald Trump, on the prospect of a Biden Presidency. News Item.
 
The Salmon Shitbird advanced this argument the other day, not realizing, just as he recently didn’t realize that China bordered India and Kansas City was in Missouri, that he was making a powerful case against himself.
 
What if Trump was in a home? And the government was being run by other people? And by other people we don’t mean the collection of relatives, ass-eaters and preachers who have visions of Trump copulating with Jesus that surround him now, but actual competent functionaries? Meanwhile, Trump would be sitting in a rest home called Golfing Towards Heaven, reading get-well cards from Putin and Tweeting about his bedsores being the BEST bedsores ever.
 
It would be a better world. Not much better, because all those competent functionaries would be Republicans, keen on tax breaks for billionaires and cutting Social Security so deeply that old people would be breakfasting on Alpo and eggs.
 
But it would work with Biden. Joe could sit in the White House, hugging other people’s wives and patting little girls on the head and occasionally signing something, and competent Democrats would make sure we got health care and quit kicking NATO in the nuts.
 
It’s pure speculation, of course, that Biden’s dementia is more advanced than that of Trump’s. Biden rambles, yes, but Trump rambles from here to Neptune and back, like some erratic interplanetary probe. Biden has never had a hamberder and washed it down with covfefe in his life. Biden mixes up his wife and his sister. Trump mixes up his wife and his daughter. Also, his daughter and a porn star. Also, windmills and carcinogens. You get the picture.
 
It is worthwhile to imagine both Biden and Trump in advanced old age if they were not famous politicians, and in Trump’s case, rich. Joe would be in a nice, assisted-living facility, where he would be known for his courtly manners and ability to play a mean game of hearts. His silvery hair and gleaming teeth would make him the heartthrob of every octogenarian gal on the block and he would be regularly visited by Hunter and whoever that kid was currently married to.
 
Trump would be living in a trailer park in Florida. None of his kids would pay any attention to him because he would be just as unpleasant broke as he is rich, and far less useful. He’d sit on his screened-in porch all day, a New England Patriots baseball cap jammed down hard over his bald pate, yelling at every kid that rode by on a dirt bike, which would be every kid in the neighborhood, just so they could laugh  and give him the finger when he did. He’d get his double-wide toilet-papered every Halloween.
 
So, there you have it—do you want your President to be a nice guy whose best cerebral years are probably behind him, or a hateful old fart who’s getting to be so low in the Q’s that he thinks he's the Chosen One?
 
The choice looks like it will be yours.

REPORTER: Thank you, Mr. Virus, for taking time out of your busy schedule to give us this interview.
 
CORONAVIRUS: It’s no problem, pal. All I got to do is spread, and I’m doing that while we’re chatting.
 
REPORTER: What’s it like, being a major health problem?
 
CORONAVIRUS: Well, being a virus, it’s something you prepare for your whole life, but you’re still not really ready for it when it comes. It’s like any career in show business or music—you toil for years in seedy nightclubs or valet park cars in West Hollywood until boom! Suddenly you’re center stage. In my case, of course, I prepared for my worldwide moment in a bat’s ass. That bat pooped on some Chinese guy’s head, he touched it and rubbed his eyes and wham! It’s showtime.
 
REPORTER: Did you think about staying in China?
 
CORONAVIRUS: Thought about it? Sure, I did. What, there’s like a billion and a half of them to infect? And another billion plus next door in India. But there’s an old infectious disease saying, “Go West, young virus. Go West.” I knew I was going to make it big in the USA. From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans bright with foam, etc. God bless America! It’s the only place to be for a rookie virus with stars in its eyes, like me!
 
REPORTER: But some of the viruses that tried to spread here previously—I’m talking SARS, MERS, Ebola—they never got a foothold here. Don’t you think you’d be better off in a country with a poorer health infrastructure?
 
CORONAVIRUS: Carpe the diem, dude. It’s true a couple of my fellow viruses died on this hill, but that was back before Trump was President. The CDC ain’t what it used to be, good buddy. We viruses may fear effective treatments and reliable vaccines, but bullshit don’t hurt us. We don’t give a crap about blither on Twitter. Putting your holy roller Vice President in charge of beating me don’t scare me none. Pray me away! Go ahead and try. I’ll just be infecting while you’re genuflecting!
 
REPORTER: You certainly seem confident that you’ll prevail.
 
CORONAVIRUS: I got Fox and all the right-wing media on my side. Any sign that I’m spreading like a California brush fire is interpreted as a criticism of Trump, so it don’t get no play on Hannity. Those old people watching him are the first ones I plan to kill off. And I’ve been to my first Trump rally! All those luscious victims in their diabetes carts! Reaching under their oxygen masks to wipe the tears from their eyes while Trump brags about how I’m under control. It’s heaven for an infectious disease on the go, like me!
 
REPORTER: Do you have people you specifically plan to infect?
 
CORONAVIRUS: Well, everybody, natch. That’s the way we pandemics roll. But, sure, you have your dream targets. Pat Robertson, Paula White—any of those people that think Jesus is going to stop me—they’d be my pleasure to get all contagious with. Hopefully, they’ll blame me on the gays with their last breath.
 
REPORTER: What about, you know, the ultimate target?
 
CORONAVIRUS: I got big dreams, bro—you might have noticed that—but not impossible dreams. In three weeks, Trump is going to have himself sealed in a bubble-boy chamber with a flat screen TV and his Twitter phone, and he’ll be running the country, such as he does, from there until I run my course. What has he ever done to make you think he was brave? Right now, I guarantee you there’s a jar of hand sanitizer in every hallway in the White House, and an armed Secret Service agent making sure you use it. Hopefully, they’re sneezing into their elbows, right? Hah!
 
REPORTER: You really seem cheerful about your prospects, but in the end, don’t you think they’ll stamp you out?
 
CORONAVIRUS: Maybe so, cuz, but I’m going to enjoy my time at the top. That’s the way we viruses are, you know. We’re all kind of one-hit wonders. Hasta! Got to hit another nursing home. And, hey—learn to wash your hands right. That’ll be especially useful when you run out of toilet paper.

After being sentenced to 40 months in prison for crimes that include obstruction of justice, lying to Congress, and witness tampering, longtime Trump associate Roger Stone declared that his only fear in life is “not being right with God.” adding that he “feels pretty good” because he has “taken Jesus Christ” as his “personal savior.”
 
“I feel pretty good because I’ve taken Jesus Christ as my personal savior. And it’s given me enormous strength and solace, because he knows what’s in my heart.”  News Item.
 
The recently convicted con man proclaimed his fealty to Christianity while wearing an ankle monitor and living in his house in Florida, frantically appealing for a new trial for his crimes. Jesus was none too pleased.
 
“Me Christ!” exclaimed the Redeemer. “It’s not like I was strolling along the beach in front of that microcephalic louse’s home, saying ‘Come get me, Roger!
 
“Eternal salvation is not a game of hide-and-seek. I’m not concealing Myself in the palm trees like some frozen iguana, waiting for all the felons of Florida to get nabbed so they can start bleating My name. Stone is a guy who spent his whole life cheating the voters on behalf of any Republican crooked enough to hire him. In between elections, he made sure he had nice suits and attended swingers' clubs, trolling for people desperate enough to fuck him, and now he’s going to Heaven? Pretty soon, too, because I do know what’s in his heart, and it’s a wad of arterial plaque the size of one of his pinkie rings.  I haven’t had such an unlucky break since I was crucified.
 
“It’s not like I didn’t know this might happen. I lucked out with the first batch of Trump crooks. Michael Flynn is still out on bail, and will probably die there at the rate he’s going, Manafort just prays for enough heroin to get through the day and Michael Cohen is Jewish, thank Me. You won’t be surprised to know I get a lot of applications from prison. A convict gets an extra lump of potatoes in his gravy, or finds out that the lifer who can bench 400 and who insists on showering with him has a small penis, that guy is all over the place thanking Me.
 
“I anticipate more come-to-Me moments from people in Trumpworld as the conviction rate among them goes up, although I sincerely hope that Don Jr. gets killed and eaten by that bear too quickly to beg Me for a pass through the Pearlies, because that piece of bearded snot is My least favorite of the Trumps. Apart from his dad, of course, who sold his soul to the Devil in a levered deal for the Presidency, a couple tax breaks and, of course, Stormy. Mitch McConnell and Devin Nunes couldn’t pass up Satanic offers for their souls either, so I don’t have to worry about them showing up Here, but Satan hasn’t really stepped up his recruiting efforts, in My estimation. I send him emails all the time, urging him to up the ante to people like Bill Barr and Mike Pompeo. “Offer them a lifetime of free pie, as well as the hooker sex,” I suggest, but Lucifer just ignores them. It’s like the Prince of Darkness doesn’t want them at his place, either.
 
“And then, there’s Mike Pence. The guy prays like a geyser, spouting off petition after petition. Trouble with his prayers is after he begs for salvation, he always adds, “After I get to be President, of course.”
 
“Tell him I don’t do side deals if you see him, would you? Otherwise, if he does make it here, he’s gotta sit next to Stone.”

Scene 1: MIKE PENCE, in his office at the Vice-Presidential Residence in Washington, DC. He is on his knees, praying. Suddenly JESUS appears before him.
 
PENCE: My Lord!
 
JESUS: Now you’re spitting, Mike.
 
PENCE: You came in answer to my prayers! Will you grant my plea, and make the coronavirus turn out to be a disease that just kills gay people?
 
JESUS: Be a negative on that, Mike. When My Father whips up a new disease, He doesn’t get all sexual orientation specific about it most times. Naw, the coronavirus is just going to be a regular old plague. Appreciate the work you did helping AIDS kill more people in Indiana, but this one’s going to kill off mostly the old and sickly.
 
PENCE: You mean like Bernie Sanders, Joe Biden and Michael Bloomberg?
 
JESUS: No, I mean like Rush Limbaugh. Let him know, if you see him around.
 
PENCE: But what am I do to, oh My Savior? The President has put me in charge of stopping the virus!
 
JESUS: Well, you could put on a gas mask and announce you’re banning all Mexican beer, not just Corona. Just kidding, Mike. You wouldn’t happen to have a beer, would you? In Heaven, it’s always five o’clock. It’s one of the things that makes it Heaven.
 
PENCE: My Lord, you know I would never touch alcohol!
 
JESUS: I know that’s what you say, Mike. I was kind of hoping that you were a closet drinker, you know, like that other closet thing you got going on…
 
PENCE: Never, oh Prince of Peace!
 
JESUS: Quit piling on the nicknames, Mike. I prefer to be a regular Redeemer, rather than collecting a bunch of titles like I belonged to some half-baked royal family. Anyway, I came by to tell you that you can turn off the prayer hose. You’re screwed, no matter how many whiny petitions you send My way. The coronavirus is going to roll across the land, you’re going to take the blame for it, and Trump is going to boot you off the ticket. Nikki Haley, who My Father, in His infinite wisdom, made just like you in the unprincipled lust for power department, is going to be the VP nominee. And that’s not going to do her much good, because by the time the Republican National Convention rolls around in August, every Trump ass-kisser on that floor is going to be wearing a surgical mask, the kind that regular voters are begging to pay a hundred dollars a pop for, or can’t get at all. That’s going to piss them off, and in November, they’re going to be voting for Bernie Sanders, who’s going to drop the free college thing and win by just promising free hand sanitizer.
 
PENCE: Jesus! You’d let Bernie Sanders win?
 
JESUS: Yup. I’m kind of a socialist Jew myself, Mike, if you ever noticed. There’s just one hope for you.
 
PENCE: Please tell me, Oh Lord! I beg of you!
 
JESUS: The Simpsons ain’t lied to us yet. Just sayin.’