A Belly Full Of Jesus

While most of the normal world spent their St. Patrick's Day celebrating their lazy Irish counterparts by consuming vast quantities of green-dyed Coors Light and punching each other in the face, I got suckered into attending the most morally depraved and ignorant gathering known to the human race:

A Southern Baptist revival.

Suffice to say, if I had known at the time I would have been spending one of my favorite celebrations of rampant alcoholism stuck all night in a tent with a couple hundred inbred redneck shitmops with a hardon for Jesus Christ, I would have kicked myself in the balls repeatedly until comatose. That way, I might have spent St. Paddy's day stuck in a hospital bed drooling on my own chest while the morphine drip delivered me to paradise. Instead, I was forced to listen a youth pastor feed the teenagers at the revival some tripe about how Jesus was "X-treme!". Did you know Jesus was the FIRST dude to show the world that piercing was hip? Neither did I.

Anyway, what started off this night was about two months ago, a co-worker of mine got me some tickets to go to, in his own words, "a wild game BBQ cook off". Far be it from me, folks, to pass up the chance to consume all forms of wildlife and furry little creatures for FREE...especially when slathered in sweet and spicy barbeque sauce. Bambi is good eatin', and I don't care WHO says otherwise. So, of course, I told the guy "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. March 17, uh huh, ok. I'll see you there, buddy." How the fuck was I supposed to know that it was going to be on St. Paddy's day? Shit, I can't even remember my own birthday most of the time. When the big day arrived, I sort of sucked it up and decided to just go "check it out". Who could it hurt?, I told myself. I'll go eat some wild game, and leave quickly to go fuck off somewhere at a bar. Sounded like a plan, right?

Wrong.

I pull up to the place and immediately see these damning words, emblazoned for all the world to see:

CHRISTIAN Revival Wild Game X-travaganza! Praise The Lord!

Praise the fucking lord, indeed. So I promptly flipped a bitch and drove to my friend's house and decided that some chaotic mindfuckery was in store for these cocksuckers. I told my boy Spyder that there was free food, and he hopped in my car. No questions asked. Spyder is a Viking of a man. Dirty. Unshaven. And morally depraved. Complete with spiked leather trenchcoat and a dreadlocked mohawk, he looks very much like a psychotic Charles Manson/Road Warrior hybrid. And I'm pretty much just a tattooed scumbag, so yeah. As we walked into the place, all I heard was "Ride Of the Valkyries" playing in my head. "THE HEATHENS ARE COMING! THE HEATHENS ARE COMING!", some woman shouted.

Damn right, bitch, and we're here to eat all your precious barbequed game and fuck your daughters. Ass to mouth style. You should have seen it, fellow sick fucks. It was truly a memorable moment when we walked in. The shitty Little River tribute band screeched to a halt in mid-twang and everyone stopped what they were doing and stared in horror at the sight of us. It was like a redneck cesspool in there, all camouflage and John Deere hats. We pushed little children aside and gobbled up the free food like Kirstie Alley at Ryan's Steakhouse. I blew my nose into the coleslaw and farted in the face of a wheelchair-bound old lady, who desperately clawed at her face in disgust with one hand while the other held up a half-chewed buttered roll as a makeshift weapon in some futile attempt to cleanse me of my demons. But the joke is on her, for my demons are old and powerful, existing since a time before man was even a twinkle in God's eye. And behind all of this, some creepy reverend was onstage rambling on about some nonsense of how the food we were eating tonight was in fact the body of Christ himself. And my last thought was, as armed security dragged us kicking and cursing out of the revival, was:

"Well, I'll be confuckled! Jesus sure does taste pretty fucking good slathered in coleslaw and Carolina sweet mustard sauce."