Love From Above

"Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love." – Prov. 5:19, King James Bible


"Hey, you know what they say: See a broad, to get that booty yak 'em, leg 'er down 'n smack 'em yak 'em! Cold got to be! You know, shiiiiiiit." – Jive-speaking negroes, Airplane


Throughout the course of my life, I’ve had fleeting passes with the four-letter word: Love. More often though, I’ve found the words Lust, Fuck, Rash, Baby, and Kill, Kill, Kill more applicable to the affairs of my heart and loins.


I lived with my first girlfriend for two years because she had a killer rack and was willing to work three jobs while I sat at home and played Freecell. My second long-term lady-friend stopped speaking to me after I shit in her bed, blamed it on her, and then stole $50 from her nightstand. Pity -- she had an outstandingly accommodating sphincter muscle. More recently, while finger-fiddling a chubby young damsel on the couches of my office, I was appalled to discover that her velvety innards felt like they were lined with bubble wrap – probably some heinous venereal disease that arrived on these shores attached to the ass of a middle-management advertising exec who stuck his dick in the wrong Bangkok tranny. (Not that there’s a right Bangkok tranny, but it’s late, and my mind is moving slowly.) After massaging her open sores for a few minutes, I concluded that her vagina was ribbed for MY pleasure, double-bagged Captain Stifflewood, and rocked her world for a full ninety seconds.


Why do I mention these incidents? Damned if I know -- like I said, it’s late. Maybe they’re good examples of how little I know of true love; I blow bubbles in the shallow end of the emotional pool.


But that’s all changed now, and I have a very special woman to thank for it: the beautiful, the vivacious, the pious Jan Crouch, famed co-founder of the Trinity Broadcasting Network, multi-millionaire, and heir apparent to the painted legacy of Tammy Faye Bakker.


The story of my love-at-first-sight relationship with Jan Crouch is hardly the fodder for a Meg Ryan romantic comedy, mostly because she doesn’t know I exist; or not consciously anyway. My passion for Jan radiates from deep within my soulless being, crosses the country on transmission waves O’ love, and is received by her tumbling pompadour of unnaturally colored hair. No man-appointed committee like the FCC can regulate transmissions of the heart – only the Lord Our God and possibly ClearChannel holds sway over this spectrum.


Seriously, I love her. Don’t think for a minute that this is just another sarcastic, witless attempt to shock and amuse the readers of this column. This past Saturday alone I masturbated on four separate occasions to the beguiling beauty of Mrs. Crouch as she bleated hymnals on her nationally-broadcast evangelical show, Praise the Lord. And these weren’t your typical jerk-off sessions, mind you – the masturbatory pastiches of porn imagery combined with that one hot chick you once fucked and your best friend’s wife – no sir, unzip-to-unload I thought of nothing but sweet, sweet Jan. Jan in bra and panties slinking across my bedroom reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Jan whispering “Jesus loves the little children,” in my ear as she tickles my balls with one hand and spit-polishes my copper penny with the other. Jan with her legs wrapped around my head, wriggling uncontrollably with the Holy Spirit.


Merciful God, I’m barely containing myself right now.


Granted, I don’t know what to do about her husband, Paul Crouch. He seems like an upstanding fellow, what with all the money he raises for such hallowed Christian causes like GOP pocket lining, moral crusading, and $5 million estates in Newport Beach, but he stands between destiny and me, and, therefore, must be dealt with. Perhaps I could appeal to Benny Hinn to lay his healing touch upon my rich blue balls – or better yet, appeal to the Scientology nutbags to send a Level III Fire-Breathing Thetan of Europa, with 15 endurance points and 32 strength, to dispatch of Mr. Crouch violently in the night. They could give his bones to the Scientology Kids Club and make macaroni portraits of L. Ron Hubbard with his vertebrae for all I care, as long as it removes him from the path to my precious Jan.


It’s obvious that I don’t know where this will lead – obstacles exist, and our stars are crossed many times over, but I believe it is God’s Will for Jan Crouch to be Jan Alim...(what? you think I'd tell you?) one day, even though the name rings like a bad Star Wars character’s. Fuck, I’ll change my name to whatever she likes, even John Crouch II if it will seal the delicious deal.


Jan, you’re probably busy two-way messaging Jesus right now, but I pray that one of your followers has strayed far enough from the flock to be reading this right now, and passes my sentiments on to you: God wants us to get nasty, Jan. Really nasty.


And who are we to defy God?