Tag: Christians

A season for exchanging gifts and bodily fluids

Bloody Christmas. Again. Squeaky little humanoid hamsters on a giant treadwheel in the sky. Round and round we go. Well, I’ve had enough. Stop this thing. I want to get off.

Why the 25th of December, anyway? It’s not as if anyone has irrefutable evidence that Jesus was actually born on that day. In fact, my research indicates that Jesus very nearly wasn’t the messiah at all. Luke (not Skywalker, the other one) tells the story of a childless couple, Zacharias and Elizabeth, who were visited by Gabriel. The angel told Zach his prayers had been answered and that he and Elizabeth would have a son. They were to name him John. Zach was, like, “Yeah, right, I’ll name my own son, thank you very much. Bloody angels, coming around here thinking they own the place.” Pissed off with Zach’s bad attitude, Gabriel went down the road to Elizabeth’s cousin, Mary, and pretty much told her the same story, only that she was to call her kid Jesus. Word on the street is that Jesus was born six months after John. There’s no mention of it, but I reckon Liz couldn’t have been too happy.

“You idiot, Zach. That gold, frankincense and myrrh could’ve been ours!”

“What the fuck is myrrh, anyway?”

“That’s not the point, you idiot. For thousands of years, people would have prayed to me, the Virgin Elizabeth.”

“Oh, please. You’re no virgin.”

“Bastard. My mum always said I should’ve married Joseph.”

Anyway. I suppose we should be grateful. It just wouldn’t be the same if every time we were overcome with frustration and rage, we shouted, “John!”

I trawled through a few more biblical tales in the hope of verifying JC’s date of birth, but became so depressed by all the wanton begetting and random savagery that I wanted to kill myself. Perhaps this is what one is meant to feel over Christmas. It certainly seems like a more appropriate emotion.

All this before I had even slithered from my lair in search of gifts. I once suggested to my ex-wife that instead of gifts, we exchange bodily fluids. She seemed to think something more substantial was in order, so I gave her a rough, uncut emerald I found in the driveway. She said it was a piece of broken beer bottle and threw it away. Ungrateful cow. That was the last time I gave her jewels. That Christmas I also gave my loinfruit a beautiful picture of the Maldives which I tore out of a magazine in the toilet. He was so overcome with gratitude that he wept for days.

Quite frankly, I’m still a bit pissed off that the Christians hijacked a perfectly good pagan festival, but if you mind your manners and wish Jesus a happy birthday, you can still get drunk and drugged and have hot monkey sex with your neighbour’s wife without being consigned to burn in the eternal hellfires of damnation. Okay, I might be wrong, but it’s worth a shot.

The worst thing about Christmas is that you have to go shopping and buy stuff for people you don’t necessarily care about – like your friends and family – because you know that if you don’t, you won’t get any stuff from them.

I was in a shop today, happy as a lamb in Islamabad on the eve of Eid-ul-Adha, loading up my basket with the cheapest, tawdriest rubbish on the shelves, when I overheard a young couple complaining.

“I don’t know what we can get him.”

“No idea. He has everything.”

I’ll tell you what you can get the person who has everything. You can call the SARS hotline and get him audited. You can bring him to the attention of the Asset Forfeiture Unit. You can send him to live among the untouchables for three months in the hope that his conscience will drive him to give away half of the everything he has. Preferably to you.

Nobody deserves to have everything. For a start, it makes a mockery of capitalism. What kind of world would this be if none of us wanted anything ever again? The only reason we work is so that we can get money to buy shiny stuff. If we break the cycle, everyone will go off to lie on the beach and play didgeridoos while the streets fill up with unemployed advertising executives begging for cocaine at the traffic lights. The world just isn’t ready for that.

I’m easy to buy for. Beer and power tools, I’m happy. There’s nothing more fun than spending Christmas Day drinking heavily and chasing your relatives around the garden with a whining Black & Decker drill in one hand and a nail gun in the other.

If you’re looking for the gift that keeps on giving, you might want to consider getting a restraining order. They don’t need batteries and they work fabulously. Actually, they don’t work at all if the phone at your local police station has been disconnected. In a perfect world, the state would provide newly-weds with a marriage certificate and a complementary restraining order. Any trouble with the husband and all you do is dial 10111, wait for someone to answer while your beloved chops your legs off and then, when the police arrive three days later, you claw your way to the front door, show them the restraining order and everything will be fine. Well, once you get your prosthetic legs, everything will be fine.

Or you may want to give your spinster aunt a street child. Just grab him off the street. If your aunt doesn’t like him, or wants a different colour, take him back and find another one. There are more than enough for everyone so don’t panic.

Vietnamese potbellied pigs also make unusual gifts and, once their cuteness wears off, are even better on the braai. Alternatively, you may want to get a potbellied Vietnamese. They make excellent servants but not such good eating.

I could go on, but I won’t.

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Job Application to the Evangelical Seminary of Southern Africa

Dear Father,

I have received word through the Lord’s grapevine that you are looking for men and women to be trained as missionaries and sent into darkest Africa to convert the godless heathens to Christianity.

I do not wish to sound presumptuous, but I think you should forget the women. Don’t you remember what happened in the Garden of Eden? Of course you do. But nor do you wish to fall foul of the Commission for Gender Equality. Their wrath is worse than that of God.

In spite of my criminal record, I think I may have been born for this job. I love the idea of travelling to remote regions, meeting new people, absorbing different cultures and then, just when they are relaxing after dinner, rising up and telling them in a booming voice that the mother of all harlots will burn the number 666 into their foreheads if they do not change their graven image-worshipping ways.

There are nearly two billion Christians in the world. This is not nearly enough. The trigger-happy Muslims, cow-hugging Hindus and holier-than-thou Buddhists are right behind us and we have to move fast.

I am not afraid to go anywhere, but there are some countries where proselytizing is forbidden. Zimbabwe is one of them, now that Robert Mugabe is in the service of the Dark Lord. Sudan could be another. Should you wish to dispatch me to one of these wretched lands, it would be best that I go disguised as a tourist, a charity worker or a TV weatherman. It seems to be working for Derek Van Dam.

I would like to do for the pagans of Africa what the missionaries did for the Red Indians in America. In less than 200 years, the Comanche, Arapaho, Cherokee and Apache went from being noble savages running with the wolves to successful Christian alcoholics running drugs and casinos.

Today, I am happy to say, the reservations are full of face brick churches instead of satanic sweat lodges.

Before I accept the job, I need to know where you stand on witch burning. Luke 19.27 says: “But those mine enemies, which would not that I should reign over them, bring hither, and slay them before me.”

I am a very tolerant man, but my friends know not to bring witches unto my house, especially not when the cricket is on. The Weber is used to sacrifice marinated lambs and spatchcock chickens. The bonfire in the back yard is used to burn witches. I have only ever set three alight. The rest escaped.

With the global financial meltdown, firelighters and decent firewood are luxuries that I can no longer afford. Please let me know if there is a cheaper way to slay mine enemies.

I appreciate that conversion by faith is the best means of attaining salvation. However, Africa being what it is, conversion by threats of dismemberment is often a quicker and more cost effective way of helping the natives to see the way, the truth and the light. It worked in Rwanda and it can work here. Stab the stubborn ones with the sharp end of the cross, say seven Hail Marys, drink three Bloody Marys and you’re well on your way to creating a flock of faithful followers.

Does your organisation work on the same principle as the ANC? In other words, are your missionaries mere tools that get sent hither and yon to serve at the seminary’s pleasure? If not, I would like to ask that I be posted to Timbuktu so that I may work among the Dogon people. As you know, these swarthy agnostics still worship Sirius, the dog star, which is linked to the Egyptian goddess, Isis, who is related to the Greco-Roman deity Bacchus and his iconoclastic cousin Priapus, who takes his cue from the sacred fox which has no name.

I will, however, need more than a gun and a bible to reconstruct these Pyrrhonian backsliders. The Dogon believe they were created by gods who came from the sky in space ships. They are madder than Tom Cruise and I will need twenty crates of single malt whisky, 500 condoms and a thousand aspirin if I am to convince them that it is not the god Lebe, but the Almighty Himself who visits them at night in the form of a serpent and licks their skins in order to purify them and infuse them with life.

As one of your newest recruits, my motto will be Convert Or Die. I have already printed the T-shirts so you have to give me the job or I will sue your holy ass to kingdom come.

Yours in Christ,

Brother Ben Trovato