Christians Need Your Help–End the Wiccan Menace Today, Whether It’s Menacing or Not

Christian music stations are always balanced and informative when it comes to religion. Just as an example, my mother alerted me to an announcement on Albuquerque Christian radio station M-88 regarding Wiccans today. Apparently, M-88 needs information regarding Wiccans. With this information, M-88 hopes it can convert Wiccans to the great name of Jesus, and end their evil devil-worshiping ways once and for all.

I always feel like helping out Christians when they need help the most, and believe you me, most Christians–particularly those poor souls who believe George W. Bush can hear God, and Jesus would wear a Rolex on his television show–need help a lot. So I thought I’d help them in their quest to convert people like my pagan lesbian friend Dessabrina the Transformers Slash Fanfiction Author, and my cousin Josh’s girlfriend, who currently lives in Alaska with wolves and at least one species of polar bear. Hey, it can’t hurt. Unless, of course, they’re right, which we can be certain they are not.

Typical Wiccan. Notice the attempt to appear normal, in spite of being a dangerous, devolved, mentally-diseased, sexually deviant wild beast.

Typical Wiccan. Notice the attempt to appear normal, in spite of being a dangerous, devolved, mentally-diseased, sexually deviant wild beast. (Drawn by David Hopkins, used without permission because I'm a dirty thief)

For you Christians: Wicca is a devil-worshiping religion that is evil, like Mormonism only even more evil, and possibly involving even more polygamy. It is centered around a horny god and a Big Mama who is simultaneously a sexy babe, a MILF, and an old bitch, much like Britney Spears. Wiccans work hard in fields, hoping to see Pan, the God of the Fields, so they can have sex with him. Thus, most Wiccans are “Pansexuals”. They will also have sex with anything on two feet, but this has more to do with their wearing air and smelling of patchouli than their actually being Pansexuals.

Being gay is accepted in Wicca, even if its creator, a nudist British civil servant, believed that the Bitch Goddess would curse you if you had icky mansex. They form small groups of women and men clad in air, who pretend to be ridiculous things like witches and High Priestesses. They are also animistic, which means they believe that animals have a soul.

In other words, Wiccans are just furries, a term used to describe people who wish to have sex in animal costumes. Many of these people believe that they are in fact animal souls trapped inside human bodies. They should be treated as such.

The eight virtues of a Wiccan:

1. Mirth: Something Wikipedia describes as “an Admirable-class minesweeper built for the U.S. Navy during World War II. She was built to clear minefields in offshore waters, and served the Navy in the Atlantic Ocean and then was transferred to the Pacific Ocean in order to lend the vessel to the Soviet Union under terms of the Lend Lease Act.” Clearly, Wiccans plan to use this virtue to destroy our nation and our way of life.
2. Reverence: If you are a Wiccan, you should always revere your horny god and sexy babiMilfilibitchilicious goddess.
3. Honour: Your father and your mother, by taking off all your clothes and having sex with anything that moves.
4. Humility: What you should have in case anybody sees you with your honour showing.
5. Strength: Performing those magic spells takes quite a bit of effort. Replenish your magical powers using Maruchan® Instant Lunch, available three for a dollar at your local supermarket.
6. Beauty: People like David Hasselhoff Michael Phelps and Pamela Anderson Beyonce Knowles are butt-ugly. Your guide to finding real physical beauty should be Wiccans themselves, who can most succinctly be described as “Rosie O’Donnell, skyclad.”
7. Power: Believe in the teachings of a religion invented in 1958 by a lonely British civil worker and people will never laugh at you again.
8. Compassion: Love your fellow human beings and animals by having sex with them.

How to Make Your Own Wiccan religious ritual:

Christians: The easiest way to convert Wicca is by pretending to become them. That is, you must perform your own Wiccan ceremonies, to lull the Wiccans into a false sense of security and make them think you’re on their side, and them BAM! Whap the Jesus Hammer right onto their devil-worshipping heads. Don’t worry; I’ve done the groundwork for you. It’ll be expensive, but trust me, it’ll work.

1. First, you need costumes. When they’re not butt-naked, Wiccans like to dress as ghosts and priestesses and animals and shit. Here’s how your ceremonial dress code should look.

  • Ghosts: Covered in a white sheet with special symbols on them. Swastikas, sun crosses, and Celtic crosses are all good.
  • Priestesses: A white mask with only peepholes, and a pointy hat are both good for this. They should also wear what the ghosts wear; the white sheet represents purity.
  • Animal spirits and other random shit: Fursuits of various kinds should work. Here are a few examples of what you should go for:
  • Symbols: Wiccans, like all cultists, thrive upon symbolism and ritual. You need something stark and powerful. A good example of a powerful symbol is a cross with a Winnie the Pooh doll nailed to it. You should somewhere in your ceremony light this cross on fire*. Don’t feel constrained by these ceremonial pieces; you could also use a Tigger, or in extreme circumstances, a Piglet doll. Do not use Eeyore, however, as he is not representative of the message we’re trying to convey here.

*Note: Winnie the Pooh doll cannot be used as a child’s toy after being burned at the stake.

  • Conducting the ceremony: Go out into a big field in the middle of the forest. This is very important. It is your Point of Contemplation, where you go to meditate and show your respects to the Horny God before you go on with your ceremony.
  1. Get on your furry costumes/priestess uniforms and nail the Pooh doll to the cross. Load the cross onto a Radio Flyer or equivalent child’s wagon, or, if necessary, a wheelbarrow. Your cross shouldn’t be too big or else it will crush the wagon; besides that, you’re out to show your respects to your Horny God, not make him look like some kind of psycho that uses huge crosses for tiny dolls. The cross should fit the doll, is what I’m saying.
  2. Light the cross on fire and begin marching through the forest. You should begin to embrace the beauty of the forest, and the power of the Tree Spirits that inhabit it. Begin chanting about Woozles, Hefelumps, and Honey Pots; your aim is to rid the forest of these evil spirits. Except for the honey pots, which you should collect and partake of, if any are available. Offer a few to the Big Daddy God and Big Mama Goddess.
  3. March down main street of your town and begin stripping off all of your clothes.
  4. Begin a group chant. This chant can be about anything, including Barack Obama, income taxes, gays, Barbara Streisand, or even your church’s upcoming charity auction. Go nuts. The important thing is that it has to sound vaguely Celtic-sounding. It should convince people around you that you’re speaking in tongues and performing magical spells on them.
  5. End your ceremony in a large orgy. Everyone, whether they are young, old, women, men, or family pets, should participate. By the end there should be a distinctly disgusting smell emanating from your entire town. If you don’t feel ashamed, you didn’t perform the ceremony correctly. Do it again, and this time do it right. Make sure you didn’t use an Eeyore doll in the mock crucifixion like an idiot.

This should help you when it’s time to conduct your Wiccan indoctrination ceremonies. Just remember, all Wiccans are perverted, disgusting scoundrels. If you don’t help to cleanse them of their demonic possession, you are one of them.

IIHS: “Always Buy Side Safety Pillows”

Whenever I feel like taking a nap on the highway, after a long day’s drive or a day of work, I do what any red-blooded American citizen does: Drive my car into a brick wall at speeds approaching thirty miles per hour. I do this because carmakers have been thoughtful enough to make special pillows that come out of their cars’ steering wheels, which I like to call “safety pillows”. My understanding of the situation is, whenever you’re on a long-ass trip and you’re afraid the local hotels might be fleabags, or you’ve been drinking or whatever, you just crash your car, and that activates your pillows. That way, there’s no chance you’ll have to spend the night with cockroaches, and there’s no chance you’ll accidentally wind up stumbling into another patron’s motel room, drunk and naked, and they won’t call the police on you. If that isn’t safety, I don’t know what is.

The first attempts at activating safety pillows went awry. For example, the Ford F-150’s safety pillow didn’t come out fast enough, meaning that when you went to begin taking your nap, you would hit your head on the steering wheel, which isn’t fun for anyone.

Also the rest of the car would crumple like a tin can. This would be inconvenient.

The Chinese, as is typical of the Chinese, still do not quite have the bugs worked out in their Safety Department:

This at least partly explains why Kung Pao Chicken gives me a headache.

Some later vehicles, like the Chevrolet Colorado or Toyota Prius, do better, and generally will not kill you if you attempt to activate their safety pillows:

However, if you intend to activate your pillows from the side, in case you want to rest on the door, be sure that you in fact have side pillows, as a recent test from the IIHS indicates. In the test, they showed the dangers of attempting to crash your vehicle into another vehicle without such airy goodness.

The IIHS tests were like an episode of American Gladiators, only the contestants were trucks, and the test was to see which one performed the best when smacked into by a wall of metal at 31 miles an hour. The brave gladiators included:

Toyota Tacoma: The Hero that Everybody Loves Except Angry Gun-Toting Rednecks And Me, Because It’s a Big Ugly Thing That Rusts From The Inside Out, As In This Picture:

Nissan Frontier: The Big Lardass With a Body of Steel and Heart of Gold

Dodge Dakota: The Obnoxious Drunken American Asshole

Ford Ranger: The Old Cranky Geezer

Chevy Colorado: The Mildly Retarded One

The crowd cheered as the competitors entered the Coliseum. And the IIHS delivered its decision. Rivers of tears fell that day, as the Mildly Retarded One fell to the moving wall of senseless violence.

The Old Cranky Geezer also got called out by the IIHS, something involving children in their rear seats, so I’m guessing it involved pedophilia. Good for the IIHS, I say. I’ve got no place for pedophiles. Screw you, Ford Ranger.

So anyway, the basic results of the test were: If you’re going to get crashed into by a wall the same height as an SUV’s grille and bumpers, you’d better damn well have your safety pillows or else you’re taking a dirt nap, if you know what I mean. I was disgusted that, in a nation as great and powerful as ours, we would have results like this. Our vehicles should be so big and heavy that they dwarf a tank. After all, we’re paying for their fuel, they’d might as well be able to protect us from moderately large meteor strikes. So I emailed Chevrolet, telling them that I was repulsed by their terrible results and saying that their retarded little pickup should be put back to eating paste and hugging random people for no reason, where it belongs. They sent me the following letter:

Dear Mr. Lupe the Lobo,

Thank you for contacting Chevrolet and for your interest in the 2008 Chevrolet Colorado! We appreciate the time you have taken to write us.

GM develops the safety systems in its vehicles to perform in a range of tests and real-world conditions. The Chevrolet Colorado and GMC Canyon meet or exceed all federal safety standards and have performed very well in other consumer information tests. While Chevrolet has not announced any changes to be made to the safety equipment on the Colorado, the Colorado and Canyon meet or exceed all federal safety standards and have performed very well in other consumer information tests. Contrary to the IIHS announcement, both pickups have StabiliTrak standard for the 2009 model year.

The crash performance of the Colorado Crew Cab was demonstrated in the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s (NHTSA) New Car Assessment Program (NCAP) in which the truck received the highest rating of 5-stars for both the driver and front passenger in the frontal crash test. The Colorado also received a 4-star rating for the driver and 5-star rating for the rear passenger in the side test.

The Colorado and Canyon pickups employ a host of safety features consistent with GM’s Continuous Safety approach and GM’s electronic stability control system, StabiliTrak, is standard for the 2009 model year versions. While GM conducts more than 150 different types of crash tests on its vehicles, only about 25 percent are called for in regulatory or consumer information tests like the IIHS. The IIHS side crash test is a single test designed to simulate a very severe crash.

We would like to thank you for your feedback regarding the safety of the Chevrolet Colorado. Many of our decisions regarding our vehicles are dependant on the market place. Customers provide feedback to us regarding our current vehicles, future vehicles, and the different components on them. From the information provided, we, in turn, make decisions and changes towards our product. We will document your suggestions and comments and forward them to the appropriate department.

If you are not currently working with a Chevrolet dealership in your area and you would like to locate one, an easy way to do so is by using the Find a Dealer web tool on We suggest scheduling a test drive as well. There is nothing like a test drive to help you make that ultimate decision!

I was disgusted by Chevrolet once again. Clearly, they had not heard Mr. Lund of the IIHS when he said that small pickups weren’t safe choices for consumers. And yet they still wanted me to buy their little retard mobile. Me, an American, buy a vehicle that the IIHS doesn’t consider the pinnacle in its class. A travesty, I say!

Never mind. I will continue driving my Mercury Mistake LS (stands for Loser Sentry) which recieved a Poor in the IIHS frontal crash test. My mother will continue to drive her Escape, which got a Poor in the IIHS’s side crash test for not having side airbags, and her 1998 F-150 deathtrap, which got five stars in all NHTSA tests except frontal passenger ratings. Many of you who drive older RAV-4’s without side airbags are driving pure deathmobiles. That Scion xB gets Poor IIHS ratings in car accidents because it isn’t available with side air bags. You could get injured in a car wreck! My God, I never would have realized!

“In NHTSA’s test, because the barrier is rigid, the deceleration in the test is faster, so it’s a better and more demanding test of the restraint system. Our tests are harder on the structure. What you get out of the two tests is a fuller view of the vehicle’s overall safety.” –Anne Fleming, IIHS

So in the end, what can we learn from the IIHS? First off, always buy your vehicles with safety pillows. Also, apparently there is Electronic Stability Control, which probably has to do with stability of some kind, possibly involving Georgia. And finally, Anne Fleming might be related to Ian Fleming. Was James Bond the first crash-test dummy? I submit he was.

I hope you’ve learned something today. I know I have. I don’t really know what it is, yet, but I know it’s brewing. I hope it’s calculus.

Braving the Sea Monsters of Death at Your Local Golf Course–A Primer

(The Beatles, When I’m Sixty-Four. Hey, it’s the only lighthearted song about getting old I could think of, so sue me. Uploaded by one OctopuSsGarden)

There are days in a man’s life when he must tackle pain, frustration, love, sadness, and terrible smells. Today was one of those important days, as I was forced into both visiting my grandfather at the nursing home and playing a game of golf.

Yes, on the same day.

A bit of background: Old people and golf have been around since olden days, and they are usually one and the same. Back in the olden days, there were no nursing homes. This is primarily because the people were too poor to afford it. I mean, these were really the “golden days”, but the people couldn’t even afford a capital G to spell it, which is why they were referred to as “olden days” in the first place. Do you really think these kinds of people could find a monetary way of convincing somebody to care for a person whose bodily function control is on the level of an untrained puppy?

Son of old person: Here, I’ll give you ten pounds or whatever currency we use here per hour to take care of… uh… someone for me.

Potential old person caretaker: Oh, how cute! You want me to babysit? I love kids!

Son of old person: Uh, no, well, y’see…

Old person: *emits strong odors*

Potential old person caretaker: Dear God.

You people make me sick.

Of course, that was OK, back then, because most of the old people in the olden days were dead anyway, due in part to an unusually virulent outbreak of rap music. But today, most of our nation’s rappers are dead or are pretending to be to avoid potential lawsuits, so it is necessary for us as a nation to take care of our nation’s old people*.

(*Note: The large amount of old people today is also due to the “Baby Boom”, a period of time in our nation’s history in which an astonishing 78.2 million American babies spontaneously exploded into flame. [Source: Wikipedia])

I have always been against my grandfather being in a nursing home, at least partially because I believe he is faking it, likely for the doughnuts my uncle now buys him. This is something my uncle does every Sunday, and has been doing for quite awhile. I have now gone with him twice. Apparently, my grandfather likes chocolate donuts with coconut sprinkles. My uncle puts the doughnut into Grandpa’s mouth, and he eats it, and then he spits out the coconut, in much the same way he used to spit out his chewing tobacco. That is, of course, the tobacco he chewed before the nurses took it away from him so they could keep him from getting cancer, which would likely deprive the nursing home of the opportunity to better itself, in the form of money.

My uncle then gave Grandpa a bit of coffee, before a nurse stopped him.

“You can’t do that,” the nurse said.

“Why not?” my uncle asked.

“You need to thicken it first,” she responded.

So my uncle went to get “thickener” for the coffee, which is made of some strange kind of substance that makes it less liquidy.

“You want some?” my uncle asked me.

“…No,” I said emphatically. If there is one thing my life has taught me, it is to never drink anything that has been “thickened”.

Both of my visits were pretty much the same. We wheeled Grandpa out into a big courtyard, fed him the doughnut, talked to him, and left. The only real difference was that this time the smell, the overpowering smell of death and over a dozen old people housed inside a single enclosure, was stronger and my grandpa did not put his feet down when it was time to go back inside. I liked to think he was resisting the man, in the form of my uncle, by firmly refusing to reenter the Den of the Old People, but it may have been because he didn’t actually realize he had feet.

Meanwhile, another uncle of mine had been preparing for our golf game. Think about that for a second. He actually took time, out of his busy day, to plan for playing a game in which you hit a small ball into a hole no larger than the average person’s left nostril. This requires dedication to the game, the kind where you are expected to play at least twelve dozen times per semester, regardless of price or health condition. If you have to play with intravenous tubes in both arms, as just one example, golf instructors will be waiting to teach you how to properly coil your backswing, while making sure that you do not accidentally spill blood or saline into their ball washers, as this could lead to unpleasant experiences for others who will play the course.

I, on the other hand, was a maverick, in that this was the first time I had played golf all year. In golf circles, this is the equivalent of wearing all black with a Pantera T-shirt and dozens of bodily piercings in strategic locations across your body. My game was as good as could be expected under the circumstances. On the eighteen holes, I was able to deposit the ball into the hole a full eighteen times, eventually, without causing unnecessary skull fractures or death.

“Fetch”, the game would say. And I would fetch. I would wind up running after the golf ball, bounding from one edge of the grass to the other, over children, sand, and water, looking for my ball, which was yellow and covered with random pen marks. I had intended it to look like a psychedelic Roger Dean work or possibly a tie-dye piece, but it in fact wound up looking a lot more like a golf ball with a lot of pen marks on it.

We–meaning my two uncles and younger cousin–played on a military golf course. This meant that there were things we did not do. For example, we didn’t say that we “bombed” a hole, for fear that authorities would come and kill us. Also, we absolutely did not even entertain the thought of performing one of those humorous golf shots you see on television wherein you wade into the water and swing at your ball and get water all over yourself and into your clothes. The following illustration shows why that is:

Things you will see at Tijeras Arroyo Golf Course.

Other than golfing and seeing my grandpa, my day was pretty typical. The electricity went off for a couple of hours, as it does every month in New Mexico, the Land of Violent Electrical Storms. I wound up talking to Ashley Of the Forty-Year-Old Boyfriend Who Plays Texas Hold ‘Em As A Career, and finding out that the University of New Mexico believes that I should no longer receive my scholarships because the computer told it I shouldn’t. While I go down to destroy the computer with a sledgehammer tomorrow, I think about the events of the weekend: Seeing my grandfather; being closer to active nuclear weapons than any person should ever have to be; wanting to see one of the weapons go off because I think nuclear explosions are beautiful; realizing that the FBI has probably already sent out an agent to get me for saying that on the Internet; and so on and so forth. These things stir powerful feelings within me. I think it’s the mutations kicking in.