Peeper Dee #278


by Jude C

Last night, I accidentally named the Peeper 276 instead of 277.

I would apologize for the confusion, but I don’t apologize to anyone except Mrs. Serafini.

Continue reading “Peeper Dee #278”

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Hell or high water, I will finish this handle of vodka … if it kills me


Screen cap of someone’s Facebook update reads, “Woman at Dulles security line, unable to carry her plastic handle of Smirnoff Vodka through security is currently drinking it in line and offering swigs to other passengers. It’s 7:30 a.m. and TSA is not amused.” 

Out of Jesus-like compassion, I would totally stop and help that woman out.

Via The Daily What. 

 

Jon Stewart sings the hits


 

 

Via David McAfee

“Yes, the long war on Christianity. I pray that one day we may live in an America where Christians can worship freely! In broad daylight! Openly wearing the symbols of their religion… perhaps around their necks? And maybe — dare I dream it? — maybe one day there can be an openly Christian President. Or, perhaps, 43 of them. Consecutively.”

If the glorious church cannot entice you with grace, mercy and eternal bliss, scaring the shit out of you will


This is a trailer for a church-run haunted house in Cedar Hill, TX.

I’ve seen horror movies with less of a budget than this trailer.

What is scary? Pregnancy? Drugs?

Sure they are, in some circumstances.

I’ll give it to the church, guns are scary.

There’s a line in the voice over that indicates that it’s YOUR fault for the evil in the world.

Guilt, that manipulative bitch the church knows all too well.

Via 

Pope Mohammed and the Support Group


“All you have to do is ask Gollah,” says Pope Mohammed while turning a styrofoam cup between his fingers tips. Inside the cup, black liquid with a crescent of dark brown foam rocks as slow as syrup.

A sign on the door reads, “Colon Cancer.” Inside the room, there is a bulletin board with crayon drawings of spaceships and moon landings. Across the top, stenciled letters read, “Let’s explore space!”

Pope Mohammed is sitting in a blue plastic chair that stands 12″ inches off the ground. Pope Mohammed’s knees are near his chest. Around him are nine men and women sitting in adult-sized metal, fold-up chairs. Some have hair. Some don’t. Some are pale, gaunt, eyes sunken.

Pope Mohammed takes a sip of coffee, clears his throat and says, “All you have to do is ask Gollah, and He will give you anything you want … anything you need.”

The hum of a furnace can be heard somewhere above the group. The murmur of other support groups can be heard echoing down the hall.

Pope Mohammed says, “The word of Gollah is clear. If you pray for his healing power, you will receive it right then and there.”

The hand of a woman across from Pope Mohammed inches up. She is wearing a hat over a bald head. Her cheeks are sunken. A button on her blouse reads, “Survivor, 2.5 years”.

Pope Mohammed nods as if to recognize her hand.

She says, “Hello, Mr. Mohammed. Um. I have prayed.” She pauses. She looks at the faces of her fellow cancer victims. “I’ve prayed to Gollah for healing. I’ve prayed to him to relieve me of the hell of chemo, of daily hospital visits, of endless poking and prodding … of sickness that is mentally and physically debilitating to no end … and you tell me “ask and I will receive healing?”

“You have not been healed,” Pope Mohammed says. “Because you are a woman who is not allowed to speak in public.”

The debate in 100 seconds


 

I’m not quite sure there was a debate.

Back in college, I got a few thousand extra bucks to play on the soccer team. I was a starting freshman.

The team, unfortunately, sucked.

We got beat so badly that I would hope to get hurt so I could sub out, which apparently I sucked at.

The look on Obama’s face tonight during the debate was what I imagined mine was in college. He wants out so badly, he threw his own chances to win.

He needed to take a look at his own poster.

His children must be so not proud.