Modern Art and Diabetes

The first great triumph in the history of visual arts was when it monumentally dragged itself out of the degenerate pit of despair known as the dark ages. From that point on, artistic talent would no longer be squandered on producing Byzantine depictions of Aramaic folklore. During the Renaissance, portrayals of the Madonna and Child were largely replaced by three dimensional figures, secular subject matter, and a more accurate perspective of human existence. With the Baroque movement in Italy during the Seventeenth Century, artists finally mastered the depiction of motion in their art. During the Romantic Period, art reached a new height of beauty.

Depicted Below are some examples of the Baroque Movement. Notice the strong impression of movement in the figures.

The Hippopotamus Hunt, by Peter Paul Rubens, 1616

Judith Slaying Holofernes, by Artemisia Gentileschi, 1612

The Shooting Company of Frans Banning Cocq, by Rembrandt van Rijn, 1642

The Revolt of Cairo by Girodet, 1798

With his technically superlative depiction of the human form, French painter William-Adolphe Bouguereau was considered for a brief time to have been one of the greatest artists to have ever lived.  Theodore Gericault and Ivan Aivazovsky were also products of the Romantic Movement, and painted the Raft of the Medusa and the Ninth Wave, Respectively. 

However, at the dawn of the Twentieth Century, there was a paradigm shift in terms of what art was revered and what was brushed aside. Tragically, those artists who possessed genuine technical ability such as Bouguereau were dismissed by critics, who suddenly favoured the work of talentless charlatans such as Marcel Duchamp, Piet Mondrian, and Jackson Pollock. While Bouguereau and Gericault were looked down upon as exemplifying elitist and Bourgeoisie taste, Pollock, Duchamp, and their ilk were praised for their daring ingenuity and abstract ideas. While the artists mentioned above went to great lengths to express beauty and might in their artwork, modern artists went to great lengths to express nothing at all. A notable attribute possessed by many of these modern artists is the disregard for the subject and content in their crafts.

This disregard for subject in modern artwork is epitomized in the movement known as abstract expressionism. This putrid ideology conjectures that one paints using their subconscious. Wherever you feel like flicking paint, etching chalk, smearing ink or splashing glue is entirely contingent upon one’s mood or arbitrary postulate of the given moment. The blind praise of this filth among the art community is responsible for the destruction of contemporary art and the decline in its technical proficiency over the last century or so. Just like writing a book, contriving a piece of music, or building a house, the creation of a piece of artwork demands a process of forethought, deliberation, and precise execution. Art is a discipline that requires more than one’s irrational whims and urges of the given moment. The artist must have a clear image of what he intends to portray (the subject), and how he is to go about portraying it (the medium). Nobody sane would want to live in a house that was created by the same process that Jackson Pollock produced one of his paintings. No one would ever want to read a book written by some unreasonable fool who insisted upon scribbling down whichever disconnected words sprung into his psyche as he was writing. Then why would anyone regard the likes of Jackson Pollock to be anything more than the deep, yawning chasm devoid of artistic talent that his paintings would suggest him to be?

The Subject is that which the artist seeks to depict through their artwork. As their subject, many great artists have chosen to depict heroic figures, enthralling landscapes, or scenes of glory, strength, and triumph (see the artwork above). However, when it comes to most modern art, including abstract expressionism, artists now see fit to depict the ugly, the sickening, deformed, weak, twisted, and the bland; producing what Ayn Rand called crawling specimens of depravity.  For instance, Willem de Kooning’s disfigured portraits of women epitomize this degenerate regard for the human form. The subject of Marcel Duchamp’s critically acclaimed work The Fountain is just a urinal placed on a pedestal. One would have to be functioning at the lowest base operations of their cerebral capacity in order to consider Duchamp or de Kooning artists who are comparable to those truly committed to the discipline.

During the Renaissance, the ability to accurately depict the form of the human body in a piece of artwork was a highly valued skill. Artists such as Michelangelo and Leonardo de Vinci trained strenuously for decades in order to produce the awe-inspiring artwork for which today they are renowned. The decisive coordination necessary to perfectly depict the proportions of the human body has been ameliorated for millennia. Nowadays, because this technical ability is no longer regarded as essential for creating art, the standards of talent set by critics have significantly dropped. Extensive dedication and self-discipline are no longer traits possessed by modern society’s artists. Any mentally-deficient individual with a writing implement and a canvas may contrive a widely-praised piece of artwork, just as long as the subject he conveys is ambiguous or mediocre enough not to offend modern sensitivities.

Some crawling specimens of Depravity/modern art

A Painting by Jackson Pollock

A Painting by Willem de Kooning

Marcel Duchamp’s urinal 

Modern art by Pablo Picasso

Another facet of modern art that deserves some final consideration is graffiti. Just like the Duchamp exhibition of his urinal, graffiti relies in its abuse of medium at the expense of substance in order to provoke a reaction from its audience. Some may argue this point by attempting to prove deep substantial content in the work produced by a graffiti artist like Banksy. Although Banksy’s paintings do exhibit some minimal artistic content, the message they allude to is largely political or ideological in nature. Art that is created for the sake of conveying any kind of political or moral agenda is at its essence little more than propaganda. While the work of Banksy may not be as aesthetically revolting as that of the abstract expressionists, the concept of graffiti and the means in which it is presented to its audience is less than honest. Banksy would never be as popular as he is now if he had presented his work on paper or canvas instead of defacing private property. The full analysis of the ethical implications of Banksy’s vandalism has been discussed in a previous post.

The German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel once spoke of the death of art. Hegel believed that once art had passed through several crucial stages in its history, its evolution would become stagnant and it could not develop any further. If one considers the progression of contemporary art from the dark ages towards the present day, it is not difficult to make such a conclusion. Indeed, there has been an acute regression of talent, beauty, and overall composition in most art since the mid nineteenth century. Hegel lived at the height of the Romantic period in art, and it is remarkable that he could have had such accurate foresight into the fate of the artistic discipline.

The Aesthetic height of art was arguably during the Romantic Movement, and then declined sharply in the mid twentieth century. The world is not without some competent artists today, however they have generally been disregarded by mainstream tastes. Today, the fashion in art is to exploit the medium of artistic presentation at the expense of its content and substance. This is particularly true in abstract, minimalist, postmodern, and most avant-garde art. Technical ability and forethought are not traits that are revered in the production of these so-called art forms. However, humans require a certain aesthetic standard when appreciating art. One is not fulfilled at the sight of a Jackson Pollock painting as they would to behold a piece of artwork created by a logical process of creativity and self discipline. Abstract art may be appreciated but never truly respected. In this sense it is like artistic sugar. One who over consumes sugar will be rewarded with type 2 Diabetes. Likewise, one who claims to enjoy abstract or minimalist art will never truly be aesthetically fulfilled. It is as though they have given themselves diabetes by consuming saccharine, pseudo-artistic trash. This condition has blinded flatterers of modern art from ever appreciating true beauty. Art should never be gruesome, provocative, or minimalist for its own sake. There must be content and purpose in artwork in order to truly appreciate it.

Hegel was entirely correct in his prediction that art would die after the Romantic Era. Where a society can praise the antics of Jackson Pollock at the expense of those who produce real substantive art-- that society has failed to uphold any kind of aesthetic standard. A civilization that glorifies the mediocre will inevitably become mediocre itself.

Hang Banksy

The world-renowned criminal and street artist known only as Banksy has been active painting the streets of London and elsewhere with his nauseating brand of stencil-craft for more than two decades now. One would be hard-pressed to determine the precise monetary toll that this charlatan’s vandalism has inflicted upon London’s graffiti removal budget as of present. For those unacquainted with Banksy, some commonly-flaunted examples of his work include the painting of the protestor throwing a bouquet of flowers (depicted below), the image showing a young girl frisking down a soldier, and a large nude man hanging onto a windowsill. His work exemplifies the kind of post-modernist pseudo-art that would have William Bouguereau convulsing in his tomb. Banksy’s paintings can barely be considered art, but merely a sad agglomeration of provocative symbolism and vaguely correlated political and corporate imagery. His civil-disobedience has earned him the admiration of many leftist goons and liberal arts students. Fortunately, there are some who still regard Banksy as the criminal he is. Political inclinations aside, there is no ethical justification for what he does. The deliberate destruction or defacement of someone’s stuff is a crime and his actions convey no regard whatsoever for the institution of private property. His craft is an eyesore upon the city. His message provokes neither thought, nor consideration—just vomit. When this miscreant is finally unmasked (and he will be), he shall be subject to the most swift and unmerciful of judicial procedures.

From his defacement of the West Bank wall, to his desecration of a sexual health clinic in Bristol, the most glaring injustice perpetrated by this individual is his disregard and vandalism of private and government property. The institution of private property is not merely some kind of capitalist plot to undermine human innocence. Its purpose is to ensure that one’s material assets are not at the mercy of the first thug who wishes to destroy them or take them away. Every human being has an obligation to respect the physical property of others and no circumstance or condition may override this obligation. A burglar who breaks into your house and smashes you crystal chandelier is not justified in doing so as an act of free expression. Likewise, it could hardly be argued that a bigot who paints a swastika in blood on one’s front door is just exercising his right to free speech. Then why is a common vandal with a few stencils and some spray paint so revered for defacing the property of business owners and governments? Why is this nonsense allowed to persist? One could not conceivably propose an ethical justification for Banksy’s graffiti without disregarding the universal right to personal property.

The overwhelming support for the actions of this criminal come from Banksy’s fellow miscreants and angsty revolutionaries who identify with his ambiguous, yet anti-capitalist inclinations. It is evident from observing his graffiti, that Banksy is a fervent adherent to the  leftist agenda. The man has a stick up his ass when it comes to issues such as globalization, profit motive, rich people, industrialization, factory farming, and fast food, among other things. Not only is Banksy a hypocrite for demonstrating against such things as industrialization and capitalism, but he is disregarding some fundamental facts about reality and the world in which man inhabits. Take his two paintings depicted below for example. Both contain strong implications that industrialization is undesirable as it has replaced a landscape of trees, meadows, and parks with highways, parking lots, and factories. However, this is just impractical idealism, as urbanity is merely the most convenient and efficient means for large densely populated communities to survive. The paint Banksy uses, the clothes he presumably wears, and the affluent dwelling in which he inhabits were all created by a process made possible by industrialization.

Fast food may be disgusting, but many people would be unwilling to give up the convenience of cheap/fast service at the expense of some loosely defined moral ideologies such as those that Banksy’s paintings allude to. Likewise, most people (likely including Banksy himself) would also be unwilling to forfeit all the luxuries and amenities that globalization has brought them at the expense of an environmental or subjective moral initiative. Thus, Banksy is not merely an undesirable for his destruction of property, but also for his dissemination of irrational views of existence.

Considering the immense public support for his lowly incursions, Banksy’s actions will most likely encourage copycats if he is not made an example of. It ought to be communicated to his ilk that defacement of private property and distasteful displays of art are not to be tolerated by a society that already allows free speech and an open marketplace of ideas. It goes without saying that Banksy’s art would not be as popular, nor would it have sold for thousands of dollars if it was not presented in such a dishonest, shameless fashion. In order that we rid society of its lowest contingents—so-called graffiti-artists, Banksy ought to be hung by his neck in Trafalgar Square. This method of deterrent has already proven successful throughout the course of history by reducing the conviction rate of witchcraft and piracy. Perhaps Banksy’s bloated and rotting corpse will send a duly-needed message to any further aspiring vandals.

Al Roker and the Lexicon of Tomorrow

Although by no means do I consider myself interested in nor acquainted with the culinary arts, my eye happened to stumble upon a copy of Al Roker’s The Big Bad Book of Barbecue while browsing the public library. It was not Mr. Roker’s venture down the avenue of literature that provoked my inquiry, but rather the crudely-contrived title of The Big Bad Book of Barbecue that was of particular interest to me. The context of the word Bad used in the book title represents a growing trend in the modern English lexicon concerning how certain adjectives are used in proportion to their intended definitions. I am sure that Mr. Roker, a popular TV meteorologist turned food connoisseur, does not intend for his readers to believe that his book is terrible or bad in any sense, but rather appeals to this aforementioned trend in order to satisfy the alliteration contained within its title and to perpetuate the reckless and disobedient stereotype associated with the demographic of individuals who eat grilled food.

There are those of us who continue to use the word bad for its intended definition, which denotes something to be of poor quality, inferior, or defective. Then, there are those such as Mr. Roker, who would prefer to use the word in reverse proportion to its intended meaning. Such negligent use of adjectives is part of what contributes to the downfall of the English language. The ocean of language is truly shaped by those individuals who use it, and thus stands to be desecrated or even destroyed at the hands of whoever poisons its precious waters with their illogical nonsense.

The existence of a word which represents both an idea and its own antithesis is a fundamentally illogical notion. The word bad has come to represent in colloquial dialogue, the polar opposite of its dictionary definition (as observed in the title of the aforementioned book, and in the common idioms badass, and bad to the bone), and is thus a contradiction of terms.  Consider if I were to use the word hot in order to refer to a boiling pot of stew. Only a fool would assume that by using the word hot, I actually meant cold and then proceed to eat a large spoonful of said stew, scalding his palette profusely. A differentiation between the words hot and cold is necessary in language simply because both words represent two respective ideas. The use of the word bad, thus representing the antonym ideas of both inferior and desirable is an illogical and poisonous notion in any language.

Therefore, just as Aristotle would scarcely be remembered today if he had published The Big Bad Book of Metaphysics, I would encourage Al Roker to consider naming his next incursion into the literary arts in more accurate proportion to the content found therein. 

The Denizens of Gethsemane

1.

Thousands of years ago, in the northern regions of present-day Palestine, there was a town called Galilee. In a small, mud brick house on the outskirts of Galilee lived two humans named Mary and Joseph. They were engaged to be married and were fervent religious adherents. Mary and Joseph had few friends, namely their neighbours Elizabeth and Zachariah, with whom they often talked and drank wine. According to some obsolete and archaic tradition, Mary and Joseph, had never fucked each other because their nuptial bonds had yet to be tied. Of course, innocent Virgin Mary didn’t mind her seemingly boring celibate existence, as much of her teenage years had been spent singing with birds and baking pies. However, Joseph lived in perpetual agony. Joseph would lie awake many nights of the week on his tick-infested straw mattress trying not to think of how much longer he needed to wait to fuck her. He was consumed by pulsating sentiments of bestial lust whenever he gazed upon her tits or her ass, knowing that it was only a little while longer before they were his.  There came a day when Joseph reached a breaking point. He told himself when he saw her ass on a really good angle when she genuflected at the temple one morning:

“I’m going to fuck Mary today!”

Joseph knew of an old, homeless cynic who lived on the shores of the River Jordan. He disregarded wealth and status and fulfilled his dietary obligation by feeding upon locusts and honeycombs. He usually wore a cloth of bearskin and from time to time, locals knew him to baptize unsuspecting people in the River Jordan. The whispers that Joseph heard around the marketplaces in Galilee led him to believe that this man  could help him bust his nut into Mary. He came upon him one day bathing nude in the River Jordan.

The cynic didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular but seemed to be captivated by an object that may have been right in front of him. The man grabbed at the air before his face- Joseph knew that he was drunk. Joseph watched him bath naked in the river and yell obscenities at passersby. Locals named him John the Baptist.

John waded to the shore and approached Joseph after a few minutes and knew immediately what it was Joseph sought from him. He retrieved a small burlap sack of psilocybin mushrooms and gave them onto Joseph. John said to him,

“Feed these unto thine beloved and she will succumb to a hypnotic fervour which shall submit her to your every suggestion.”

Later that evening, during the last supper of their celibate lives, Joseph put the fungi into Mary’s meal. To his surprise, she consumed the whole bag of mushrooms without noticing them. She began to betray her submission to the effects of the tryptamines about half an hour later and he began loosening his rags. Through the onset of her trip, Mary’s eyes were trained on her fiancé, with an odd, drug-induced perplexity, empty of all intent.

“Who are you?”

Joseph panicked. Standing nude and erect before her, he rummaged through his psyche trying to satisfy his wife’s peculiar question.

“My name is umm, Gabriel! Do not be afraid, Mary; I intend to do you no harm.”

“Are you really Gabriel? Your wings are awfully small!”

“My wings?”

He remembered that she was most likely hallucinating.

“Yes, I am an angel of God, my name is Gabriel. God sent me here to, uh, examine you.”

                He started undressing her rags. For the past 25 years of his miserable virgin life, Joseph had been waiting for this very moment. Mary seemed so much more sexually enthralling than any of the times he had seen her clothed. They fucked furiously for hours on Joseph’s straw mattress, frightening away all the household pests in doing so. It was moist passion. After he had ejaculated into Mary several times, he contemplated the possibility that he may have inadvertently impregnated her.

“Mary, The Lord Yahweh has instructed me to dowse you with his holy sperm as part of his heavenly insemination program. You may bear the son of God in about 9 months. This is non-negotiable.”

“Oh yes Gabriel! Thank the lord for he is good, for his lovingkindness is everlasting. Let the redeemed of the lord say so, whom he has redeemed from the hand of the adversary!”

“What the fuck are you talking about Mary?

“Did I pass the examination Gabriel?”

“What? Oh yeah, you pass.”

Joseph’s intuition had been correct. Mary eventually came down from the mushroom trip and after about 5 months, her expanding womb began to betray signs of pregnancy. He was frightened at what the gossipy Pharisees at the marketplace should whisper once it had been made general knowledge of his wife’s pre-marital child-bearing. They hid in shame. The rapist made the necessary arrangements for the two of them to flee to the nearby city of Bethlehem once the child was to be born.

2.

When the time had come for Mary to give birth to her rape-conceived bastard child, the couple gathered together what meagre possessions they had and fled their mud house in Galilee on a donkey to Bethlehem. In a bizarre twist of circumstance, Mary’s neighbour Elizabeth had been pregnant at about the same time, and being at the whim of various unpredictable hormone fluctuations, was unable to keep secret the word about Mary’s fertilization, which spread faster than the fire that consumed non-believers. Elizabeth later gave birth to a boy she named John.

It was about the time at which Mary and Joseph reached their destination that word of mouth concerning their bastard baby ascended up to the throne of one Herod the Great, King of Judea. King Herod the Great was a psychopathic, megalomaniacal pedophile and a false king; known by his people as an insane puppet ruler ripe with political corruption. Evidently, he was not warmly taken by the news about the couple whose child had been conceived out of wedlock, so he ordered three of his opium-inebriated assassins to travel to Bethlehem and apprehend the bastard child so that he could fulfill his depraved desires upon him. However, once the three assassins had come down off the opium and had run out of wine, they found themselves lost hopelessly in the desert, having been chasing after stars for two weeks.

Mary and Joseph had come to Bethlehem in the midst of its tourist season, which filled up all the local hotels, inns, hostels, and boarding houses with an unsavoury flavour of Thracians and Armenians. There was not one suitable place in the whole city for the couple to stay, so their son was birthed into a swine’s feeding trough. The baby was not well. Due to a combination of being born into a bacteria-ridden slop puddle, and possessing the extensive medical knowledge common to bronze-age desert serfs as his sole means of thwarting off illness, Jesus of Nazareth, as he would come to be known, developed a plethora of infectious diseases; among them, a prevalence of both syphilis and gonorrhoea. Furthermore, despite being born to Levantine parents, Jesus appeared mysteriously Caucasian. Once he had reached adulthood, Jesus became a carpenter by trade. He had very few friends and spent much of his time in his parent’s basement whittling cedar dildos.

One day, in an attempt for some privacy with Mary, Joseph demanded that his thirty-year-old son leave their home so that he could make his own living. Lonely and rejected, Jesus walked along the shoreline of the River Jordan when he heard an unknown voice calling out his name. He saw a man jumping around gaily in the water, yelling at passersby and making obscene gestures.

“You there! The long-haired, neck-bearded bastard!”

Curious, Jesus walked down to the tide and confronted the crazy old man. The man was covered in thick mud and bearskin and was snacking on a handful of honeycomb. He motioned for Jesus to wade out towards him. Before he was able to introduce himself, the man grabbed Jesus by his long hair and dunked his head beneath the murky water. When he let go, Jesus sprung back up, gasping heavily for air.

“Hahaha! You ought to thank me for baptizing you Jesus! I’ve been preaching to all these good people for years about the day you would finally emerge from your solitude and come see me!”

The man motioned with his hand to the bystanders watching along the shoreline.

“You should know, I was acquainted with your father Joseph. It was I that gave him the drugs which resulted in your conception.”

Jesus was perplexed. He looked deep into the crazy man’s eyes.

“Wait, aren’t you John the Baptist? Son of Elizabeth and Zachariah? How could you possibly have been around before I was born to have met my father?”

John the Baptist let out a deep, bellowing laugh. He took another bite of his honeycomb and rested his right arm around Jesus’ shoulder.

“Jesus, my friend, you are over-analyzing things! You mustn’t interpret what you hear so literally. This is all occurs on a biblical timeline after all-- shit doesn’t need to make sense!”

The both of them shared a hearty, friendly chuckle, and what John had left of his drug stash. Jesus and John made their way back to Jesus’ house, where they laid with one another.  John, who was already in possession of just about any venereal infection known to man, didn’t seem aversive to Jesus’ bloody ejaculations or his grotesquely deformed genitalia.

3.

“Jesus, do you want to go to an awesome party tonight? One of my mushroom dealers is marrying this girl in a town just a few miles over called Cana. From what he’s been telling me, there should be a ton of liquor and supple, young boys there.”

Jesus agreed to go to the wedding.

“You’ll have to meet these guys Jesus, they’re fucking crazy, man!”

“But do they uphold the scriptures?”

“Do they uphold the scriptures? Shit they do! You’ve never seen anybody as Jewish as these guys, but they’re crazy man! They do tons of drugs and fuck tons of girls too. There’s Peter, and Luke, and Bartholomew, and fuck man, I’d be hard-pressed to list them all, but you’ll meet them all at the wedding!.”

Excitedly, Jesus put his rags back on.

 His father then burst into the room, chasing him and John back outside.

“Don’t ever fucking come back here Jesus! You and your sick little boyfriend can go live elsewhere! I and your mother didn’t raise you to be a drug addict!”

Mary was weeping heavily and screaming incoherently at the two men and then to her husband. Joseph took her into his arms and she slammed the hut door behind them.

Jesus and John travelled the tens miles to nearby Cana; which they walked because they weren’t pussies like people living in the 21^st century. He met John’s eleven other friends at the wedding reception. They feasted on the lavish cuisine and wine that was offered to the guests until all of it was consumed. The other guests, who were all still sober and hungry, began to clamour for their removal if Jesus and his friends could not compensate for the wine that they stole. He gathered his twelve disciples in the restroom. John had been eating mushrooms during the whole ordeal and was now so disassociated from reality that he was barely able to maintain an upright composure. Matthew, James, and Judas Iscariot had all been quite inebriated from drinking cheap wine and happened to be vomiting on some of the other guests, fomenting a climactic insurrection. Jesus knew exactly what to do.

“My friends, there is no need for us to leave; I’ll have these vases filled with wine in seconds.”

One of the men among them, Thomas spoke thusly,

“I don’t believe you Jesus! You’re bullshiting us! I doubt you! How are you going to get the wine?

“Please, just turn around, all of you for like one minute!”

The men did as Jesus had commanded them. Iscariot collapsed drunk on the restroom floor. Jesus then proceeded to urinate into all three of the wine vases. When the apostles turned around to see that the vases had been filled up, they were much too drunk and high to have questioned that the bloody, gonorrhoea-infected piss could have been anything else but wine.

Jesus and his friends burst monumentally back into the reception hall, carrying the giant clay vases on their heads. The Canaanites, who had grown desperate to consume the smallest bit of alcohol, chugged  the swirling froth of disease and all became intoxicated from the ammonia. John introduced him to all his acquaintances at the party, who praised Jesus for his “water into wine” trick, as they called it.

4.

One of Jesus’ least repugnant disciples, a strapping young lad by the name of Peter Simon had acquainted himself with 2 young female parishioners named Martha and Mary (no relation whatsoever with Jesus’ mother) at the Cana reception, along with 2 of her friends. Having met them in such a hopelessly intoxicated state, managed to arrange for himself, Jesus, Matthew, and Luke to participate in an epic eightsome with the four young ladies (unbeknownst to  the apostles, one of the four, Lazarus,  was merely a very convincing transvestite). John, having been offered to go with them, had declined because he was really, really gay. Jesus was bisexual.

The women with whom they were about to lay lived in a small house in the neighbouring village of Bethany. Bethany was a small, desolate space with few landmarks and inhabitants. “This is perfect”. Said Jesus, ”There’s nobody around for miles. We can make as much ruckus as we want.”

Once they arrived at the home of Mary and Martha-- a small wooden hut at the summit of an olive valley, Mary and Lazarus opened fresh bottles of wine. Peter Simon produced a bag of cannabis he had purchased from a gang of Scythians days prior. A fantastic and bombastic time was had at the orgy by all. The writhing mass of bodies, glistening with perspiration fornicated for what seemed to them like days; each constituent thrashing limb appeared indistinguishable from one another in the fornicating flock of Christ.

Lazarus, who was the brother of Mary, had joined in the sexual escapades against the advice of Bethany’s medicine man, having warned him/her than any aggressive sexual activity could potentially aggravate his/her heart condition. Evidently, this was to be the case, as the misshapen cross-dresser collapsed lifeless upon the ground after a good hour of alcohol-fuelled fellatio. His/her sister was traumatized.

“Please Help Lazarus! He’s not breathing! Matthew, seriously, get that fucking thing out of my ass! My brother is not breathing!”

“Your brother?”

She began frantically pressing down on his chest. Lazarus did not wake. Jesus motioned Mary away and took hold of her brother.

“I believe I know what the problem is.”

He turned Lazarus onto his stomach.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing Jesus? What if you hurt him more than he already is?”

“Positive, Your brother isn’t the first person to choke on one of my cedar dildos!”

Jesus recoiled his fist and then shot it directly into the deviant’s spinal column, dislodging the giant 10-inch dildo that had obstructed his/her breathing. Lazarus coughed up some cum and some phlegm and thanked Jesus for raising him/her from the dead.

“There. Problem solved.”

5.

It was not until several weeks later, did the good news about Jesus’ resuscitation of the filthy freak Lazarus make its way back to the party guests in Cana. Due to the absence of mainstream media in the lonely bronze-age, exaggerations and hyperboles that had been contrived from the tale of Jesus travelling from party guest to party guest went unexamined. Some said that he was divine; others alleged that he healed lepers and the blind. Some said that he was even the son of Yahweh the most high! A modest cult following arose shortly thereafter, proudly upholding the divinity of the one they called Jesus of Nazareth (the plebeian class had little else to do with their lives back then). Idiots and inbred fools congregated like insects at the sermons and meetings of the cult, all eager to profess their own unfounded claims of the alleged miracles witnessed by the rape-conceived bastard of Nazareth. 

The Pharisees had reiterated countless times that Yahweh alone was God and it was blasphemy to propose that there could be any before him. In the eyes of the Sadducees and the Pharisees, and of a county preacher in particular named Caiaphas, this Jesus fellow was naught but a divergence of their duly-earned attention. Those of the spiritually enlightened demographic had always regarded Jesus Christ as the false idol he was. Like their hero Moses, who had smashed the golden calf on the summit of Mount Sinai in the harsh, yet enduring tales of the Old Testament, there was no question about what had to be done to rid the earth of such idols. In a petty attempt to wash their hands of the nomadic sodomite of Nazareth, the Pharisees had devised a plan with the compliance of the Roman Government to put an end to this heretic cult for good.

Judas Iscariot had not been on friendly terms with Jesus lately. He had contracted syphilis from him at some point during the past few weeks and was cross about not being invited to his orgy in Bethany. Caiaphas, who was known by his devote congregation as a disgruntled old celibate who hated life, bore a particular disdain for Jesus and saw Judas’ wavering loyalty to work very much in his favour. Judas was offered 30 pieces of silver, an offer he could not possibly refuse considering his immense poverty, to turn his former associate over into the hands of the Roman Government. Iscariot later spent the money on some crack, got high and hung himself on a tree out in the desert because he was smoking extremely potent crack and it gave him paranoia. Caiaphas, having finally captured Jesus, took him before the office of the mighty Pontius Pilate, governor of something.

“Sir, I have brought before you a man who refuses to pay taxes unto Caesar and claims he is King of the Jews!”

Unfortunately for Jesus, Caiaphas and his centurion bodyguard had arrested him in the midst of the autophagous orgy which  he orchestrated with his disciples. He cut pieces of his flesh off with and knife and instructed his followers to eat it. They drank his blood and bowed before his knees, surrendering their wills to him. It was a dirty and disgusting affair that had drained Jesus of enough blood to have impaired his judgement. He would have died had Caiaphas not stopped the bleeding in time.

“Are you King of the Jews as this man claims?”

Jesus fumbled around. He did not answer him.

“I will ask you a final time, are you the King of the Jews? Son of David the most high?”

“It is as they claim.”

Pilate was aghast. There was not a man in all of Bethlehem who would dare not cower in sheer inferiority before the presence of Pontius Pilate. He had men put to death over nothing.

“You Blasphemer! You Heretic! You and all your disgusting friends shall be subject to the most excruciating punishments conceivable! Caiaphas, take this scoundrel away and nail him to a piece of wood for misleading the religious inclinations of my people—such is the punishment for false profits. I only pray that misled fools will forget your name in a thousand years from now, though I’m sure that this Christianity you’ve inspired, being no more than a passing fad, shall be lost to the history books forever. Those plebeians you’ve inspired with your despicable nonsense and unsanitary rituals will die and leave no word or influence upon future generations, so I pray. ”

Jesus, still very much intoxicated from the blood loss, did not fully understand what the governor was saying, and when he was taken away by a guard of Roman centurions and crucified, he was in no state of mind to resist their punishment and fight back.

When Jesus was taken away, Pilate turned to his historian.

“When all this is said and done, make the history books seems as though I was a nice guy in the midst of this whole affair. Write that I tried to give that Jesus character a chance.”

6.

After Jesus’ death upon the cross, Pontius Pilate ensured that all of Jesus’ apostles suffered a similar fate that he did. John was beheaded and two thousand years later, the portrait of his severed head was used as the cover art of Cryptopsy’s None So Vile album (a landmark release in the genre of death metal that is mandatory listening to all who have not had the fortune of doing so already). Peter, also having been crucified, requested that his cross be hung upside down because Peter was a fucking hipster and had decreed that upright crosses were far too mainstream.

Three days after Jesus was buried in a tomb, a necrophiliac by the name of Barabbas dug up his half-decomposed corpse and had his way with it. The Christians however, did not desist in their blind worship of the fornicating carpenter, and proposed that the disappearance of his corpse was proof that their master has raised from the dead and ascended into heaven. Much to the plight of Caiaphas and Pontius Pilate, the cult of Christianity did not dissolve, in fact after Christ’s execution; the following grew stronger thanks to the glorious Justinian I. Every Springtime to this very day, they still celebrate the ascension of Jesus into heaven and look forward with meek anticipation to the day when he will return once again to forgive their trespasses and fuck them all in the ass.

Amen.

Incursions

Napoleon Bonaparte: So George I hear your country needs my assistance with your military campaigns?

George W. Bush: Yes Napoleon, come in and sit down. I’ve just had the oval office reupholstered with the taxpayer’s money. They think it’s gone to fund our drinking water purification initiative, but nobody will be the wiser. In my hands I carry the most flawless battle strategies ever devised by man. I plan to carry them out on our new campaigns in the middle-east.

Napoleon: Ah, so you’re finally going to quell those miscreants in Israel are you?

George Bush: Better yet—we’re going to invade Iraq!

Napoleon: Wait, what? That shithole? Why?

George Bush: Hey, hear me out alright? I was up until 3 in the morning configuring the fine-tuned aspects of this most genius plan of mine.

Napoleon: Okay George, what are you doing in Iraq?

George Bush: Well first, we’re going to run bombing raids over Baghdad in order to establish a good resistance to our occupation. You know; we don’t want this to be too easy now.

Napoleon: Okay...then what?

George Bush: Then we siphon their oil supply and subvert all the profits back to the United States!

Napoleon: That sounds incredibly malicious and unethical George, even for a war. I’m not sure I want any part in this.

George Bush: Wait! It gets even better. While we loot their natural resources, we’ll train a few of the local police under the guise that we’re there to promote peace and stability.

Napoleon: George, I really don’t see why any of this is necessa...

George Bush: Hold on, I’m not done yet. Next, we’ll blow up some of our own troops—you know, to make sure our guns work properly. Then we turn them onto the civilian populace. I’m talking complete devastation here Napoleon; photographs upon photographs of US soldiers posing with their bullet-ridden corpses, mosques and coffee house gutted and burned to the ground. We’ll patrol the streets everyday to instil fear into the hearts of the Iraqi people! Ha-ha! That will show them the almighty power of the United States of America!

Napoleon: Wait, you’re going to patrol your armies down the streets of an enemy country? That doesn’t sound wise. Didn’t you guys learn your lesson in Vietnam that that’s no way to fight a war? Even if they lack the manpower to fight you back, your unwelcome presence there could rouse suicide bombers and insurgencies.

George Bush: We’ll keep our fingers crossed and hope that doesn’t happen. Anyways, I’ve considered that this Incursion is going to make me extremely unpopular with my electorates back home, so here’s what I’m going to do: I’ll hire one of my black henchman to run for office under the false premise that he will end the war, but once he gets elected, I’ll be free to keep the war going for another four years after both my terms are up.

Napoleon: I’m sorry George, but this plan of yours is convoluted and fucking nonsensical. I will have no part in it. How long do you expect to keep this facade going on for?

George Bush: I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. Maybe ten or fifteen years—twenty if the American people are stupid enough to elect my black henchman for another term thereafter.

Napoleon: Goddamn! I conquered Egypt in fucking 5 days! I defeated the entire Prussian army and became Emperor of France and you can’t defeat some lowly peasants armed with nailbombs?! Fuck, people in the twenty-first century are fucking stupid as hell. I’m going back to being dead now. Bye.