Jerry Falwell still dead, and I feel fine.
This is way off-topic, but I posted it on Free For All and since we've been savoring the sweet sound of "the late, deceased, so fuckin' very well and truly dead Jerry Falwell", I thought it should go here, too, and I reveal the secret shame of the Zen family: My Uncle E., the "Charismatic Evangelical Baptist Minister", or preacher, whatever the fuck they call 'em.
Text of the ad: Falwell: My first time was in an outhouse outside Lynchburg, Virginia.
Interviewer: Wasn’t it a little cramped?
Falwell: Not after I kicked the goat out.
Interviewer: I see. You must tell me all about it.
Falwell: I never really expected to make it with Mom, but then after she showed all the other guys in town such a good time, I figured, "What the hell!"
Interviewer: But your Mom? Isn’t that a little odd?
Falwell: I don’t think so. Looks don’t mean that much to me in a woman.
Interviewer: Go on.
Falwell: Well, we were drunk off our God-fearing asses on Campari, ginger ale and soda—that’s called a Fire and Brimstone—at the time. And Mom looked better than a Baptist whore with a $100 donation.
Interviewer: Campari in the crapper with Mom. How interesting. Well, how was it?
Falwell: The Campari was great but Mom passed out before I could come.
Interviewer: Did you ever try it again?
Falwell: Sure. Lots of times. But not in the outhouse. Between Mom and the shit, the flies were too much to bear.
Interviewer: We meant the Campari.
Falwell: Oh, yeah, I always get sloshed before I go to the pulpit. You don’t think I could lay down all that bullshit sober do you?
Campari, like all liquor, was made to mix you up. It's a light, 48-proof, refreshing spirit, just mild enough to make you drink too much before you know you're schnockered. For your first time, mix it with orange juice. Or maybe some white wine. Then you won't remember anything the next morning. Campari. The mixable that smarts.There is a dark secret in the House of Zen...my uncle went to some Evangelical school for preachers, and on the future Bible-thumpers graduation day, Jerry Falwell descended from the heavens (in a helicopter) and gave a five minute speech, then laid hands on the new recruits and ordained them all. Twenty minutes was all it took for fifty fools to get Big Jer's blessing and a diploma.
Falwell is (was) a hero to my uncle. My uncle also enjoys telling tasteless racist jokes, refuses to shake hands with Jews, and was forced to flee in shame from a very large church he controlled when the congregation discovered Uncle E. was fucking one of his flock. A deacon's wife, too, which made it all the worse. Yeah, the congregation was mad, but Uncle E.'s wife was even more pissed...
Oh, well. My father and I are considered the "black sheep" of the family, since we'd both rather have a boiling oil enema than enter some Charismatic Evangelist shithole. Considering how Uncle E. behaved with that one sheep in his flock, I stay the fuck away from him.
My wife thinks it's odd that I'm well-versed in the Bible, I could give most Theology students a run for their money. I started studying it when I was twelve for the sole purpose of being able to kick my uncle's ass in a debate on the "Word of Gawd". Never happened, although I did refer to the Bible as a "pus-bag filled with lies and contradictions" right to his pompous, self-righteous face. I think he shat himself. I only partially agree with that analysis of the Bible, that comment was made in a show of teenage bravado.
You can be assured ol' Uncle E. is convinced I'm in league with the Great Horned One. Maybe I should send an email to Uncle E. expressing my sympathies on the loss of Falwell, and add a picture of the blubbery founder of the Moral Majority getting a pitchfork up his flabby ass. I mean, Falwell's got a lot to answer for, but getting the Christian right to throw their support and votes to Dubya Bush is a sin so fucked-up that Falwell's pathetic soul will be eternally tormented in a fashion so vile, Satan himself pukes at the sight.
In conclusion, good riddance to bad rubbish. The one thing that could make this news sweeter would be the discovery of Pat Robertson's naked body surrounded by issues of Hustler, with the cause of death listed as "auto-erotic asphyxiation".
