If you’re reading this blog, you’re like me: a big, fat, warty, nasty, vile sinner, who eats babies for breakfast! Congratulations! Welcome to the club! Have some cake! It’s free! We unrepentant heathens looted goodies from all of the empty bakeries! Because, everyone knows, all bakers go to heaven. Where else would someone who knows how to make cake, pie, and pastry go? Hell hath no need of sugar! Or so the scriptures sayeth.
What’s that? No one was saved? God didn’t drop by for tea? Are you sure? Because it was a preacher who said he was coming today, and well, you know, men who claim to be of God are never wrong. Or so the scriptures that they themselves wrote sayeth.
Seriously, could someone please tell the religious nutbars of the world to just man up and drink the punch? It would be totally awesome if there were fewer asshats getting my hopes up about the post-rapture looting. Sigh. I sooo wanted a new flat screen TV. For FREE.
I thought my mom, being the devout Christian she is, would have jumped on that shit-wagon holding high the cross of Christ, but apparently, once 6pm rolled around and she discovered that the Jesus Train had passed her by, she saw the sham for what it was, and finally laughed at my “don’t drink the koolaid” message on her answering machine.
This Rapture, it would seem, was a quantum faux pas. Like this blog.
You wanna know what the true Rapture is? It’s this life. It’s this fucked up, messy, hard, emotional shit we all go through on a daily basis. It’s family who loves you even if they think you’ve screwed up your whole life, and possibly theirs, too. It’s my totally amazing cat, Princess Fuzzybuns Beardlicker, who I love with a fierceness that rivals that of any parent, and who loves me just because I pet her and feed her, and makes me smile every single fucking day just because she’s awesome. It’s friends who love you unconditionally, even if you fight and argue more often than not, and won’t abandon you even if you can’t agree on something as mundane as who should win American Idol.
That’s TRUE Rapture. Fuck anyone who says it isn’t.
Ahem. I really didn’t mean to get all serious, but I’m celebrating my rapture with Jagermeister, Guinness, and pancakes. I think it’s the Jager (diva!) talking. I know it’s not the pancakes ’cause they’re all fluffly and shit.