Just My Luck, God’s a Texan. . .

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Kinky    If I were as wrong about so many things as Mohammed, danged if I wouldn’t have found another job! The man could NOT write, and I mean that literally, or rather, illiterally. Hey, I just made that up. That’s your new word of the day. Anyway, where was I, oh yes, Mohammed. Anyway, he had a pretty good gig running camels across the desert, and married to a rich old lady, but then there was this cave, and an ANGEL! Oh yes, we had an angel. You know, every time someone comes up with some sexually driven nonsense they always blame it on an angel. I personally have never seen an angel, unless you count that girl I picked up at Cody’s one time, but the next day she misplaced her wings, but I’d rather not talk about that right now.      As Mo progressed toward being king of the towel heads he’d go into these rants, usually having something to do with whatever pipe dream he was chasing at the time. Think I’m lying? Check out the “Satanic Verses.” Seems there was these three girls, and, well, they lost THEIR wings, too. When caught in this cluster screw, and it didn’t make any sense to any of the other rag heads he tried to tell ’em, “The Devil made me do it.” Oh, that’s the other big trick. Any time some “prophet” gets caught with his pants down he says the “Devil” tricked him into it. DUDE! If you’re like, a PROPHET, ain’t you supposed to know what the Devil looks like? I personally think he might look like Velma Prigmore back in high school. She led more of us to sin than anyone else I know.      Anyway, Mo ate some poison goat, and about two years later he stopped prophesying, cause he was like, dead! Then the fun really started. If you think Mo was crazy just take a look at act II! There came to pass (got that line from the Book of Mormon) there was  these things called “Sayings Of Mohammed,” which loosely translated were things that were so stupid no one mentioned it during his lifetime because there was a distinct possibility of losing your mind, literally! THAT is where we get all these little jewels about what it takes to properly dance around the ol’ Kaaba, beat the devil out of the wife of your choice, AND never marry a chick before the age of five. Then there’s this image thing. Muslims don’t want anybody drawing any pictures of the prophet. Supposedly they hold to the “graven image” thing, and don’t want anyone paying more attention to anything than they do God, but then they pray in the direction of this big ol’ rock in Mecca, and hold onto another rock in Jerusalem like it was property on the Vegas Strip. You see, whenever you have “religion” you always have two sets of rules. The rules for the “equals” and the ones for the “equalizers.” Hey, there’s another new word. I’m a virtual Daniel Webster. You can’t draw Mo, but if you’re a Muzzie you gotta go and walk seven times around a big stone building in Mecca at least once in your life. Ibn Al Arabi did it, and became enameled with some girl called Nizām (see where this always goes folks?)      So, Friday we got the treat of yet another “Draw Mohammed” contest. I couldn’t make it, but I’m going to place my entry at the end of this article. Seems all these bikers showed up, though far less than the one hundred thousand expected because all those guys were headed to Waco, and held this art exhibit it right NEXT to a Mosque.  Nice touch. I mean if you want to really irritate someone just go urinate on their tomatoes, right? Well, there wasn’t any Jihad, and I don’t know who won the contest, or what the grand prize was, probably a thirty pack of Bud and an order or baby back ribs, I don’t know. The organizer went into hiding because ISIS wants to cut his head off, and other organizers are planning other venues to enlighten the great unwashed as to what Prophet Mo might have looked like. THIS is what replaced American Idol, folks.      Anyway, I’m going to submit MY entry here, and hope ISIS doesn’t come cut MY head off, but if they do, no matter, I’m not using it anyway. I don’t care WHAT Prophet Mo looked like. I’m still squabbling with a black preacher about what COLOR Jesus was. I hold to the words of the Prophet Kinky Friedman: Just my luck, God’s a Texan, one great big blankety blank Anglo Saxon, sitting up there playing with a Quigi Board . . . Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin wilbur witt

 

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