Category Archives: Blasphemous Satire

Powerball Fever (Winning Numbers Included)

1984_01

Multiple annotated reads of George Orwell’s 1984 have taught me all of the mathematical concepts this struggling prole needs to know in order to survive our pre-apocalyptic world – preemptively dubbed the “Tin Foil Hat Era”:

  1. 2 + 2 = 5
  1. The proles (i.e. 99 Percenters) – sex, booze, Cliffsnotes, drugs, Little Debbies, televised sports, People Magazine and the lottery = 100-percent fucked (metaphorically speaking of course, given sex has been removed from the equation)
  1. Proletariat – Hope = Total Anarchy*

*Imagine President Donald Trump with a Purple Crayon

Initially these concepts were immaculately conceived by God Big Brother, who impregnated the first sets of televisions, which eventually begat computers when Big Brother’s wandering eye preyed upon a younger, prettier, albeit more promiscuous medium of its former self. Big Brother’s minions, the One-Percenters, know these concepts as well, which is why they stoked the Hope Machine by adding the Powerball Lottery to its fire, which is currently burning in our collective underbelly to the tune of an estimated $1.5 billion ($930 million cash value, so not quite a billion dollar haul, unfortunately).

You heard me right, suckers: $1.5 billion — the asking price for the western half of Iowa. (For the record: Nobody’s asking.)

The One-Percenters also know that the lottery, like the U.S. tax code and ATM surcharges, is completely rigged in their favor. Even so, Powerball Fever has swept the nation as the proles push their other addictions distractions aside, hit the ATM machines,  and bow and pray before the Almighty Powerball God that He will spit out the winning numbers.

69 coupling in Big Brother's ball, pushing and shoving to be the next in line

69 coupling balls in Big Brother’s ball, pushing and shoving to be the next in line

Tragically, these gateway prayers lead to more dangerous, irrational behaviors and illusions of grandeur that, given the 1 in 292,000,000 odds of winning, the Almighty Powerball God will pick you (and the IRS) to be the Chosen One. This would be akin to thinking that of the estimated 2.2 Christians on Earth, God picked you of all people to run for president of the United States, so you could fuck up Earth,  one of his most disappointing creations — second only to Man. Other symptoms of Powerball Fever include speaking in prime numbers, talking about the lottery in lieu of the weather or that game last night and/or filling out paperwork to run for public jester office.

Although the conspiracy theory side of my brain is convinced the lottery is rigged, the left side reminds me that I was one number away from winning the Iowa Lottery 27 years ago. Having recently finished my two-year tour with Uncle Sam at the time, I was trying to plant my financial feet in the civilian world and recall saying, “If I just had $500 dollars, I could pay all my bills, buy some new pants for work, and have money left over to splurge on libations for my friends.” Two days later, I hit five of the six numbers and won $600. Had I prayed to God for a “34,” I would have won $3.8 million. Both of these numbers have haunted me ever since.

I took my winning ticket to the nearby Super Value grocery store on 42nd and University in Des Moines, and the customer service representative was in a state of shock when he ran my ticket. Without missing a beat he slipped me six bennies, and I was on my way to living the dream. I took my winnings and, as it was prophesied, I paid my bills, bought two pairs of pants for my work wardrobe and bought a keg of Milwaukee’s Best — only the Best for my fellow proles, eh?

I found out later that I was supposed to fill out some paperwork and pay Uncle Sam his cut, since my winnings were over $500. Note:  If you’re reading this and work for the IRS, I already spent all my winnings. Although I’m still wearing the same pants as part of my teaching wardrobe. So if you want your slice, Big Brother, come and take my pants, you Totalitarian Motherfucker!

Needless to say the right side of my brain eventually surrendered to the left, and I decided to purchase the winning ticket of Wednesday night’s drawing. That and I had a vivid vision while paying homage to the coffee gods at Java House. God, dipped in black leather from head to toe, paid me a visit and said that He would give me the winning numbers if I promised to finance a campaign that removed “In God We Trust” from all paper money and replaced it with “You Ungrateful Bastards Owe Me, Big Time!”

Me: I don’t know, that seems like a heavy burden.

God: (looking in to the distance) If you only knew…if you only knew the first thing about heavy burdens…

Me: Okay…okay, what are the winning numbers?

He looked around to make sure that none of the nearby heathens were listening in, bent down and whispered the winning numbers into my ear as I wrote them down on a napkin.

Me: 34!? Are you sure about that, God?

God: Goddamn right I’m sure. Look at Me, I’m God for Christ’s sake.

In spite of the black leather attire, the left side of my brain conceded that God did indeed have a point, while the right side was overcome with giddiness after hearing God use His own name in vain. Priceless, it thought…priceless. After writing the numbers down, I looked up and God had disappeared. I noticed that the rest of my Java Cooler had also disappeared, a small penance for being a billionaire, I conceded.

Ultrasound of Winston's fetus engulfed by the shadow of Big Brother's Invisible Hand

Ultrasound of Winston’s fetus engulfed by the shadow of Big Brother’s Invisible Hand

Looking at the numbers on the napkin, I decided to christen my new baby, Winston, an homage to the beloved prole Winston Smith (circa 1984). Like most hipster Millennial offspring, it’s only fitting that Winston was immaculately conceived in a coffee shop.

Winston's first Selfie: "Terrible Twos"

Winston’s first Selfie: “Terrible Twos”

Given the life expectancy of a Powerball ticket is only 3 to 4 days, I thought it best to document Winston’s “Terrible Twos” stage, or midlife crisis in this case. I also thought it would be a good idea to share this publicly, so when I DO win, people will know why I, along with Winston, may have disappeared. Moreover, the latter served as a reminder that the drawing was two days away, and that I needed to cast my superstitious phrase into the world, just to remind God about our agreement:

“If I just had $1.5 billion dollars, I could pay all my bills, buy some new pants for work, and have money left over to buy the western half of Iowa for all my friends.”

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Je suis Charlie Hebdo!

Silence is an unwelcome guest in Satire’s House…

Forgive Me iPhone, for I Have Sinned

I must confess, the main reason that I never converted to Catholicism is the same reason my t-shirt business folded: bookkeeping. I hated keeping track of every single purchase, sale, sales tax, transaction and never really knew what the hell I was supposed to report to Uncle Sam on my quarterly reports.

Given that the default mode on my moral compass points to “sin” (key word “default,” mom…) I cannot imagine trying to keep track of all my sins and accurately reporting them to the Catholic God’s taxmen, priests. Whereas a mistake on my business ledger might merit an audit from the IRS, a slip-up on my quarterly sin count may lead to being smote down in front of all my friends, eternal damnation, or God forbid, hand washing jock straps for the Notre Dame football team for the rest of my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Catholicism or any other religion for that matter. All of my best friends, other than Jesus, have joined an organized religion. My problem with ascribing to any particular religion is all the damned rules (like using damn as a damn adjective). Nearly everything I’ve joined in my life, I’ve ended up quitting before too long — the one exception being the human race. But I’m telling you, some members in the latter group have been pushing all the wrong buttons and pulling all the wrong levers. I’m so close to falling over the edge. However, I would never kill myself; that would be suicide.

Converting (can you actually convert if you are not already in a religion?) to Catholicism presents the added burden of keeping track of all your sins, so when you climb into an outhouse-shaped confessional booth (see image below), you’ll spill ALL of your sins to the priest in the adjacent stall, receive a check list of Penance that needs to be checked off before you come back and drop your next load of burdens. Then, like Superman donning a cape and dipped in synthetic red and blue polyester, you emerge from the booth, conditionally absolved and feeling lighter, as if you can fly – or in the immortal words of Buzz Lightyear: “fall gracefully”.

No Priest on Duty: Enter at Own Risk!

Although, thoughts of converting to Catholicism just became more tempting with the new Roman Catholic App for your iPhone or iPad or iSin. The new app is designed to help penitents examine their Conscience based upon pre-programmed factors such as age, sex and vocation. Better yet, the app helps keep a running count and organize sins based on contrition. Moreover, you can add sins not listed in the standard examination of conscience such as “Third-Degree Blog Blasphemy.” The long-awaited app replaces the archaic Sin Abacus, which, with a couple of sharp turns en route to confession could shift your beaded sin count to absolution — something coined by some deceitful sinners, usually teenagers or closeted televangelists, as “The Absolution Sin Solution (ASS).”

Thank God for technology, eh? It’s only a matter of time before the Man upstairs, Steve Jobs, comes out with an ankle tracking device, the Sinulator, that monitors your sins as you commit them and simultaneously stores your history of sins in a nearby Catholic church’s mainframe and the Library of Congress. The only way you can get your Sinulator cleared is by going to confession and completely purging yourself, at which point the priest assigns Penance before entering the daily calibrated, secret code that wipes your slate free of sin. Should you keep procrastinating confession, your sins will merely accumulate until it reaches the Smite Point, explodes and smotes you down on the spot.

Kaboom!!!

I imagine God already has a Smite app on his IPad, which He plays with in between Facebooking, tweeting and playing Grand Theft Auto IV on His Xbox-360.

However irrational it may seem at this point in time, the prospect of having a Sinulator permanently strapped around my ankle is enough to deter me from signing on to the Catholic Church. I often have visions of returning home from a weekend in Vegas, still coming down from the roofies slipped in the Molotov cocktail I drank Saturday night, and walking blindly into a sin intervention, or Sinnervention. I am not one for surprise parties or being the center of attention, so the thought of being surrounded by family, friends, Therapist Bob and the neighborhood Exorcist scares the hell out of me.

“The reason we’ve gathered here, T.M., is to help you confront your conscience,” Therapist Bob would say, taking the lead. “But first you need to take the first step and tell us about this,” he continues, pulling the remains of my charred Sinulator from a cardboard box. “Your neighbor heard a loud explosion coming from your house early Sunday morning and the fire department found this among the remains.”

That said, I must confess that I won’t be converting to Catholicism or purchasing the confession app any time soon. And the only piece of advice I have for any of you contemplating either of these is the following:

During confession, if you ever feel a priest’s foot tapping against your foot underneath the adjacent stall, I suggest you take a peek and make sure he doesn’t have a Sinulator strapped around either one of his ankles…

THE END Kaboom!

25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell

Therapist Bob was not convinced that I had kicked my addiction to virtual chain-letters that he forwarded me the following e-mail message to test my resistance:

Subject: FW: Bedfellows in Hell

Message: Face it, sooner or later we are all going to hell, so we may as well accept what we cannot change and revere our impending descent. But before all of us can get chummy down below while roasting marshmallows for Satan’s S’mores, we should break the ice by sharing 25 random things about ourselves that helped secure our place in Satan’s belly. With that in mind, comb through your tainted past and write out your own list and forward it with this message to 25 fellow heathens. Failure to do so will break the chain, thus guaranteeing you table-turns at the front of the burn-in-hell line.

Your BFF,
Satan

Lucifer (aka The Devil, Satan, Dick Cheney) strikes Thinker pose as he ponders his 25 Random Things list

Lucifer (aka The Devil, Satan, Dick Cheney) strikes Thinker pose as he ponders his 25 Random Things list

Damn you, Therapist Bob! You know me too well.

Unable to resist, I started transcribing all the files on my mental rolodex labeled under “See You in Hell,” “The Art of Blasphemy,” Partially Nude Photos — New Kids on the Block,” “Crossroads,” “You and Me and the Devil Make Three,” and “Crime Scene Tapes.” Once this monumental data purging was completed, I had the computer select 25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell.

hell-sign-2

(Note: since the following list is completely random, they are in no particular order, nor is the backward countdown intended to be symbolic of my descent into hell.)

25. Petitioned to have the Seven Deadly Sins framed and mounted next to the Ten Commandments when I was in Junior High.

24. I made a Faustian pact at the Crossroads bartering my soul for a career in comedy writing, and all I got out of the deal was this goddamn blog.

23. During my brief sojourn in church as a child, I managed to steal another kid’s Bible, because I had left mine at home and didn’t want to get into trouble.

22. The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” is my default ringtone.

21. In a satirical column, I accused God of being a Deadbeat Dad for immaculate conceiving His son Jesus, pretty much abandoning him at birth, and despite his Almighty powers, stood by and watched his very own creations crucify his son.

20. Bookmarked Dante’s “Inferno” on MapQuest.

19. Believe the Christian Right is oxymoronic and look forward to the day of reckoning when it cancels itself out.

18. Even though I don’t have a religious bone in my body, I plan on giving up Responsibility for Lent this year.

17. First cassette tapes I ever bought were The Bee Gee’s “Tragedy” & AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Although vastly different in style and delivery, their underlying messages foreshadowed the beginning of the end for me.

16. Using the Lord’s name in vain (see No. 24).

15. Vowed I would never go to heaven after hearing “In heaven there is no beer” song at UI Hawkeye football game.

14. I have yet to cast the first stone…

13. Mark Twain’s “Letters from the Earth” — a book told through Satan’s point of view and observations about man — convinced me that Heaven is the last place I would want to spend my twilight years. Satan’s right, who would want to spend eternity living in abstinence and strumming a harp all day long as a means of relieving pent up sexual tension. No thanks, I prefer a feisty fiddle in hell any day of the week – including Sundays.

12. Started new category (see list on right) completely devoted to Blasphemous Satire.

11. Impersonated a Mormon for five hours during Army Basic Training, so I wouldn’t get yelled at by the Drill Sergeants for getting on the wrong bus. Spent all morning faking Mormonism in small classrooms at a civilian church off post, until they herded us into the church and had an hour-long community confessional. People took the microphone and spilled their guts for recent sins.

10. The only reasons I went to church service in Basic Training in the first place wwere to get out of bathroom cleaning duty, find a secluded place to sleep without getting caught, and the opportunity to ogle civilian women.

9. During Mormon open confessional, I had several impure thoughts about group of high school girls who confessed to drinking alcohol at a recent football game. (I was thoroughly disappointed when their confessions ended with that.)

8. I prefer listening to my Led Zeppelin reel-to-reel tapes backwards.

7. My eighth-grade English told me so, and if anyone has a direct pipeline to hell, it’s her.

6. I’m still convinced that Eve was framed in the Garden of Eden scene by a second serpent who ate the forbidden fruit on the grassy knoll, upon realizing that he and Eve were not sexually compatible and never would be.

5. My favorite movie feel-good movie is “The Omen.”

4. Pulled prank in high school involving the abduction of Baby Jesus from neighbor’s nativity scene and left traditional ransom note (letters from newspaper cut and pasted the old-fashioned way) that read: “REPENT ALL SINS IMMEDIATELY — IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE JESUS AGAIN!”

3. Recently accepted the Flying Spaghetti Monster as my personal Savior.

2. I keep my Bible, the one I didn’t steal, on the Historical Fiction shelf of my personal library — sandwiched between Homer’s “The Odyssey” and George Orwell’s “1984.”

1. Going public with this list of blasphemies – assuming of course that I don’t convert to Catholicism anytime soon — which would make this list my inaugural confession, thus absolving me.

Remember to copy and paste this list in an e-mail message, write your own, and forward it to 25 fellow heathens.

Thanks and see you in hell.

The Second Helping of Cheesus H. Christ

Most active practitioners of Christianity, meaning those who attend church more than twice a year and have read the Cliffs’ Notes of the Bible at the very least, are convinced their Savior is coming back to earth to fulfilling a plethora of prophecies, resurrect the dead and go on “Oprah” to set the record straight.

These true believers also agree that their Messiah will come in disguise, but what they cannot agree upon is what Jesus will be wearing to the mortal masquerade. While most fall into the fish camp, others argue He will come disguised as an old beggar, an intellectually-challenged child or an Elvis impersonator.

In the meantime, these folks dedicate their lives to simply waiting and pass the time searching for signs foreshadowing His arrival — whether its Jesus revealing himself in a cornfield in Iowa, a sun-spotted image of the Virgin Mary sprayed across a building in Clearwater, Florida, or through a Cheeto created in his likeness and discovered in Houston — just in the nick of time.

A couple of years ago, while snacking on a bag of Cheetos, a youth director in Houston discovered the Jesus-like Cheeto and dubbed him “Cheesus.”

For the love of Cheesus, the Second Helping has arrived:

For me, this video is proof enough that the Second Coming has arrived; consequently I must pause and pen a love sonnet in praise of the Almighty Cheesus, thus sparing any cheese-flavored fire and brimstone from falling down and consuming my sorry sinister ass.

Praise Cheesus: Or Forgive Me Cheesus, For I Have Sinned

Dare I consume the Cheeto Messiah?
Who art more cheesy for sheesy than need be
Smellin’ of bliss and canned Swiss Vel-veetah?
Your funk oozes its orange liquid cheese-E.
Cheeto-Puff Daddy breathes life into you,
Resurrecting the cheddar of your soul;
Which breeds angelic wings fluttering to
My cheese-ball toil buried in a bowl.
You are my cheese-master funk puppeteer
Pulling the string cheeses hooked in my heart —
Carved in thirty pieces, betrayal near,
So watch yo’ back before it’s pulled apart.
Oh sweet Cheesus H. Christ Superstar!
Our love crucified and served in a jar.

Whew! That should buy me some time to develop and implement a redemption plan, which begins with purchasing a W.W.C.D? (What Would Cheesus Do?) bracelet. This should help me through uncertain times when my judgment is clouded with artificial preservatives and Chester Cheetah is tempting me to the Orange Side of the Force.

Thank Cheesus that minister had enough sense not to eat Cheesus and preserve Him. I wonder what I would have done, had I been in the same situation.

Better yet, “What Would Cheesus Do?” if he found his own likeness in a Cheeto?

I suspect he would do as I would have done: Eat it without a second thought.

Before you get all judgmental on me, I implore you to digest the following words: “Let he who is without sin, eat the first Cheeto.”

So tell me, are your hands clean?

No need to respond, your orange-stained fingers speak volumes.

Thank Darwin for Prednisone

“So I have this rash…” has been a great icebreaker for the past few weeks when talking to friends, colleagues, and strangers at the bus stop. I’ve grown tired of talking and hearing about the weather, especially when the subject is broached while outside:

Stranger: It sure is cold out here. (hands tucked up in arm pits, shivers while waiting for me to agree with statement of obvious).

Me: (wearing puffy snow suit, scarf, and ear muffs) Really, I hadn’t notice.

Stranger: It’s supposed to get even colder the next few days.

Me: So I have this rash…

Stranger: (suddenly uncomfortable and at a loss of words, relieved by emergence of bus) Well here’s our chariot.

Me: Do you mind if we sit together? I would love to tell you all about my rash…

Despite the past couple thousand years of evolving, assuming you buy into Darwin’s theory, our species has yet to find a solution to deal with uncomfortable encounters with strangers in small, compact spaces. We tried silence, but that merely created a new problem that needed to be dealt with: repressed tension.

To deal with this, some sadistic bastard created Muzak – faux music which strips the soul out of its original recording to keep compliant with current copyright laws. As is the case with most innocuous inventions and discoveries (e.g. splitting of atom), Muzak was used for evil purposes. Muzak, for example, when not used to extract vital information from detainees at Guantanamo Bay, is pumped into elevators to sedate unsuspecting guinea pigs as a means of keeping us from turning on each other in a raging fit of uncomfortable silence.

For the most part it worked. How often do you see random acts of Elevator Rage splashed across newspaper headlines?

“Breaking: 13 Killed in Elevator Rage Incident, While Going Up”

jerry_elevator

Site of deadly episode of Elevator Rage allegedly spawned by Muzak version of “Rage Against the Machine” song

But I digress, dear Reader.

So I have this rash…and what better way to celebrate a full-body rash and the 200th birthday of Charles Darwin than a trip to the dermatologist, eh?

That’s where I was headed when I met up with the reluctant Stranger at the bus stop. My conversation-starter didn’t quite seduce the gentleman at the bus stop, who upon boarding, bolted to the only open seat in the back of the bus. I sat up front, feeling what the lepers must have felt when the Christians relegated them to the lazar section of the bus — named after Lazarus, patron saint of lepers and public transportation.

“Viva la Lazarus!”

Now, I’m willing to bet a pound of dead skin that nobody starts off in the medical profession by openly admitting: “I’ve always dreamt that of one day I will become a dermatologist.”

I’m guessing that dermatology is one of those fallback occupations in the medical field – should you not make the final cut for one of your top choices – brain or plastic surgeon (depending on what you’re more attracted to).

When I was plugging away on my undergraduate degree in Open Major at the University of Iowa, the fall back major was Communication Studies. Nobody started off on this track, but after partying leap-frogged academics on the priority list, this is where a lot of people were derailed, including my roommate, who later dropped out altogether. He was quick to rationalize his fall from academic grace, citing Tom Brokaw as his poster-boy for success:

“Brokaw flunked out of Communications at Iowa, and look at him now.”

True, Brokaw did drop out of UI, where he says he majored in “beer and co-eds,” but I was quick to remind my roommate that he also finished his degree at the University of South Dakota, not to mention his nabbed 17 honorary degrees without having dropped a single dime for tuition.

Instead of minoring in Beer & Co-eds, maybe I should have double-majored, so I would have had something to fall back on in case my Open Major didn’t pan out.

So you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with my rash, huh?

Which leads to why I found myself sitting in the dermatologist’s office with a rash that had consumed most of my body, thinking about Darwin and evolution theory. The walls in the waiting room and the examination rooms were covered with photographs of underwater sea creatures. I tried to figure out a possible motif linking these creatures to dermatology when it dawned on me that they breathe through their skin. Skin is their essence.

Sure looks fishy to me

Sure looks fishy to me

I suspected my rash was an allergic reaction to laundry detergent. Thanks to the recent downturn in the economy, I’ve had to alter my normal shopping habits. Normally, when the economy is on the upswing and I’m poor but not dirt poor, I tend to buy the second-to-cheapest product on the brand chain. Not only does this help feed the illusion that I’m not a bottom feeder, but I found the thought of playing Consumer Russian Roulette exhilarating as well.

That said, I purchased the cheapest laundry detergent on the shelf.

Bang! I lost.

My dermatologist, who I suspected dreamt of a life in plastic surgery before his Darwinian fall from grace, confirmed my suspicions. His diagnosis: an allergic reaction to cheap shit.

The cure: a steady dosage of Prednisone and a 12-step program to break my addiction to cheap shit.
Speaking of Darwin, I realize there are still skeptics out there who don’t buy into his theories on evolution, but clearly none of these naysayers saw how my rash evolved on my body. It started off as a small colony on my forearms before spawning sub-colonies that spread up my arms that eventually descended down to my ankles, where they set up temporary shop.

Sure, the Creationists will argue that my spreading rash is all part of the Creator’s master plan to keep me from buying cheap crap, but I turned to a more reputable source for guidance: The Flying Spaghetti Monster of the Church of FSM.

the new Creationism of Choice

Join The Church of FSM: the new Creationism of Choice

For whatever reason, I find the Almighty FSM’s beliefs easier to swallow.

Thank Darwin for that.

(Update: T.M. Lindsey is currently rash-free and would like to thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s creations for creating non-generic Prednisone. Let it be noted that T.M. is also enjoying the uptick side-effects of Prednisone and has gone five days without purchasing cheap, toxin-filled products; although thanks to the former he has yet to enjoy taking the latter.)

My Funny Prophetable Valentine Haikus

Growing up, I always dreamt of becoming a prophet, until I realized there is not much profit in propheteering — unless of course you’re exploiting dead prophets for profit: e.g. Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of Christ.” Speaking of which, most reputable (at least posthumously) prophets are shunned by society and succumb to untimely deaths (e.g. Keith Ledger). Apparently most people are allergic to the truth and avoid it at all possible costs, fearing they will break out in hives if exposed to the naked truth.

Last night, while celebrating the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and Aresenio Hall from the stadium seats of my Aresnio Shrine and makeshift Dog Pound (Woof! Woof! Woof!), I started thinking about some of the most influential prophets in my life. Consequently, these prophets made cameo appearances (no charge) in my dreams and recited, in honor of Valentine’s Day, love-inspired Haikus from atop a mountain of garbage in the local land fill (formerly the local dump).

Fortunately the distinct smell from the land fill jarred me out of my R.E.M. mode, thus enabling me to recall the Haikus verbatim. That said, here’s a transcription of their 17 syllable sermons from the heap:

jesus_cross_crucifixion1

Crucifixion II: A Cautionary Haiku for You, by Jesus

Hallmarkian lust;
Enjoy sins ‘fore Dad gets home –
I’m already dead.

yoda

Light Saber Envy, by Yoda

Size matters not, hmmm…
You, let libido flow through:
May force be in you.

buddha-bodhi

Alone: Wait, Fast, Think, Then Regret, by Buddha
Underneath Bodhi tree,
Transcended Valentine’s Day.
Damn Nirvana sucks.

big-bro-watching

Big Brother is Laughing, by George Orwell

Ministry of Love
Promotes proles to begat more proles.
Big Brother laughs last.

pastafarian85x115_th

Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, by FSM (Our Creator)

Pastafarians
Spread gospel of FSM;
Love is in the air.