Fuck Christ

an accusation was levelled at me that the last post wasn't sacrilicious enough, so I'm going to readress the balance in this one for Easter Monday.

And finally for the Heathen in all our Hearts:

Bad Friday

This is the start of a long Easter weekend, with Friday and Monday both being Bank Holidays. That means half the country don't have to go to work, if you work in reasonably decent job like me, or if you're a brainless drone, stacking shelves and working in a menial dead end job, you have to remain at your position to serve us, your natural Overlords. This still doesn't stop the elite panic buying in the supermarkets. The shops are shut for one day! This is not the aftermath of a nuclear fallout where the population is reduced to bartering with their children and fighting over patches of untainted grass. It's two days, maximum, of closed shops. If we can't survive for 48hrs of no access to milk or bread then we're truly fucked when the balloon does finally go up.

'Well, what day will you be open?'

How did we get to this position? Well, we were fucked into a cocked hat by Jesus, back in the year 36BC, or something. Sit back and I'll tell you the story of Easter, to the best of my knowledge from what I've gleaned off of Wikipedia. Jesus was born in 000AD and grew up to become a carpenter by trade, or so I'm told. The baby Jesus performed miracles in the form of curing the obese, feeding the five and making Lazarus the star of a third rate TV show. He made a name for himself all across the Roman Empire, selling Holy vacuum cleaners (that Jericho dust is a sod to get out of the carpets) and plaster casts of the Eiffel Tower. The latter mostly sold in Gaul. His extensive Tax evasion brought him to the attention of the Emperor Julius Caesar who vowed to have Jesus brought to trial.

Jesus, laughing at the Romans. Little did he know what they had in store for him!

King Caesar sent the Private Detective Herod out to Palestine on a manhunt for Jesus. He was easy to catch as he spent most of his weekends trashing salesman's stalls at temples. Herod just had to follow the trail of destruction to get his man. It was in the great Dome of the Rock in Damascus that Herod caught up with Jesus. Herod launched his attack and got Jesus in a choke hold. Jesus proved to be a wily adversary and scissor kicked Herod in the back of the head, causing him to release his hold. Jesus seized the opportunity and fled for the door, but was brought down by a rugby tackle from Herod. The fight spilled out into the street and Jesus grabbed a folding chair on the side of the road. Using this as a rudimentary cudgel he beat Herod about the head until Herod was silly with concussion. The hubris proved too much for Jesus, for whilst he was flexing his muscles in front of the crowd that had gathered, Herod climbed onto the ropes and performed his finishing move, a flying pile driver. Jesus was knocked senseless and Herod dragged the limp body to the court house.

 

Jesus in court. The boot's on the other foot now isn't it?

Now, Tax Evasion was a serious business back in 73BC, so the Judge gave Jesus the maximum penalty: 150 hours of community service. No, I mean, DEATH! Yeah, the Judge put his black cap on and handed down the death sentence. There was no lethal injection back in the olden days, neither was there gassings, sledgehammers or firing squad. The many ways people are killed today. There was only one way to kill someone in 12AD, and that was Crucifixion. So this is how Jesus was killed. They nailed him up to two pieces of wood and left him there with his two mates, Romulus and Remus, to die in the hot sun. When he'd carked it, the Romans threw his body to the lions and let them eat it. There was something else about rocks and caves and some other shit, and a guy called Judas or something, but I forget it now. Anyway, that is why the shops are shut for two days this weekend. If you'd like to know more, then here is a short educational film I made to give you more details about Easter:

Fuck Your God

I hate Christ's Mass. Sorry, I'll redefine that. I hate the run up to Christ's Mass. You know, that kick off heralded by the closure of Halloween (AKA another fucking reason to spend your hard earned money on shit). As soon as the fucking plastic pumpkins are taken off the shelves they are filled again with plastic Santas and reindeer and MASSIVE FUCKING LIGHTS to bedeck your council hovels with. Michael Myers disappears back into the shadows only to have us confronted by bearded Pedos in red jump suits grasping at your kids. Again, don't get me wrong, I love winter, I love snow, I love the dark nights (I'm not right keen on getting up in the dark, travelling to and going home from work in the dark, oh and the shitty rain we always get at this time of year...), I love the cold as it descends like a black cloud over humanity. I even love the starkness of the trees as the leaves have fallen. Winter is probably my favourite time of year, but it's fucking spoiled by the run up to Christ's Mass.

OH, JUST FUCK OFF!!

I'm not keen on traipsing out that hackneyed old cliche that it's getting earlier and earlier each year, but it does seem like that sometimes. I was out shopping for some new shoes last weekend (it's early November). I'd fallen over in the fucking mud on site and covered my trainers in slop, so I needed a new pair and had to venture out the cold stark Orwellian nightmare that is Parkgate Retail world. After being shunted from a dual carriageway into single car lanes along with EIGHT THOUSAND OTHER CARS which only served to exacerbate my two minutes hate I finally found a parking spot after a further four hours of driving around the car park at two miles an hour. After parking up I hurried forthwith to the shoe shop. An aside about this place. I called into Sports Direct, the worst fucking shopping experience a man can have. After squeezing myself through the impossibly tight aisles, rammed with shitty sports equipment and filled with stinking chavs, I fumbled my way to the racks and racks of sports shoes. I knew what I was after; some skater's shoes. No, I don't skate, but I like the shoes as they are big and comfortable. I chose the pair I wanted and looked around for an assistant to help me get them from the back room. There was none. I waited a little while longer, trying to catch the eye of the feckless teenagers milling about that I took for assistants as they were dressed in matching track suits. They all fastidiously ignored me.

He's no athlete

After a while of this carry on I decided to take matters into my own hands and marched over to the nearest track suited teenager I could see (a man can get arrested for this kind of behaviour, don't tell the Daily Mail...) and asked if she could find me a pair in my size. Her answer; 'I don't have a radio, you'll have to ask one of the others over by the shoe stand'. Why did it even matter that she didn't have a radio? I wanted a pair of shoes not to listen to the Light Programme. There was NO ONE at the shoe stand except for other wannabe customers looking desperately for help from an assistant. Someone had fired off a distress signal but was still waiting in vain for help. A couple had starved to death waiting to be assisted.

All I want is some fucking shoes! I have money! Please, won't anyone help me!?

Anyway, cutting a long story short I eventually got the shoes but not before wrestling a track suit bedecked youngster to the floor and demanding they get me some in my size. As I was saying, on the way to Sports Direct I was bombarded with signs saying 'Let's Make this the BEST Christmas ever!' It was plastered all over Matalan's windows and it got me thinking how is a cheap clothes shop going to help make the conjectural birth date of a fictitious Bronze Age necromancer any better than it was last year? What if last year the celebrations of that zombie philanthropist's birthday was held in a massive mansion stuffed full of dolly birds and champagne Jacuzzis? With £50 notes blowing in through the windows? How about if last year, I'd been given the day as World President and been allowed to kill anyone I wanted and get away with it? What if Christ's Mass dinner last year had consisted of vast bowls of curry served on Natalie Portman's naked body? How was that going to be bettered by Matalan's range of last season's cast offs? What utter shit. On the reverse, what if this Christ's Mass my entire family had been wiped out by an Ebola virus caused by an undercooked turkey. How could a sparkly party dress even begin to blot out the over riding sense of grief and loss one would feel? HOW?

OK, so your house has been been bombed back to the Stone Age, your family have been murdered and buried in a mass grave, but cheer up... IT'S CHRISTMAS!

But this is how we are supposed to think: It's CHRISTMAS! GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM! ENJOY YOURSELF! IF YOU DON'T SANTA WILL RAPE YOU! We are being forced into a state of euphoria determined by faceless corporations. YOU WILL ACHIEVE HAPPINESS AND THE WAY TO DO THIS IS BUY, BUY BUY! The more you buy the happier you will be! Stand up against this overriding tide of SHIT, stop celebrating Christ's Mess, end the domination of our lives by retail outlets, burn the churches so no remembers what it was all about, God, I hate you pathetic humans.

Obviously I'll be spending fucking tons again this year.

PS, I got a new phone, it's great except for when you use predictive text and type the letters T and A the first word that comes up is U2. You have literally no idea how fucking angry that makes me.

Hail Ostara!

I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die:

John, 11. 25

Dead Christ

Let's get away from Arguing about the Dole and celebrate the Death and Resurrection of our Lord Jebus Chrust. I'll do it through the medium of video, HALLELUJAH!!