Guess what I bought with my tax-free billions?

Snake oil salespeople, con artists, assholes, they’ve got nothing on Paul and Janice Crouch, the televangelists who were recently featured in this NY Times article.

Partly republished below, here’s the rest.

Ready your gag reflex. This shit stinks:

NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — For 39 years, the Trinity Broadcasting Network has urged viewers to give generously and reap the Lord’s bounty in return.

The prosperity gospel preached by Paul and Janice Crouch, who built a single station into the world’s largest Christian television network, has worked out well for them.

Mr. and Mrs. Crouch have his-and-her mansions one street apart in a gated community here, provided by the network using viewer donations and tax-free earnings. But Mrs. Crouch, 74, rarely sleeps in the $5.6 million house with tennis court and pool. She mostly lives in a large company house near Orlando, Fla., where she runs a side business, the Holy Land Experience theme park. Mr. Crouch, 78, has an adjacent home there too, but rarely visits. Its occupant is often a security guard who doubles as Mrs. Crouch’s chauffeur.

The twin sets of luxury homes only hint at the high living enjoyed by the Crouches, inspirational television personalities whose multitudes of stations and satellite signals reach millions of worshipers across the globe. Almost since they started in the 1970s, the couple have been criticized for secrecy about their use of donations, which totaled $93 million in 2010.

Now, after an upheaval with Shakespearean echoes, one son in this first family of televangelism has ousted the other to become the heir apparent. A granddaughter, who was in charge of TBN’s finances, has gone public with the most detailed allegations of financial improprieties yet, which TBN has denied, saying its practices were audited and legal.

The granddaughter, Brittany Koper, and her husband have been fired by the network, which accused them of stealing $1.3 million to buy real estate and cars and make family loans. “They’re just trying to divert attention from their own crimes,” said Colby May, a lawyer representing TBN. Janice and Paul Crouch declined requests for interviews.

Cinco de May-wow!

Last night, Tina and I went to Bill’s house for a Terrance Trent Kentucky Derby Party followed by an exploration into Cinco De Mayo Festival.

The Kentucky Derby party was cool. We bet on the outcome of the race, which I lost. Tina did too.

We photographed a friend’s baby. A Bulgarian girl told us three or four jokes that she told her boyfriend’s parents only three months after they started dating. In the thickest Bulgarian accent, she had me cracking up. Unfortunately, they were long form jokes, and I don’t remember any of them. But rest assured, she used the words, “penis”, “pussy”, and “asshole” more than most people in their entire lifetimes.

We drank Mint Juleps, left a documentary on the porn industry on in the background, had an orgy and then crashed a Cinco De Mayo Party wearing sombreros and screaming in ways that only Gringos making fun of Mexicans can.

Did you know you can put a dildo on an electric saw and use it to pleasure a woman? 

I thought for sure we were going to get kicked out of the party. We were the loudest, most obnoxious group there. But when the guy who threw the party came over to our table — which we were pounding in rhythm to some guy in a corner playing guitar and singing the hits — he welcomed us with open arms and asked that if we leave, please make sure fun people are there in our place.

Thing was, I didn’t want to go to the Cinco party. I had crossed my alcohol consumption threshold at the Kentucky Derby Party. I wanted to come home, cuddle with Lu, post a Caturday picture (sorry, kids), and post yesterday’s Peeper Dee.

But peer pressure and Tina got the best of me, and next thing I knew we were playing the drinking game “Awake”.

Ever play it?

The rules are simple. If you’re awake, you drink.

Ready to play?

I’ll have to do a makeup Peeper today.

You’re probably saying, “Yeah, right. Tina didn’t pressure you.” Hells bells she did. Even when I slurred to her at the Cinco Party, “I’m fucking done. We gotta go,” she slammed another jello shot and told me to fuck off.

She’s a doll.

We finally got home around 11. I was spent. This morning, it was almost Sixo De May-ow, but I did a little better than expected. I’m not running any marathons today, but I’m not covering my ears every time a loud train goes by either.

Apparently, and I didn’t know this before either, if you take pictures at Cinco de Mayo, you have to have your mouth awkwardly open instead of smiling.

See the evidence above and below.