The topic of discussion today is: My Image.
That’s right, my friends, it happened again. This time one of my so-called followers found my image on top of a jar of jelly.
Now in the past, people claimed to have seen images of me on the side of a barn, on a potato chip, even on a tortilla.
I’ll admit it’s a little flattering that these folks think they see my face in such places. But I’m here to tell you that this is really just their imagination.
First of all, I’m not a big jelly fan, and as for tortillas, I can take them or leave them.
Think about it. If I were going to appear to you, why would I choose the side of a barn? Just because my parents dumped me in a feckuckteh manger? Try hanging around a manger for a while and let me know if it becomes a fond memory. Feh!
What these meshugenehs are seeing are just random patterns and smears, not my face.
And if you really want to get into it, I didn’t see a whole lot of Kodaks when I was hanging in the desert. Nor was anyone painting my portrait back in the day. So, how did anyone know what I look like? For all we know, they could have been painting the visage of Moishe the Wanderer all these years. (Though Moishe was quite a bit shorter than I.)
Now you may be looking at my picture on this blog and thinking, “Wait a minute, that sure looks like Jesus to me.” But with the Internet, you never know. I even know one blogger who wants everyone to think he looks like Brad Pitt. Believe me, he’s more like the anti-Brad Pitt.
Shalom.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Worship This!
Today’s topic is: Worship.
Now I know this is a monumental topic, especially when it involves yours truly.
As you may suspect, there are vast multitudes of people who worship me, and to be honest, I find it a little unsettling.
They thank me for things that they have actually accomplished all on their own.
They ask me for certain favors or perhaps forgiveness, without realizing that I am often otherwise occupied at the time.
Some of my more, shall we say “confused” followers, even have the chutzpah to think they are me—which is weird because believe me when I say being the son of the G-Man ain’t no picnic. I mean, I have an unGodly amount of responsibility. Trust me, you need that like a loch in kop.
Like many of you, I’m not very good at receiving compliments. Hey look, when you have a Dad like mine, a lot is expected of you and he’s not too liberal with the old praise-a-roo.
So, I’m not real big on this worship thing.
If I had to give some of my more overzealous followers a piece of advice, I’d say to begin by believing in yourself and your loved ones, and than take it from there.
Or if that seems too daunting at first, begin by worshipping this guy:
Because I sure do.
Shalom.
Now I know this is a monumental topic, especially when it involves yours truly.
As you may suspect, there are vast multitudes of people who worship me, and to be honest, I find it a little unsettling.
They thank me for things that they have actually accomplished all on their own.
They ask me for certain favors or perhaps forgiveness, without realizing that I am often otherwise occupied at the time.
Some of my more, shall we say “confused” followers, even have the chutzpah to think they are me—which is weird because believe me when I say being the son of the G-Man ain’t no picnic. I mean, I have an unGodly amount of responsibility. Trust me, you need that like a loch in kop.
Like many of you, I’m not very good at receiving compliments. Hey look, when you have a Dad like mine, a lot is expected of you and he’s not too liberal with the old praise-a-roo.
So, I’m not real big on this worship thing.
If I had to give some of my more overzealous followers a piece of advice, I’d say to begin by believing in yourself and your loved ones, and than take it from there.
Or if that seems too daunting at first, begin by worshipping this guy:
Because I sure do.
Shalom.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Torturous Survey
Today’s topic of discussion is: Torture.
As I was eating my ginormous plate of matzoh brie during breakfast this morning, I came across a disturbing story in the Heavenly Times.
It seems that a new poll from the Pew Research Center found that 62 percent of white evangelical Protestants surveyed believe that torture is often or sometimes justified.
Well, my children, that news was enough to make me chalosh.
In case you haven’t heard, back in the day, I was involved in this little thing called a crucifixion, in which a gaggle of surly Romans (that’s right, they were Romans, and I should know) pinned me up, and believe me, this wasn’t no pin the tail on the donkey.
In other words, I was TORTURED.
So, you can probably guess what my position is on torture. Not a big fan.
You may also remember that I used to tell my followers that they should love their enemies. Even Dick Cheney.
George Washington got the message. He made sure that his soldiers did not mistreat their prisoners, so that they did not appear as incredibly brutal as the British.
Hey, why do you think my Dad gave the British bad teeth and gigantic feckuckteh ears? Think about that the next time you want to torture someone.
In the meantime, keep on truckin’.
Shalom.
As I was eating my ginormous plate of matzoh brie during breakfast this morning, I came across a disturbing story in the Heavenly Times.
It seems that a new poll from the Pew Research Center found that 62 percent of white evangelical Protestants surveyed believe that torture is often or sometimes justified.
Well, my children, that news was enough to make me chalosh.
In case you haven’t heard, back in the day, I was involved in this little thing called a crucifixion, in which a gaggle of surly Romans (that’s right, they were Romans, and I should know) pinned me up, and believe me, this wasn’t no pin the tail on the donkey.
In other words, I was TORTURED.
So, you can probably guess what my position is on torture. Not a big fan.
You may also remember that I used to tell my followers that they should love their enemies. Even Dick Cheney.
George Washington got the message. He made sure that his soldiers did not mistreat their prisoners, so that they did not appear as incredibly brutal as the British.
Hey, why do you think my Dad gave the British bad teeth and gigantic feckuckteh ears? Think about that the next time you want to torture someone.
In the meantime, keep on truckin’.
Shalom.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Honor Thy Bagel
The topic for today is: Bagels.
When you think about it, everything tastes better on a bagel.
Whether it’s a schmear with a nice piece of lox, a pile of corned beef, or even—God forbid (and He does, for some weird reason, but more about that another time)—ham.
Of course, when I was growing up, we had very few varieties of bagels. Basically, if you didn’t like a plain bagel, you were out of luck, boychik.
But nowadays, there is a veritable panoply of these round delights. And though most of you know I am a pretty laid back dude, I will admit that I do not approve of all these bagel bastardizations.
Put it this way:
Blueberry, banana nut, sundried tomato—strictly for the goyim.
Plain, onion, salt, egg—knock yourself out, tataleh.
I will reveal unto you, however, that I have a weakness for toasted chocolate chip bagels with peanut butter.
Hey, I never said I was perfect.
Shalom.
When you think about it, everything tastes better on a bagel.
Whether it’s a schmear with a nice piece of lox, a pile of corned beef, or even—God forbid (and He does, for some weird reason, but more about that another time)—ham.
Of course, when I was growing up, we had very few varieties of bagels. Basically, if you didn’t like a plain bagel, you were out of luck, boychik.
But nowadays, there is a veritable panoply of these round delights. And though most of you know I am a pretty laid back dude, I will admit that I do not approve of all these bagel bastardizations.
Put it this way:
Blueberry, banana nut, sundried tomato—strictly for the goyim.
Plain, onion, salt, egg—knock yourself out, tataleh.
I will reveal unto you, however, that I have a weakness for toasted chocolate chip bagels with peanut butter.
Hey, I never said I was perfect.
Shalom.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Whining About Wine
Today's topic of discussion is: Wine.
This is by far the most overrated beverage in the universe, and it pisses me off to think that some people drink this stuff pretending that it represents my blood.
First of all, that’s pretty morbid, don’t you think? If you’re a cannibal, then hey, let your freak flag fly, but otherwise forget about it. (And why Dad made cannibals is another topic for another day.)
Now when I was growing up, the wine we all drank was called Manischewitz. Trust me, I’d rather eat a gallon of borsht on a hot afternoon than this drek.
And speaking of hot, remember when I was in the desert and I made the water into wine? Everyone was sooo impressed. Now I don’t know about you, but when it’s 120 degrees outside, I’m not exactly jonesing for a nice Chardonnay. Hey disciples, how about some—oh I don’t know—water? Or at least an icy Dr. Pepper.
Another reason I’m not a big wine fan: Remember this little thing called “The Last Supper”? Well, every time I see or hear about wine, it reminds me of that cheery event.
Finally, wine is made by people stomping their feet on grapes. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? Who knows where those feet have been? I still remember lepers like it was yesterday, and as far as I know, Ernest & Julio Gallo don’t have a no-leper policy.
So, in my opinion, when it comes to wine, just say “Feh!”
Shalom.
This is by far the most overrated beverage in the universe, and it pisses me off to think that some people drink this stuff pretending that it represents my blood.
First of all, that’s pretty morbid, don’t you think? If you’re a cannibal, then hey, let your freak flag fly, but otherwise forget about it. (And why Dad made cannibals is another topic for another day.)
Now when I was growing up, the wine we all drank was called Manischewitz. Trust me, I’d rather eat a gallon of borsht on a hot afternoon than this drek.
And speaking of hot, remember when I was in the desert and I made the water into wine? Everyone was sooo impressed. Now I don’t know about you, but when it’s 120 degrees outside, I’m not exactly jonesing for a nice Chardonnay. Hey disciples, how about some—oh I don’t know—water? Or at least an icy Dr. Pepper.
Another reason I’m not a big wine fan: Remember this little thing called “The Last Supper”? Well, every time I see or hear about wine, it reminds me of that cheery event.
Finally, wine is made by people stomping their feet on grapes. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? Who knows where those feet have been? I still remember lepers like it was yesterday, and as far as I know, Ernest & Julio Gallo don’t have a no-leper policy.
So, in my opinion, when it comes to wine, just say “Feh!”
Shalom.
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