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."

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. 

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.’

In an opinion piece for Charisma News, tranquilly titled “Gay Activism—The Death Rattle of a Nation,” wannabe famous bible beater Bert Farlas proclaims Presidential candidate Pete Buttigieg “deserving of death” for kissing his husband on stage at campaign events--News item
 
Not arguing with that. In fact, I was chatting with God the other day—not praying, mind you—the Almighty and I use Skype--and just as an aside, I mentioned to Him that the Bible calls for death for gays, as well as disobedient children, unfaithful wives and people who eat shrimp cocktails.

The Almighty just shrugged and said, “Those were just for examples. Don’t you get the picture? Everybody deserves to die! From childhood cancer victims to 115-year-old Japanese women, you all get it in the end. Not everybody dies alone, either—I got tsunamis and pogroms and earthquakes at group rates for that. There are deaths I especially look forward to—Rush Limbaugh’s, for example—that hateful obese prick is going to undergo a special advanced treatment that only millionaires can afford for his lung cancer. It’s going to be extremely painful, ultimately futile, and will result in his penis coming off in his hand while he’s trying to give a urine sample as a side-effect—but the end result will be the same as anybody’s that I chose to just mercifully hit with a sudden coronary or a bus. Lights out.”
 
Hmm—how come none of the evangelicals seem to get this message?
 
“I don’t know. I make it pretty obvious. First off, everybody does die. How come people think that’s a bug, not a feature? Of course, Buttigieg deserves to die. Not for kissing his husband, natch, but just because he’s human. So’s his husband. They’re both going to kick the bucket, like everybody else who was ever alive.”
 
Is it a result of the whole Original Sin thing?
 
“I got over that a while ago. You might have noticed I had a bit of a tendency to overreact in those days. In My defense, I was a brand-new Creator, and I felt the pressure to be perfect a little more than I do now. But the whole universality of death thing—I decided to keep it long ago.”
 
Why?
 
“Jesus, man—don’t look at Me like that—I’m entitled to take that little slacker’s Name in vain if anybody is—imagine what the world would be like if everybody lived forever? Next time you got sick, some 600-year old medieval doctor says it’s because you bathe too often and covers you with leeches. The Egyptians are still building pyramids. Genghis Khan is making everybody nervous, always riding around on the steppes, angling for his next chance to conquer Asia. Muhammad and Joseph Smith could actually appear together on Firing Line and debate which one of them invented a better religion. Death is My way of clearing the world of old stupid ideas, just to give new stupid ideas a chance to blossom.”
 
But sometimes there are good ideas, too. 
 
“I concede that. It's an alarming trend, but I do My best to combat it. For every microbiologist, an anti-vaxxer. For every astrophysicist, a flat-earther. For every serious writer, an episode of Say Yes to the Dress. For every oenologist, a case of Bud Light Strawberry Seltzer. For every philosopher, a professional wrestling fan. For every Buttigieg, a Steve Gohmert. That’s My motto.”
 
“So, it’s You that keeps us stupid?
 
“Hell, yeah. It’s almost as obvious as the death thing, but nobody figures it out. That’s how I know it’s working.”

It’s been a week since the entire nation was condemned to an eternity of fiery suffering as the result of watching the Super Bowl halftime show, and I, for one, feel pretty good about it. Of course, I was going to Hell already, so watching the halftime booty-fest put on by Shakira, J.Lo and their host of back-up dancers did not affect my eternal fate. Well, maybe a little, because I was putting the finishing touches on a couple of roasted chickens during most of the halftime show and had to deliberately make a speed-date with sin by watching it later on YouTube, so I might eventually end up in a lower circle of Hell because of that. Or not; I could always plead I don't deserve a hotter spot because I can't name a single song by either performer off the top of my head. 
 
It all seems ironic, because almost everyone in the country was just about in heaven about the Supe because there was no possibility the New England Patriots were going to win it. By halftime, it was still obvious that the Patriots were not going to be the eventual champions, so ultra-Christian Ohio resident Dave Daubenmire should have been as happy as the rest of us when Shakira, J. Lo and company went onstage to shake it like a Polaroid picture. He, however, was not. From his Christian podcast:
 
“I think we ought to sue,” (said Daubenmire). “Would that halftime show, would that have been rated PG? Were there any warnings that your 12-year-old son—whose hormones are just starting to operate – was there any warning that what he was going to see might cause him to get sexually excited?”

“Could I go into a courtroom and say, ‘Viewing what you put on that screen put me in danger of hellfire’?”

Now, no one could blame Dave for seething with angst while watching the Super Bowl, because no Ohio team has ever won one. But he had to go and bring sex and Jesus into it. Let's face it, Dave is about as much fun as hitting your shin on a trailer hitch.
 
He mentions suing Pepsi, which sponsored Shakira’s vibrating buns and J. Lo’s sensational splits, for an amount of 867 trillion dollars, which, at 37 times the national debt, seems a tad overmuch, until you consider that 867 trillion divided by an eternity in Hell is still effectively zero.
 
It might be a tough lawsuit to win. If I were one of Pepsi’s defense lawyers, I’d point out that many other female pop stars have danced nearly in the raw at previous Super Bowls, and Dave did not see fit to sue over them. Katie Perry had a Left Shark drooling over her (a Shark that is for sure destined for eternal perdition), Lady Gaga scampered skimpily, Fergie sang about her luscious lady lumps, and Beyoncé even cat-walked across the Super Stage through a special effect calculated to mimic the flames of Hell. Yet Dave did not raise one litigating finger. It took the sultry Latina duo to give Dave a sinful bulge in his trousers, a bump he fears will eighty-six him from the Pearlies and get him a box seat at the Stadium of Eternal Suffering.
 
Yeah, 867 trillion might be a little low, especially if he splits it with that twelve-year-old kid. If he wins, though, you can comfort yourself with the thought that every time you pour yourself a Pepsi at your local taco shop (because no taco shop on the planet ever serves Coke) you’re doing more than preparing to douse the fire of its habanero sauce.
 
You’re helping keep Dave out of Hell.

​Paula White, spiritual advisor to the White House, who is paid by taxpayer money, was recently videoed saying:
 
"We declare any strange winds – any strange winds that have been sent to hurt the church, sent to hurt this nation, sent against the president, sent against myself, sent against others – we break it by the superior blood of Jesus right now…In the name of Jesus, we command all satanic pregnancies to miscarry right now. We declare that anything that has been conceived in satanic wombs will miscarry.
 
Immediately the libtard media went into a frenzy, since Paula yacks about the preciousness of fetal life all the time, so commanding fetuses to self-abort definitely smells of mission creep. Paula’s ministry has really been raking in the cheese lately, because of her association with Trump, and likely she’s getting insider stock tips from Steve Mnuchin as well, so naturally she’s filled with the Spirit, but it is nonetheless a distinctly weird message that the Spirit is blurting out here, so weird that eventually Paula started telling people she was quoted out of context. Which is another kind of miracle, because she’s on video saying it.
 
How do I know if my womb is satanic? I hear the women of childbearing age of America crying out this question, to no avail. No information available. If you can’t reach Paula, ask your OBGYN, I suppose.
 
Nonetheless, I've learned something from Paula. I’m vowing to add the phrase “By the Superior Blood of Jesus” to every request I make in the future. For example, “By the Superior Blood of Jesus, can I get a couple extra packets of hot sauce?” or, “By the Superior Blood of Jesus, could you kindly not run the fucking dishwasher when I’m in the shower?”
 
Also, we are left to wonder exactly what a Satanic pregnancy is, since Paula refuses to say anything more about them. Is it a pregnancy actually caused by Satan? Could be, because in no artistic or sculptural rendering of the Prince of Darkness, is he ever depicted wearing a condom. His biggest centuries for knocking up human women were in the Dark Ages. Apparently, the Lord of the Underworld prefers women that have never bathed in their entire lives.
 
Back then, when a woman conceived a child by Satan, her neighbors didn’t bother with praying for her to miscarry—they just burned her and her fetus at the stake, so we ought to be grateful to Paula for her mercy, relatively speaking. And for all the girls nowadays who have woken up in a strange bed after a hard night of partying with a guy they met on Tinder, and saw Satan sleeping next to them, and thought afterwards, “I kind of wish that had been Harvey Weinstein,” they are grateful to be getting their periods after Paula’s prayers, no doubt.
 
As for those strange winds, they are no doubt blowing straight from the Pit of Darkness. Unless they’re blowing from a burrito you ate after midnight.

​In either case, they can hurt. 

An official Space Force Bible has been blessed at the National Cathedral for use in swearing in senior Space Force officers--News item.
 
I must admit I let this column lose track of the Space Force. My crack research team had failed to notice that the Force had actually been formed. Last I heard, the Joint Chiefs were arguing about whether the Air Force had jurisdiction over space. Somebody must have won the argument by pointing out that there is no air in space, therefore we needed an entire new military bureaucracy to fight in the vacuum.
 
So, the Space Force has been born. The first thing they needed was a uniform, and they have one. Much fun has been made of it, since it is traditional military camouflage, and there is a significant lack of underbrush to blend into out in space. Space camouflage should be black, and sprinkled with white dots that represent stars. That way, the wearer could blend into space, when his rocket ship is attacked and he or she is blown out into it.
 
No worries about that right now, since the Space Force does not actually have any rocket ships. What it does have is a Bible, though, even though the Bible does not mention space. Indeed, many of today’s Flat Earth practitioners cite the Bible when they accuse NASA of sending astronauts to the space station, which they believe hangs by gigantic suction cups that astronauts lick and stick on the underside of the big dome God keeps us in, so they can take pictures of the Earth with fish-eye cameras, to give us the false impression that it is round.
 
That is the same Bible we will now launch into space on the wings of the Space Force. We do not know yet whether every Space Force capsule will be required to have a Bible on board, like a comfy room in a Holiday Inn Express, so space soldiers can either take it out of the drawer and read it, or set their beers on it, like I do. Only it’ll be a suite fueled by liquid hydrogen and capable of shooting laser rays at its enemies.
 
When our technology advances to the point where we can actually build Death Stars, will the Space Force make sure each one has a Bible inside, so that the Death Star commander can read a reverent little verse or two before imploding a planet and all its inhabitants? Based on the history of the connection between religion and military adventuring, the bet here is yes.
 
And will the heroic fighters of the Space Rebellion figure out the weak point in the USS Death Star in time to destroy it, before it blows up their home world? Will a lone Resistance fighter in a tiny craft, accompanied only by a squealy little robot, be able to shoot an energy pulse down the one crack in the Death Star’s armor, causing it to blow up at the last minute and send thousands of camouflage-clad space fighters to their doom?
 
Here, we are willing to send out a tip to that brave soul of the future— Aim for the Bible.

Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, speaking to a group of evangelical Christians, recently vowed to keep fighting against abortion and same sex marriage “until the Rapture.” –News item
 
I had just finished reviewing reports of this incident on the Internet when God appeared to me. While the Creator had appeared to me previously in person, nowadays we Skype. It’s more convenient for both of us—He doesn’t have to transmogrify into human form, and I can tilt the laptop so He doesn’t see the empty liquor bottles and pizza boxes on my kitchen table.
 
As soon as my screen lit up, I knew He had another vital message for humanity, and, sure enough, the Alpha and Omega got right to the point. “Tell Pompeo the Rapture ain’t happening until he loses some weight.”
 
“My Lord! Pompeo is the Secretary of State. I’m certain he won’t appreciate being body-shamed by me.”
 
“Billy Barr, too. That pint of pistachio ice cream he eats every night before bed is slowing down the Final Judgement.”
 
“But you are all-powerful, oh God. No matter how obese Your believers get, You’re able to slurp them up into Heaven, right?”
 
“It’s a problem for Us up Here—American evangelicals are getting fatter faster than we can rebuild the divine Hoover to suck their souls into Heaven. Bake sales, fast food, deep-fried butter—these are just some of the things that are postponing the End Times. Plus, the usual procrastination by My Son. And the Holy Ghost is never any help. He’s actually opposed to the Apocalypse entirely now, ever since He got hooked on playing fantasy football with the Apostles. Only I’m really on board with getting it all over with.
 
“Never anticipated this problem. And don’t tell Me I’m supposed to know everything. I never claimed that. I’m just an acute observer of trends is all. But I missed that one. That’s because the first takers on My deal for eternal life were no problem. Virgins and martyrs tend to be on the thin side. But when the evangelicals started applying, I could see we were going to have an engineering problem. Just building diabetes carts for the ones that show up now is straining our production abilities.
 
“So, tell Pompeo to hold off getting his boss to start Armageddon until I’m ready for it. I know he wants to launch the missiles in the confident hope that he’s going to get evanesced into Heaven while he’s still outside of the blast radius, but I wouldn’t count on it. Of course, I’m going to leave all the gays, atheists and abortionists behind. Kanye West, too. Eternity with him? That’s a big fat fucking NO. That still leaves about seven billion souls to dead-lift into Heaven at once and We just don’t have that kind of capacity.”
 
“Well, I’ll pass that along to Pompeo, oh my God, but he’s going to want some guidance. What can I tell him to do to hasten the Rapture?
 
“One word, baby. Keto.