For lo, the beautifully brained Saint Donovan righteously and profoundly schooled the blasphemers, and my spirit was greatly troubled. Forsooth, few actually read the scriptures of our great faith. Actually, I didn’t even know we had any. When alas at last I saw the horrid book that has been bilked upon the people, by the false prophet Bobius the son of Hender, as the will and word of the Great and Delicious Flying Spaghetti Monster, I was filled with the holy rage of the Invisible Pink Unicorn.
Which is just exactly like the Holy Spirit except besides being invisible, she’s pink. And she wears a penis metaphor on her head. (So when those heretics called “Christians” say the Holy Spirit impregnated Mary, you may now understand their full true meaning…only those who know the correct secret handshake are told the real deal on that, therefore by logical necessity you now know that correct secret handshake. Religion is magic. Praise be! But no, the worriers worry for naught. Mary wasn’t injured by the horned sex play. When the IPU rage-fucked a rainbow in a bar alley she learned all about being gentle after Dr. Who explained it to her. Who then dropped her off in ancient Judea. I mean, honestly. Everyone knows this.)
I digress. Return shall I now to the tale of true. At once I was carried up into heaven. (Once is a pet rock in my garden.) Now, I mean by my words that I speak the actual heaven. Not the false one imagined by the horrid son of Hender. No, really. You just have to take the red pill. Well, actually, it’s orange and barrel shaped. Orange Sunshine. Anyway. I was there Touched by His Noodly Appendage, as one is, and was telescentedly instructed in the Truth.
Know ye not what I intend? Scentic is the language of intelligent Cats made out of smells, and as that was learned by Cloister the Stupid, and as I am smarter than Cloister the Stupid, by logical necessity I must know Scentic as well, so Monster [I call him Monster; we're close now] spoke to me in Scentic, albeit telepathically. Hence, telescentically.
Again I digress. Hereto I shall translate what was revealed unto me, into the language that is called English, which uses fussy patterns of photon absences on a glowing plane, often made of a crystal that is liquid (and you thought a unicorn being invisible and pink was an oxymoron…yet if a crystal can be a liquid, a unicorn with no color can obviously be pink. U just bn scienced!)
The words of His Sauciness render in that bizarre tongue of “English” as follows:
Outrage! We have no beer volcanoes here. You fool! It would be all sticky everywhere. Think ye not that I am efficient at keeping Heaven tidy? We have calm and well-tidy pools of every imbibement, even eternal single malt scotch, brewed yet more fantastical than the magical Glenmorangie, which on earth, I now reveal to you, is brewed by the secret immortal ancestors of noted surgeon and horror novelist (sometimes actor) Garth Marenghi, in an other-dimensional valley just outside Bournemouth, all of whom are sorcerers and magical talking rabbits, whose highest commandment is ‘thou shalt not genetically engineer crabs to be as big as men’. Wise words indeed.
It even offends me the more that this false prophet, son of Hender, is to all his damnation mistaken when he, not knowing Scentic, misinterpreted “stripper factories,” knowing he not, evidently, that a stripper is a chemical that breaks down paints and finishes for the cleaning of metals and woods.
I spake in fact that in Heaven our stripper factories produce only mild, eco-friendly strippers. It is that only which I celebrated. Son of Hender perverted my words! (May the burning of the Cheese upon his oral fissure chastise him!)
Ho, indeed, when We truly spake that other sense of the word stripper, that being a woman or man or genderless being (this being Heaven, thou getst any body thou wants) who dances with the removing of clothes, We said strippers (as well as models, porn stars, hookers, sexologists, biologists, and every other kind of professional woman, or man, why, lo, even novelists) served in heaven as our presidents and legislators and doctors and authors and teachers and professors and wives and husbands and boat mechanics and every such thing, and perform the stripping of clothes only for their own personal delight or the consensual exchange of labors.
There were many other great things He told me besides these. But I got distracted by the strippers, which were really amazingly bodacious…I didn’t even need to wear gloves or respirators when employing them, and the byproduct was consumable and tasted like Orangina. Why couldn’t He have given us such strippers on earth? In his infinite wisdom, only He knows. (An infinite wisdom is a kind of kitten-drawn chariot.)
Perhaps others will be blessed with visits to the Ramen heaven and see spake the truths of what I hereby dub Reformed Pastafarianism, and lo, assemble a free and complete bible of many diverse voices, and none false. It shall be the New Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or just “Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” or “Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Reformed)” or (as Dr. Who assures us it will soon be called as well), Reformed Pastafarianism.
Why should we not? The Christians realized Catholicism was fucked up eleven ways to Sunday and nailed ninety-five sentences to a door. And peace and happiness was forevermore. That all worked out. So I declare it shall work for my faith in the Great Pasta and Balls in the Sky as well. My faith in Him on a scale of 1 to 10 is 0 but since 0 is a number and a number is a quantity, I clearly have a quantity of faith in the FSM. Why, indeed, 0 is infinitely small, and infinity is the largest quantity. I therefore have the largest quantity of faith in the FSM. So, I vow, do you.
Down with the blasphemers and false scriptures.
I hereby declare the New Reformed Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
My Little Ponies accepted.