CHURCH NEWS
THERE ARE MANY HARD COCKS AHEAD, I MEAN CHOICES.
His unholiness, Archbishop JR, oilman and cleric,
now Archbishop of Canterbury.
Founded for absolutely no other spiritual or temporal reason than to facilitate the anger, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy and gluttony of syphilitic, headchopping monster, 'Enery the the Aighf, the C of E, now in its dying days, aptly represents
and promotes - the Gospels having been, like so much, hijacked by Ruin's highwaymen - frocked'n'collared, unbridled licentiousness; belligerent and impertinent Sapphism and
doesn't even try to do God, just buggery and whatever is its Sapphic equivalent. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Really, I don't.
Wishful lesbian pornography is one thing, gross Karen and grosser Caroline, Mr and Mrs-ing around the place, Karen pierced, tattooed and driving tractors like an inflated, MichelinMan version of David Archer; copping helpless babies from gaybisexualpre-optransexual freaks of nature, over indulged by a misrun health service - gender reassignment, indeed - well, Karen and Caroline, blubbermountains decked-out in manly suits for their faux wedding are too much for me, and me probably the most liberal of persons to haunt this quadrant of cyberspace.
That the C of E's mission statement is now a catechism of the sexually aberrant and bizarre - in Christian terms, at least - that its Moving with the Times agenda - as we now call bad intentions - negates everything for which it once vaguely claimed to stand; that its most strident voices sing not Hymns Ancient and Modern but Perversion's Praises, instead, well, it's all quite comedic, really, the Established church revealing itself as the overbearing, hissy freakshow its most powerful always knew it to be.
Wishful lesbian pornography is one thing, gross Karen and grosser Caroline, Mr and Mrs-ing around the place, Karen pierced, tattooed and driving tractors like an inflated, MichelinMan version of David Archer; copping helpless babies from gaybisexualpre-optransexual freaks of nature, over indulged by a misrun health service - gender reassignment, indeed - well, Karen and Caroline, blubbermountains decked-out in manly suits for their faux wedding are too much for me, and me probably the most liberal of persons to haunt this quadrant of cyberspace.
That the C of E's mission statement is now a catechism of the sexually aberrant and bizarre - in Christian terms, at least - that its Moving with the Times agenda - as we now call bad intentions - negates everything for which it once vaguely claimed to stand; that its most strident voices sing not Hymns Ancient and Modern but Perversion's Praises, instead, well, it's all quite comedic, really, the Established church revealing itself as the overbearing, hissy freakshow its most powerful always knew it to be.
I have personal reasons for asserting - insisting - that all clergypersons are beasts, unrecognised nonces, either by deed or by omission, by collusion, denial and obfuscation. If you think about it even for a minute or two - the costumes, the ritual, the incense, the falsetto chanting, the pseudo-solemnity, the intrusive power over the vulnerable
- Vicaring, like showbusiness proper, is just the sort of gig sought
by the flashy, showy predator; rubber-stamping for God the souls of the
young, the bereaved, the hospital patient, the homeless and the hungry. Zoning-in, like a heat-seeking missile on Grief's inevitability, your whoreson vicar/chaplain/priest/padre can sniff out your sorrow and stick his cock in it. Pack up your sorrows, he'll simper, and give them all to me. But he'll minister, especially, bless, to the young. Suffer the little children to come unto me.
Choirmasters and vicars, how many thousands of the fuckers were exposed by the old News of the World, week after week, year after year? And yet, still, as though we were mediaeval serfs, bishop-nonces and archbishop-nonces hiss and glide and simper among us, lording it up in palaces - y'ever see the Bishop's Palace at Bath and Wells? FuckMeJesus, they have the cheek of the Devil, the churchly princes - and, all dragged-up, sitting even in our legislature, the cheeky cunts. Fuck 'em, up against the wall with them. Take our money and property back from them, give it to the poor. We should hang up Justin by his nuts, just for his cheek.
Choirmasters and vicars, how many thousands of the fuckers were exposed by the old News of the World, week after week, year after year? And yet, still, as though we were mediaeval serfs, bishop-nonces and archbishop-nonces hiss and glide and simper among us, lording it up in palaces - y'ever see the Bishop's Palace at Bath and Wells? FuckMeJesus, they have the cheek of the Devil, the churchly princes - and, all dragged-up, sitting even in our legislature, the cheeky cunts. Fuck 'em, up against the wall with them. Take our money and property back from them, give it to the poor. We should hang up Justin by his nuts, just for his cheek.
I do not believe that homosexuality and noncing are the same thing, I do feel that the Anglican church's loving embrace of all things evolutionarily and scripturally aberrant must make it a hotbed
of unnatural carnality, the sort of environment which sees paedophilia
as part of God's rich tapestry, for Him to chastise or forgive and for
the rest of us to meekly accept.(I say that I don't conflate gayness with beasting - which would be the gravest of secular sins - and in truth I don't, but I stumble a bit when I hear Peter Tatchell, in many ways an admirable, sincere and courageous person, when I hear him call for the lowering of the age of consent for young gay men aged twelve and thirteen, a bit of a queer leap, that.)
This newest gabshite, the old Etonian evangelical,
will be entertaining in a brisk, clean-shaven sort of way but his - or anyone's - capacity to reconcile the louche, sybaritic, amoral, white, western Anglicanism with the diehard, punitive, reactionary, black African Church of England/Christ the Cannibal is so limited as to be irrelevant. The Church of Christ Sodomite and ChristCarpetMuncher is fucked, like Woolworths.
Don't ask me, chief, I'm outta here.
Cannibals, arse bandits, surplice-clad, dildo-wielding dykes in the rectory? Fuck that shit. Amen.
It will matter fuck all to Justin, of course; he will have reached the second-highest position in the God-serving career ladder - woe unto ye, ye who see contradiction in such Godless, heathenbastard, hierarchical horseshit - and that, for a gobby alpha male like Justin, is the main thing; the poor ye have with ye always, innit.
- Swing swing together,
- With your bodies between your knees.
- JR and his first lady sing the Eton rowing song for the meeja.
- We are all in this together.
will be entertaining in a brisk, clean-shaven sort of way but his - or anyone's - capacity to reconcile the louche, sybaritic, amoral, white, western Anglicanism with the diehard, punitive, reactionary, black African Church of England/Christ the Cannibal is so limited as to be irrelevant. The Church of Christ Sodomite and ChristCarpetMuncher is fucked, like Woolworths.
Don't ask me, chief, I'm outta here.
Cannibals, arse bandits, surplice-clad, dildo-wielding dykes in the rectory? Fuck that shit. Amen.
It will matter fuck all to Justin, of course; he will have reached the second-highest position in the God-serving career ladder - woe unto ye, ye who see contradiction in such Godless, heathenbastard, hierarchical horseshit - and that, for a gobby alpha male like Justin, is the main thing; the poor ye have with ye always, innit.
Perhaps we will now see, across the constitutional board, the full fruits of those with Old Etonian expertise; a fuckwit, pig-ignorant unelected prime minister presiding over the break-up of the United Kingdom, for his own electoral advantage and witty, grinning Archbishop/CEO Justin presiding over the long overdue break-up of this worldwide, Godless, money-changing, bomber-blessing, child-molesting, hypocritical, homosexual freakshow. An institution founded entirely upon one man's cleaving not to his God but to the seven deadly sins, at last reaps its reward. The mess, one might say, is over, go in peace.
