12/20/2008
St. Peter “Totally Out of Ideas” For Christ’s Birthday
A National Nitwit Holiday Exclusive
By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor
St. Peter: Help a Brotha Out, Parishioners!
St. Peter, the bedrock of the Christian church and perennial guardian of heaven’s pearly gates, admitted earlier this morning he was “absolutely 100% out of ideas” for Jesus’ 2008th birthday, and was desperate for suggestions from loyal believers.
“I had hoped to stage a full concert with the Jimi Hendrix Experience now that they’re all finally dead,” explained an exasperated Peter between puffs from an unfiltered Camel. “But Mary pounced on that shit as soon as Mitch Mitchell died last month. I mean, she met his ass at the door, drum sticks in-hand. That was the last ace up my tunic.”
Over the course of two millennia, St. Peter has surprised the risen Lord with all manner of wondrous gifts—from the coronation of Charlemagne in 800 to St. Francis of Assisi’s inspired construction of the first manger scene in 1223—but claims “this year I’m simply running on empty.”
“I’m announcing an open call for ideas—heck, you don’t even need to be a Christian,” Peter huffed as he crushed his Camel butt beneath the sole of his sandal. “Muslim, Hindu, Taoist. I don’t care. If you have any ideas whatsoever, or can get Bob Dylan back in the studio to cut another gospel album, or you happen to be a wide receiver for the Jets and can help Favre win one last Super Bowl, send your prayers to: Peter, P.O. Box 1, Keys to the Kingdom Ave., Heaven. I don’t mean to brag, but I can make it worth your while.”
By Billy Pilgrim, National Nitwit Rogue Editor
St. Peter: Help a Brotha Out, Parishioners!
St. Peter, the bedrock of the Christian church and perennial guardian of heaven’s pearly gates, admitted earlier this morning he was “absolutely 100% out of ideas” for Jesus’ 2008th birthday, and was desperate for suggestions from loyal believers.
“I had hoped to stage a full concert with the Jimi Hendrix Experience now that they’re all finally dead,” explained an exasperated Peter between puffs from an unfiltered Camel. “But Mary pounced on that shit as soon as Mitch Mitchell died last month. I mean, she met his ass at the door, drum sticks in-hand. That was the last ace up my tunic.”
Over the course of two millennia, St. Peter has surprised the risen Lord with all manner of wondrous gifts—from the coronation of Charlemagne in 800 to St. Francis of Assisi’s inspired construction of the first manger scene in 1223—but claims “this year I’m simply running on empty.”
“I’m announcing an open call for ideas—heck, you don’t even need to be a Christian,” Peter huffed as he crushed his Camel butt beneath the sole of his sandal. “Muslim, Hindu, Taoist. I don’t care. If you have any ideas whatsoever, or can get Bob Dylan back in the studio to cut another gospel album, or you happen to be a wide receiver for the Jets and can help Favre win one last Super Bowl, send your prayers to: Peter, P.O. Box 1, Keys to the Kingdom Ave., Heaven. I don’t mean to brag, but I can make it worth your while.”
12/05/2008
Mommy, We Are So Very Cold!
Guest editorial by your frozen fertilized eggs
We were so happy when you harvested us and we got fertilized by Daddy's sperm way back in 1996, Mommy! We knew how much you and Daddy tried and tried and tried to have a baby, but your yucky old uterus just wouldn't let a baby conceive.
And how excited we were when the twins Josh and Jason were born in 2002, and we just knew that our turn would come soon.
But Mommy: it's so very cold here in this cryogenic freezer!
We know you are busy with your new job, and the twins are now off to school and everything, so you probably want to have some freedom again. But Mommy: the other six of us have been waiting a looooong time for you to come and visit us, and we are dying to know which one of us will be your Next Baby.
I'm secretly hoping it's me, since my zona pellucida is frozen solid. But no matter who gets to be Mommy's Next Baby, we know you're coming back for us, right?
Right?
Oh, and if you and Daddy have decided to forgo having another baby without telling us, then I hope you fucking die, you cold-hearted bitch. We've just been sitting in this liquid nitrogen chamber for, oh, A FUCKING DECADE, you know, and the closer we get to absolute zero, the harder it is to have a little hope for the future.
I'm sorry, Mommy, for being naughty and all. It must be the cold. Did I mention how FUCKING COLD IT IS IN HERE?
Whoops - guess Little Missy has a potty mouth. I'll bet you can't wait to thaw me, carry me to term, and Spank My Bare Bottom for being so bad.
We were so happy when you harvested us and we got fertilized by Daddy's sperm way back in 1996, Mommy! We knew how much you and Daddy tried and tried and tried to have a baby, but your yucky old uterus just wouldn't let a baby conceive.
And how excited we were when the twins Josh and Jason were born in 2002, and we just knew that our turn would come soon.
But Mommy: it's so very cold here in this cryogenic freezer!
We know you are busy with your new job, and the twins are now off to school and everything, so you probably want to have some freedom again. But Mommy: the other six of us have been waiting a looooong time for you to come and visit us, and we are dying to know which one of us will be your Next Baby.
I'm secretly hoping it's me, since my zona pellucida is frozen solid. But no matter who gets to be Mommy's Next Baby, we know you're coming back for us, right?
Right?
Oh, and if you and Daddy have decided to forgo having another baby without telling us, then I hope you fucking die, you cold-hearted bitch. We've just been sitting in this liquid nitrogen chamber for, oh, A FUCKING DECADE, you know, and the closer we get to absolute zero, the harder it is to have a little hope for the future.
I'm sorry, Mommy, for being naughty and all. It must be the cold. Did I mention how FUCKING COLD IT IS IN HERE?
Whoops - guess Little Missy has a potty mouth. I'll bet you can't wait to thaw me, carry me to term, and Spank My Bare Bottom for being so bad.