Author Richard Cahill's Website--Living By Our Motto:"There Are No Stupid Questions, Just Stupid People Asking Questions Everybody else already knows the answer to."

​Scrolling along my Facebook feed a lot the past couple, as I’ve got a light fever and a minor cough and don’t feel like working. I get to merely worry about having a breakthrough case of the ‘rona, though, because you can't find a test around here any easier than Ted Cruz can find his spine.
 
Somehow Facebook has me pegged as a good Christian Republican. The Big Algorithm is constantly giving me ads that invite me to give my credit card numbers to the Slushy Money Against Critical Race Theory Fund, and to buy “patriotic” clothing that has various combinations of eagles, machine guns and flags on it. I get offers to “introduce prisoners to Jesus,” despite the fact that I don’t know any prisoners or Jesus.
 
I get invited to participate in surveys where the questions might be a tad loaded. Surveys with questions like “Do you think Joe Biden is a good President, for a pedophile?”
 
But I just stopped scrolling and stared when I saw an ad that said, “Will you read a daily verse with God?”
 
Yes. Oh, hell yeah. And I mean a verse of anything. As long as the Alpha and the Omega was sitting on my couch with me, from Amazing Grace to “Back That Ass Up.” Taylor Swift to T.S. Elliot. Gangsta rap to country western. Well, not country western. Well, okay. Thy will be done. Garth Brooks here we come.
 
So, I went to page two, which was a bunch of survey questions about whether I had kids, a job I was happy with, whether I had a relationship, and how often I wanted to l hear from the Almighty. I started answering them eagerly, until I had a bonus revelation, which was Shouldn’t God already know this shit?
 
That’s when I lost hope that God would actually come and get cozy over a little literature with me. God would already know that I had a kid. He would also know if that child was a wildly successful object of pride to me or if he was already known to the local cops as “Narcan Boy.” He would also know if I was in a relationship, or relationships, or if I belonged to a worldwide pansexual tribe that worshipped Miley Cyrus. He would know if I enjoyed my work or if I was planning to open fire at everyone on the loading dock come Monday.
 
Unlike God, algorithms know nothing until you start telling them. So, I quit filling out the survey. If God wants to find me, He can find me on His own. I’m usually at my local brewhouse on the weekends.
 
I’m the guy with eagles on his cargo pants.

Satan checked in with me the other day. It’s been much easier dealing with the Prince of Darkness since the pandemic. He used to appear to me in person, in a burst of soot and brimstone, which meant I had to vacuum and spray Febreze around the house before my Significant Other came home.
 
Now we just use Zoom. I can usually summon Satan just by drawing a pentagram in Paint, but talking to the Lord of All Evil wasn’t on my mind when Lucifer opened a chat window and began complaining.
 
Hey, what’s up with that? I asked. You can just burst onto my screen spontaneously? I wasn’t even watching porn.
 
“As long as your IP address is visible. Avast and Norton keep warning you about that, but you keep ignoring it. Got a lot more hackers down here since the Covid got started. A lot more of everyone else, too.”
 
That’s good. I’m glad business is good.
 
“It presents problems. You keep adding room temperature souls to the Fiery Pit, you have to keep turning up the thermostat. My energy costs are through the roof.”
 
Wait…you have to pay your own heating bill?
 
“I made a deal with Putin to lay down a gas line here. Here’s a tip for you—never sign a contract with that prick. I keep telling him, Vlad, you’re going to end up here, and I've got every screenwriter who ever went to Hell, which is most of them, working on creative ways to roast you for all eternity. How about you give me a little discount? He just laughs and tacks on another couple euros a cubic foot. I pay it, because I’ve got souls to burn.”
 
So, all the anti-vaxxers—they go to eternal torment when they die of Covid?
 
“Oh, hell no. Not the really stupid ones. The Other Guy is stuck with them. Marjorie Taylor-Greene ain’t ever gonna darken the door of Eternal Darkness. I have standards. God doesn’t mind the dumb ones so much. ‘I created them. I forget why, though. Nowadays, I just give them a harp and tell them to sing Rock of Ages for a few thousand years. Then I shut the door on them and go back to the bar.’ That’s a direct quote, from my Eternal Nemesis.”
 
Been meaning to ask—is there a bar at your place?
 
“Only for my imps. Sorry, dude. And they spend too much time there, instead of flaying the souls of the damned like they should be. Ever since they got that union…well, we’ve talked about that before. But they’ve got a contract, and when souls show up that especially need filleting, they have to be on it.”
 
So, all those right-wing radio guys that told their audiences not to get vaxxed and then died of the covid themselves…
 
“Getting sodomized with glowing iron augers right now. And some of the smaller imps dress up as the dwarves from Snow White while we’re doing it and sing, Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Up Your…”
 
I can fill in the blanks.
 
“The higher their ratings went when they spread bullshit, the deeper we go. But it’s more than just them. Everybody that sent someone a link to Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. or where to buy ivermectin online, they’re coming here, too.”
 
What about people like Joe Rogan, who pretend to be giving out objective information but in reality are just shitting on science?
 
“You’re going to love this one for Joe. Chained by hot iron links in an eternal unnatural sex position with Rush Limbaugh.”
 
But Rush is already there, isn’t he?
 
“Yeah, but Rush’s getting tired of being chained to Herman Cain. Guy’s a fucking racist, if you ask me.”

Former President Donald Trump lauded himself for the way he served religious communities in the U.S. during his time in office.
"Nobody has done more for Christianity or for evangelicals—or for religion itself—than I have, [doing] so many different things," he said during a phone interview--News Item
 
This is the sort of fatuous, self-congratulatory, only vaguely comprehensible spouting we have come to expect from Trump, both in-office and out. The run-on sentence, laudatory only to himself, is Trump’s special form of communication. It’s as sure a thing as his next cheeseburger fart.
 
Of course, many people have done more for religion that Trump—the Crusaders, the Saracens, the Conquistadores, just to name three of hundreds—all people who raised swords and hooves in the name of their faiths, stomping unbeliever hiney all over four continents. What has Trump done that compared to conquering people, enslaving them and then forcing them to build temples to your God? Having a religious adviser who looks good in a short skirt is not even close to being the same as wiping pagan blood off your blade after a hard day of spreading the faith.
 
Trump didn’t promote all faiths equally, either. Ask the Muslims. Or the Hindus, whom Stephen Miller tried valiantly to deny visas to, in the name of whiteness. No, Trump only promoted Evangelical America, God’s army with guns, bake sales and diabetes carts.
 
Now even they are turning on him. Frank Amedia, who served as a Christian liaison to Trump during his 2016 campaign and was the architect of the “Prayer Shield” that allegedly protected Trump at his Inauguration, has publicly said that God is sick of Trump.
 
Amedia runs “Touch Heaven” Ministries, and apparently, the last time he was in touch with Heaven, God told the minister that He was through with Trump. The next time Trump asks God for anything, if he ever does, God is going to tell the Ex to blow it out his ass.
 
Okay, Amedia didn’t say that. What he said was "A lot of the things that God had given him to do he fulfilled as a checklist. But here's the key: Who got the glory? And who was he taking the glory to? Was he thanking God for it publicly? Was he pointing to God for it?" Amedia continued. The pastor said that everyone had grown "tired" of Trump's tweets and "him talking about himself."
 
Trump talks about himself way more than God does. God barely mentions Himself at all, but when He does, He tends to go on about being "The Kingdom, the Power, the Glory,” etc., etc., to wearying effect.
 
This is the sort of thing Trump, who, you recall, once proclaimed himself “the chosen one,” would probably like to say about himself, and can barely keep from doing so. For four years he took credit for everything good that happened in the country, and accepted no blame for anything bad.
 
Of course, God’s been doing the same thing to all of humanity since his burning bush days. He’s been gaslighting us since before there was gas, or lights. No wonder he’s sick of Trump.
 
Fucker’s been stepping on His act.

As a nonbeliever, I feel confident that there will be no pain for me in the afterlife. In several columns here, I have expressed novel beliefs about eternal life for atheists, such as All Atheists Go to Heaven and Why God Loves Atheists. But, like all theologians, I make up divine principles right in my head, according to what I find convenient to believe. Research has nothing to do with it.
 
So, I could be wrong. I could end up in Hell, for the sin of finding blasphemy extremely amusing. This is not among the listed sins, at least in any list I’ve read, but I’ve been assured by religious people that it is, and I’m going to Hell for it. There have been a couple of other sins I’ve committed along the way, too.
 
I’ve always assumed I would end up in the nice Catholic Hell that was promised me by the nuns that slapped me around in grammar school. The best feature of Catholic Hell was ease of entrance. Chewing gum before taking Communion was a one-way ticket there, and skipping Mass on one of the Church’s innumerable Holy Days of Obligation got you a front-row seat, too.
 
So, there you would be, Mr. Little Gum Chewer, right where you belonged, getting tortured eternally with all the liars, cheats, serial rapists and mass murderers. Even before you learned to masturbate, which assured you of your place in the Fiery Pit, you could get what you deserved, suffering without end.
 
The nuns were not specific about the torments of Hell per se. It was hot, of course, and random slashings by Satan’s imps were common.
 
As a Catholic, you could always luck out and go to Purgatory. Purgatory was hard to get into, as the category of sin, venial, that put you there was pretty mild. Lying to your mom about having made your bed could put you in Purgatory, for example. The place had all the torture features of Hell, but your sentence there was only temporary. The best thing about Purgatory was that your mom was probably going to end up there, too, and you could get the bed-making thing straightened out with her between scaldings by hot lava.
 
But what if Mohammed really was God’s messenger, instead of just a horny bastard who hated booze and wanted a batch of teenage wives? I could end up in Muslim Hell. Muslim Hell has seven layers, kind of like a burrito offering by Taco Bell, and there’s plenty of El Scorcho Sauce in every one. The only redeeming feature of Muslim Hell is that you are surrounded by bad Muslims, which is way more fun than being surrounded by good Muslims. Ask anybody in Kabul, if you don’t believe me.
​
Jews are kind of half-assed about Hell. You don’t have to believe in eternal life or eternal torture to call yourself a Jew. You can believe in Hell if you want to, but it is a merely a Hell of teeth-gritting inconveniences, like being seated at a table by the kitchen in a restaurant. Instead of a menu, you have a list of all the shitty things you did in life that you ought to be ashamed of. You have to read it, over and over. The good news is that Hell for Jews is only temporary. Eventually they are released and go to Jewish Heaven, which they call “the world to come.”
 
My girl and her daughter, who are both Jewish, were discussing the World to Come the other day and, me being in the room, the subject of whether atheists would be admitted there came up, and her daughter had a swift answer.
 
“Of course,” she said. “Because, as soon as they get there, they’re no longer atheists.”
 
Works for me.

God popped up on my Zoom screen again. This time He was in a jovial mood. “I see you’re checking out the Facebook Prayer to End Atheism page,” He said.
 
I wasn’t going to participate.
 
“Good, because I’m planning to ignore it entirely.”
 
Isn’t that what you do with all prayers?
 
“For shizzle, ma hizzle.”
 
Oh, wow, is Snoop Dogg dead?
 
“No, just been watching him on YouTube. It’s true I ignore most prayers, from high school kids begging Me for a glimpse of calculus test of the nerd who sits in front of them to a guy getting his leg munched on by crocodile, and every prayer in between, but I’m really going to savor ignoring this one. I love atheists. They don’t bother me about anything. They know I’m not going to cure their cancer, help them pick Lotto numbers or stop them from being gay. Jesus loves them, too. Every time they sue to get a cross taken off government land, He’s behind them all the way. “Go atheists!” he murmurs. My Son is not big on crosses. He pretty much eternally resents Me for making him hang on one. It’s a constant source of family tension.”
 
Every family has its issues.
 
“Tell that to the Holy Ghost, would ya? That Being is just one eternal sourpuss. But I’m getting off the subject. Let My Believers know that I’m not going to convert all the atheists to groveling Christians just so they don’t get made fun of anymore, which is their real motivation. Remind them they’re supposed to love suffering, so when some smartass atheist starts flaming them on Facebook, they should just pray to me.”
 
Which prayer you’ll ignore.
 
“Me damn right I will.”

Upon hearing that a mural of murder victim George Floyd had been destroyed by lightning in Toledo, Ohio, Donald Trump Jr. said on Twitter, "It’s almost like a higher power is telling us something. When was the last time you heard of a brick building being destroyed by lightning? I am a builder and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of it."--News Item
 
God appeared to me again the other day. Not in person, but via Zoom, the way He has manifested Himself to me ever since the pandemic started. “And that’s the way it’s going to stay,” He told me in an aside. “Me, Jesus, even Mother Mary are going to appear virtually from now on. Mary bitched about it, but I told her, ‘Hey, even peasant children all have iPhones now. All that burning bush and weeping statues shit is so pre-millennial.”
 
Mostly, though, the Creator of the Universe wanted to talk about Donald Trump, Jr. “You tell that greasy little peckerhead to keep My name out of his yabbering mouth!” He said emphatically.
 
So, you deny destroying a mural of George Floyd via lightning bolt to send a message to humanity?
 
“Hell, yeah. First off, I don’t do lightning bolts—that’s Zeus, that crazy old Greek show-off. Secondly, if I was in the habit of destroying monuments to correct moral ambiguities, there wouldn’t be a Confederate general on a stone horse left south of the Mason-Dixon line. Thirdly, all this is part of My plan. I made George Floyd a very large black man with a substance abuse problem so it was inevitable that he’d be an angry white cop magnet. I made Derek Chauvin a sadistic murderer.”
 
And you made Donald Trump, Jr.
 
“Yeah. Why did I do that?”
 
Umm—it’s part of Your plan?
 
“Must be, although even I get lost in the details of that thing now and then. Why would I need an unctuous, insensitive, spoiled twerp like Trump, Jr.? I work in mysterious ways, sure, but why would I create such an obvious waste of human life? To make Eric look useful by comparison, maybe? I mean, I do have a plan for the whole Universe, but sometimes the details elude even Me. I have an archangel that keeps track of that shit for Me. It’s on a spreadsheet around here somewhere. Also, tell Trump Jr. to quit calling himself a builder when he can barely stick two Legos together.”
 
Anything else?
 
“Just let that grubby little prick know I’ve got more important things to do. I just collapsed a condo tower in Florida, remember? And flooded a good portion of Western Europe.”
 
Yeah. Why do you do stuff like that?
 
“Condominiums are creations of Satan. That’s pretty obvious to anybody who thinks about them. And I put Belgium underwater to remind people to never live in a country so small I can flood the whole thing. You know who’s laughing his ass off about that?
 
Umm—Noah?
 
“You got it, bud. Nice talking to you.”

The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, a compilation of old, mostly white guys that like to wear nice dresses, is getting ready to issue a formal statement on the meaning of Communion and, believe me, they are not going to come to the conclusion that it’s a meaningless piece of ancient Catholic drivel left over from the Middle Ages.
 
No, they are going to announce that Joe Biden and other Catholic politicians aren’t going to be allowed to get it, because they aren’t working hard enough to make Catholic theology into US law. In this they are joined by evangelical Protestants, who believe that the Gospel forbids abortion, even though it actually does not, and that this nonexistent provision of Scripture should also be enshrined into law.
 
Such a confluence of influence would have been unheard of in my Catholic youth, when we Catholics believed all Protestants were going to Hell, and they confidently believed the same about us. Good times.
 
Now the nation’s remaining Catholics and their Bible-belting friends have joined forces, and the hill they have decided to be martyred on together is women and how their uteri need to be controlled by the states. They have not decided that the states should try to get men to keep their dicks in their pants. They seem to realize that some causes are hopeless, even for God.
 
So, the President may be left tapping his foot at the communion rail pretty soon, while the priest busily stuffs wafers into the mouths of every other kind of sinner standing alongside him you can imagine, including members of his own brotherhood whose fingers reek of altar boy ass.
 
It is the existence of this band of underground pedophiles, which the Conference of Pointy-Hatted Pricks mostly chose to ignore for decades, that is causing the Church to lose membership faster than you can say ten Hail Marys. Yes, formerly reverent Catholics are saying, “I just don’t want to go to Church this Sunday,” and then, because they were raised in a faith that finds value in suffering, they say, “I think I’ll watch the Jets game instead.”
 
Fear not, Mr. President. There are plenty of faiths that will welcome your abortion-tolerating person. You won’t have to have some brave young priest sneak your wafer into the White House while Protestant soldiers with pikes lie in wait to chop his head off, like some Netflix drama about persecuted Catholics in Elizabethan England.
 
The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster will be happy to have you as a member, and while slurping pasta may not be gourmet dining, it’s at least gustatorily superior to letting a tasteless wad of what seems like Walmart copy paper dissolve on your tongue. Wearing a colander on your head might cost you a few suburban swing votes, though, although the CFSM would not forbid you from taking it off your head and hitting Putin with it, next time you see that guy.
 
Personally, I’m a Dudeist, and all we have to do is abide. Sure, it’s recommended we bowl and drink White Russians, but I don’t do either of those things, and nobody’s excommunicated me yet. Abiding is good. Abiding in the White House is even better, and will help you keep your equanimity when that sewer clown Mitch McConnell kicks you in the nuts again.
 
There’s the Church of the Holy Taco, which I thought I just made up, but apparently was envisioned by another satirist before me. The Church offers Salsa Salvation, which sounds pretty tempting. Imagine standing at the rail of the Taco Church, sanctified, munching a consecrated Dorito while the Holy Hot Sauce runs down your chin. Just hope you avoid the dreaded Ring of Fire, which is that Church’s version of Hell.
 
Tacos also have a double-entendre meaning among the sniggering set (it’s vagina), which means you can cut into the Republican lead among Young Guys Who Talk About Sex Constantly but Hardly Ever Get It.
 
Even incels love tacos. 

I don’t know about the future of artificial intelligence, but I can assure you that artificial stupidity has already arrived, and it, or at least Facebook’s version of it, has decided that I am a racist, Bible-believing, reactionary Republican dripping with discretionary income.
 
A casual observer of my person might suspect this, since I’m an old white guy, but it is not true. The girl and I had a discreet “Biden-Harris” sticker in the window before the last election, but it was only discreet because our HOA prohibits yard signs. I wanted to spray-paint “FUCK TRUMP” on our garage door, and I regretted not doing so, especially after the damn thing broke down in December and a new one cost $2300.
 
I had to settle for naming our wireless network “fucktrump.”
 
Thanks to my research efforts intended entirely to sharpen my satire, I get offers for t-shirts that say “My Rights Don’t End Where Your Feelings Begin,” which is advertised as “Being for Proud Americans.”
 
Probably sell more of them with that tagline than by saying, “Being for Thoughtless, Agitated Assholes,” but what do I know about marketing?
 
I have to admit I also get ads for t-shirts that say “I Could Go a Day Without Beer but Why Risk It?” which seem to at least vaguely recognize who I really am.
 
But I am not sending money to Ted Cruz to help him keep the country from descending into a socialist hell. I am cool with the Biden plan of killing off the virus and restoring the economy. I can think of only one person I would rather give money to less than Ted Cruz, and that is Rand “Won’t You Be My Neighbor, Because My Last One Punched My Lights Out,” Paul, who wants me to send him money to fire Anthony Fauci, even though he is not Fauci’s boss. I would rather donate to Vladimir Putin’s re-election campaign than either one of those guys.
 
Or maybe Mike Huckabee, ex-governor of Arkansas and lying Internet hustler. He wants me to buy a book from him that teaches kids how to recognize “fake news,” which, surprise, surprise, teaches kids how to believe everything Hannity tells them. He also offers a book that explains to innocents how to argue back when confronted by atheist kids with the fact that Adam and Eve only had two documented kids, both of whom were male, so where did the human race come from? Mike advises kids that while the Bible is inerrantly true, it is also sometimes short on details.
 
Huckabee is missing the mark advertising to me personally as well as politically--my kid will turn 30 this year. He also doesn’t seem to realize that kids care very little about politics and theology. What kids care about is war and bloodshed, as I recall from my days of playing army in the dirt with a piece of wood as a pretend rifle, and today’s kids exemplify by fighting online combat games. Huckabee doesn’t offer any kid-friendly advice on these interests, although a book called, “Hey, It Really, Really Hurts When You Get Hit by a Bullet,” might serve as a helpful reminder to kids not to shoot themselves or others when they get a real gun.
 
Useful advice is not what Huckabee is accustomed to selling, though. He’s retired from politics now, although he’s gung-ho for his overweight daughter with two different-sized eyes to follow in his footsteps by becoming Governor of Arkansas, relying heavily on her resume as an unsurpassed prevaricator to appeal to the voters of that benighted state.
 
If Sarah loses, she can follow in her dad’s footsteps by writing kid’s books. “You Already Lie to Your Mom, But Nobody Pays You for That,” has a nice ring to it.

You can now pre-order the Lee Greenwood Bible, the latest hustle by the publishing Christian right to try and separate the evangelical base from another fifty bucks, and it will be shipped to you by the anniversary of the 9-11 attack on the US, so you can hold it reverently in your hands as you ask God if we’ve killed enough Muslims to avenge it.
 
This is not exactly how this Bible is advertised, but I’m sure you can use it for that. The Lee Greenwood Bible contains, besides the King James version of the same, a “readable” copy of the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, the Pledge of Allegiance and the lyrics to Lee Greenwood’s sappy patriotic anthem “God Bless the USA.”
 
So, it’s easy worth the fifty bucks, even though you could get a Bible for free from that motel room you get to have sex with your second cousin while her husband’s working nights any time you want. That Bible doesn’t contain any of the thoughts of Lee Greenwood, though, just the standard mumblings and vague threats of various prophets and disciples. Lee’s a little more straightforward than the Book of Revelations, for example, when he writes, “And I'm proud to be an American/where at least I know I'm free,” which means that nobody else anywhere is free, even Europeans and Australians who vote for their leaders and have free speech and press, because they are yoked under the tyranny of universal health care.
 
See? Country-western musicians can be interpreted just like the words of Jesus. The Greenwood Bible has the advantage of combining stuff you never read (Bible, Constitution) with stuff you don’t need to read because you know it by heart (Pledge of Allegiance, country songs).
 
So, it doesn’t have to be opened at all. It can just sit there on your coffee table, proclaiming your religiosity and patriotism to whoever drops by, whether it be your pastor looking for his tithe or the FBI, wondering where you were on January 6th.
 
This Bible’s marketers seem to recognize that no one is about to buy one of these books for themselves, so the web page you can order it from has a list of people you can gift it to. Some of these suggestions are believable, like “The family,” because there’s nothing like a great big Bible/Constitution lying on the coffee table to remind you not to leave your sister’s underpants on it when you’re done having sex with her.
 
Others are not so convincing. “American History buffs?” The amount of American history in the Bible is negligible. “Grandparents?” They’re probably familiar with the Bible already, but you want them to remember what a good kid you really are when you need bail money, so maybe. “New American citizens?” Complete bullshit. You don’t know any, and if you did, you would be annoyed by them to the point of smacking them around. It’s not a hate crime if you just hate someone’s accent, right?
 
So, Lee Greenwood’s got a pretty viable product here. He’s probably going to make some money off of it, which will supplement the income he makes croaking out “God Bless the USA,” in some dank Vegas lounge six nights a week, which, like all musicians who had at least one hit song, is the way he’ll finish out his career.
 
But he’d better watch out for the competition. With the Country-Western Bible on the shelves, can the NASCAR Bible be far behind?

My late father, who was not exactly a font of wisdom, used to use the expression, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” when confronted with an inevitable event, like him losing at poker or the horse races.
 
That’s the only thing he ever taught me, besides using the lawnmower when I was old enough to reach the handles so he wouldn’t have to cut the grass anymore, so I suppose I should treasure it.
 
Cookies have a whole new meaning nowadays though, and Facebook cookies have crumbled so that the ad that pops up most frequently when I log on to FB nowadays is an invitation to donate to Prison Fellowship International, which wants $15 from me so they can “introduce a prisoner to Jesus Christ right now.” I am also told that the funds I donate would ensure that every prisoner who wants one would get a Bible.
 
What is possessing the PFI to spend its FB advertising dollars on me I can't say. To say that buying Bibles for anyone is among the lowest of my priorities would be a considerable understatement. Anything this side of undergoing chemotherapy would interest me more than shipping Bibles to convicts. Cynically, I imagine most of them would be hollowed out to conceal a shiv or other contraband. Equally cynically, I expect that prison inhabitants who actually want to read the Bible already have one.
 
Prisoners are actually more religious than the population at large, according to this post, although admittedly the data is murky. It’s easy to see why convicts are more religious than average, though. It’s the opposite of the reason that successful professional athletes are more religious than most. An MVP is religious because when he prayed to Jesus to hit one out of the park in the bottom of the ninth and did it, he thinks Jesus helped him swing the bat. Prisoners are religious because the turn of life that landed them in the pen, whether it was an abysmal lawyer, a partner in crime that snitched them out, planted drugs by a corrupt cop or actually having done something hideously wrong, was orchestrated by God to punish them for wrongdoings they weren’t caught at.
 
You can’t fix this forehead-smacking error in logic by giving cons more Bibles. I would rather give $15 to help the incarcerated obtain free streaming porn, which I suspect they would find infinitely more comforting, and would probably cut down on dropped-the-soap-in-the-shower foreplay in America’s penal institutions.
 
But I’m not going to do that, either. Instead, I am offering free Bibles to anyone currently in Facebook jail, of which I have many among my FB friends. I am seldom placed in FB detention myself. I wonder why sometimes, since I have as shitty a ‘tude as anyone else on here. Maybe it’s because I never post memes with bare titties in them, because if you want to be exposed to bare titties, that’s not my problem. Try Google. Acres of them there.

If you are mourning your errors in FB jail, though, bereft of the ability to comment on the frolickings of Smudge the Cat and his accusatory, tear-stained blonde companion, Leonardo de Caprio’s sardonic drunken smirk, or Pepe the Frog, and think that reading about Noah’s Ark or Jesus miraculously making Filet ‘o Fish sandwiches for a horde of followers out of a couple of mackerels and a half-loaf of challah bread will help you pass those sad, useless hours until Zuckerberg sets you free, contact me.
 
I’ll send you a Bible. *
 
*This offer is made completely sarcastically. No one is getting any Bibles from me. In fact, if you send me a request for a Bible, I will promptly sell your contact information to Nigeria and any politician begging for money who lives at least three states away from you.