2003-08-28 - 1:36 a.m.

Sally Forth and get funky. Rex Morgan M.D.funky.

(A little late-night shout-out to my number one peep*)! Awwww ye-ah. The Fanged Faerie's in tha house. Can ya feel it? Can ya feel it? I have ex-or-cised the demon!

This house is cle-ah.

*This word makes me think of dancing marshmallow bunnies, all pink and puffy in their peep-ness. Mmmmmmm. Pink puffy peep-ness. Sounds like some sort of weeping Candy-Land wound involving painful urination and a tongue-in-cheek after-school special, eh? DAMN YOU WONKA! Damn you AND your fluffy pink bunnies! Taking Easter away from the Baby Jesus! Luring us to the dark side with tales of squishy comraderie!

Oh you're a wiley foe! (Wiley like a coyote).

Okay. That's enough. Step away from the under-the-table references. In my defense, it is very late and I am a-running on empty, as this is my first full week of full-time school, full-time work, and oh-yes-don't-forget I am moving to my new place in five days. Which brings me a large (oh-my-great-god-thank-you-Bo-and-Luke-Duke*) amount of joy, yes, but I am a busy little faerie a-running on empty all the same.

*So in the last journal entry I made a reference to Bo-and-Luke-Duke, and since then their presence, all run together like that, have set up camp in the forefront of my brain. I think I may need to start a church. The church of the Dukes of Hazzard. I can see it now. Short-shorts as far as the eye can see! Zany escapades involving fellows with names like Boss Hog and Uncle Jessie! It'll be great! We'll never use the church doors! (We'll just slide cool-like through the open windows!) We'll be the most rootin' tootin' dippin' church around!

And we'll eat at the Cracker Barrel EVERY Sunday. (Tie optional, of course).

So speaking of stupid religions, what in the name of the Baby Jesus is up with those wacky Christians? At my job I am surrounded by Christians with a capital 'C'. At every turn someone is a-preaching and a-bible thumpin' at me. Now I'm all for freedom of speech, but this in-my-face ignorance forces me to adopt what I call the WIDE-eyed blank stare of innocence, like I'm some sort of childlike Rainman, in the faint hope of hiding the fact that I have a functioning brain (those damn, brain-hungry Christians! Feeding off of funtioning brains like zombies, I tell ya!) and making the sermon as short as possible.

My strategy worked until two days ago, when I succumbed to my internal philosopher and I got into a "discussion". Now it wasn't a heated debate, oh no! We were all a chitty-chatty living-in-the-moment until I brought up the new translation of the Bible that's supposedly in the works, and he called it the devil's work (I'm sorry, but did you say it was the devil's work?) and I just couldn't let it slide. According to him one shouldn't "go messin' around with God's word".

O-kay. Fine. But hey? That King James version you're readin'? That ain't God's word. It too is a gasp-egads translation. So I said as much and this person wouldn't have any of it. He had pulled the ignorance blanket up to his chin and he was all devil-this and virgin-birth that and God put Adam to sleep, took his rib*, blew some dirt and added a bit of WD40 and poof made woman, and I soon found myself regretting the attempt at discussion and re-adopting my childlike Rainman pose. Frightening stuff really. Twisted-advertisement flavored in a deep false baritone:

You want comfort? Have faith! Self-deception can be yours at the amazingly small price of your mind! Forget the brain! It's a pesky organ, anyway! What with its annoying use of logic! Worship Bo and Luke Duke! Live by contradicting beliefs like "one must kill for peace" and have enough money left over for those flashy rims you've had your eye on!

We could be rich, I tell ya! I see an Arts and Crafts class called Making Your Own Personal Jesus. A little glitter and glue, a few googly eyes for fun, and presto-change-o you've got your own personal Jesus! Hang him on a string around your neck and he can watch over your every move! Can I get an amen?

Howsa 'bout a "Yay Santa-Clause for adults"?

*When my co-worker started talking about this, I traipsed off on a mental tangent about what an asshole he must think God is. I mean really, to put someone to sleep and steal their RIB?! What kind of guy does that? I can picture Adam all waking up in a bathtub full of ice, God dancing around him, waving his rib in the air. I've got your ri-ib! I've got your ri-ib! Stupid dancing God. ALways taking stuff without asking.

And on that note, I must sleep. Toodles for now my darlings, and remember to thump your Bibles to be sure they're ripe!

-The Fanged Faerie made her own personal Jesus out of leftover mashed potatoes and a sticky bun.

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