Inauguration Humor for the Tired and Depressed

Here at the Flee from Christian Fundamentalism blog, it is our understanding that Donald Trump is planning to have an “Inaugural Ball.”  The only question: “Who is she?”

Yes, that was a crude joke—but considering the long history behind it and the pussy-grabbing…at least some small corner of any sensible human mind has to wonder.

Just remember folks. Mr. Trump is their guy.  They put him in office—warts and all.  The hopes and dreams of the Christian fundamentalists and conservative evangelicals will be fulfilled at noon on January  20, 2016. On that day, the long-hoped-for, modern-day Savior of the 100-year-old American fundie religious tradition will be sworn in as President of the United States. What is that one thing they most deeply need from the new Trump regime?  Benjamin Franklin knew 226 years ago and expressed it well when he wrote this quotation in a letter to Mr. Richard Price on October 9, 1790:

When a religion is good, I conceive it will support itself; and when it does not support itself, and God does not take care to support it so that its professors are obliged to call for help of the civil power, ‘tis a sign, I apprehend, of its being a bad one.

Oh yes, my dear friends!!!  The fundies now have both their earthly salvation in Mr. Trump and their Heavenly salvation in Jesus—and the two are now inextricably bound together by a Holy knot in the corrupt fundie mind.  At noon on Friday of next week, upon completion of the Oath of Office, the Holy Spirit shall descend as a white dove within a shaft of intense light and personally anoint the head of the Walking Cheeto (no doubt with a packet of Holy Oil mailed to him by some famous Minister of the Prosperity Gospel).  This shall be a sign unto the fundies and all apostate peoples that God’s own personally selected man—a Walking Cheeto after God’s own heart—a man like King David—finally sits in the The White House. The Walking Cheeto shall come to the aid of all true Christians, and especially all those old, lily white Christians he has saved from the legacy of that dastardly Islamic Negro from Kenya.

Yes fundies.  The Walking Cheeto is now God’s minister sent unto you. Henceforth, just like the preachers in your fundie churches, every word that proceedeth forth from the mouth or tweet of the Walking Cheeto shall be a word and a command sent directly unto  you  from God the Father. Ye must record in your brain and obey every word from the mouth, pen, or typing fingers of the Walking Cheeto—and do his bidding in all things. Otherwise, thou shalt lose thy many Heavenly blessings and writhe forever in the Lake of Boiling Peanut Oil reserved for the crunch frying of all who fail to fall prostate (no typo) at the feet of the Great Walking Cheeto.

If anyone needs to vomit after reading this sick fantasy that trots around in the fundie mind realm, you can always buy a cheap plastic wastebasket at a Dollar General Stores near you. Plan to do a lot of your future shopping at Dollar General Stores.  You are going to need that store over the next four yours—that is if you and your impoverished family are still alive after the first exchange of nuclear weapons.

But hey, many fundies love nuclear weapons and annihilation of the whole Earth and every person and living thing on it.  It will kill off all the unbelievers and the apostate Christians down at the mainline churches. But most important of all, it will force the hand of God and compel Jesus to descend from Heaven with a shout to rescue his one, only, and true fundie believers down at the Possum Trot IFB Church. This is what they call The Rapture. With any luck, Jesus will wait a few hours and descend immediately after the church members hold their tent revival; roll around like lunatics on the tent floor; hold an all day country gospel singing; and gorge down the dinner on the grounds. After all, their fat-bellied preacher (Pastor Beverly B. Beverly), who graduated from the Mortimer Sturgeon College of the Bible, needs to be fed well before entering the Kingdom of Heaven.

Stuff that HUGE belly of yours with fried chicken preacher!!!  Yee-e-e-e-e!!!!  Hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i!!!  Five whole chickens in just one hour!!! Ain’t it amazin’ how many bottles of wine a fundie preacher can replace with lots of fried chicken!!!  Don’t be alarmed dear friends.  He’s just getting ready for……………..The Rupture.

(Note:  Thank you for the Cheetos Gloriamarie.)

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