Dale Malloy of Fort Worth Texas Writes a Letter to the God of the Mormons

Dear Mormon God,

According to the internet

You don’t like blacks or browns

You led Joe to the dessert

And you said to build a town

From there you dispatch messengers

On bikes and wearing ties

They smile and act politely

Like a bunch of normal guys

The issue that I have with this

This really isn’t good

Is that they like to knock on doors

In shitty neighborhoods

It was a Sunday morning

The kids were at their mom’s

I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep

In way too goddam long

The doorbell rang like fifteen times

My bare feet hit the floor

Panic in my fuzzy brain

The cops are at the door!

I dashed into the living room

With super human speed

Another ring and a loud knock

I grabbed the coke and weed

I ran back to the toilet

And dumped both sacks in

I stood and watched two thousand bucks

Go down with a spin

Still half asleep and freaking out

I ran without my pants

Down the hall to the back room

And murdered all my pot plants

The doorbell still was ringing

Grabbed pants off of my bed

I peeked outside the curtains

And all I saw was red

I flung the front door open

I grabbed the first one by his tie

I reached back and balled a fist

And smashed him in the eye

I turned to his companion

And grabbed a hold of him

I dug my heels into the doorjamb

And pulled both of them in

I really don’t remember

And that’s a solemn oath

But by the time I came around

I saw I’d killed them both

That’s kind of why I’m writing you

I’m really out of luck

The coke, the weed, and all those plants

Were worth five thousand bucks

Plus the box of trash bags

The shovel and the gas

Add another fifty bones

Your bike nerds cost my ass

Now I’m driving out to Utah

‘Cause your friends cost me my stash

I’m on my way to find you, God

And you’d better have my cash

Sincere about getting my money back,




Prozac Helps Depressed Cat Rediscover Love of Jingle Ball


Nobody plays with me anymore. Sometimes I sit and stare at my favorite shoelace, lifelessly draped over the handrail of the rarely used treadmill in the spare bedroom. There was a time when I would have tapped it with my paw and brought it to life myself, but these days I just don’t have the motivation to. Things that used to bring me pleasure now just seem like reminders of my loneliness. I don’t feel like playing.

Last month I barely moved. I got up once a day or so to relieve myself in the potted plant in the living room, but then I went right back to the arm of the sofa. My servants, the large, beige things that wait on me, barely noticed. They used to constantly clean me, feed me, and entertain me, but nowadays I’m starting to think that I’m nothing more than a litter box to clean and a food bowl to fill as far as the help is concerned. I’m invisible, and why shouldn’t I be? I even bore myself.

The smallest servant, the one with the squeaky voice, likes to throw my jingle ball across the floor from time to time, but lately I just ignore it. It can chase the jingle ball itself if it thinks that chasing things is so great, I don’t have the energy and even if I did, what would be the point? Life would just be dull and uninteresting again as soon as the game was over. The jingle ball is a waste of time.

Last week the big servant, the one who usually feeds me, put me in a box and took me on a car ride. Instead of putting up a loud fight and moaning in discontent like I used to, I let it do whatever it wanted with me. Nothing could be worse than this place, though I seriously doubt that anyplace else is going to be any better. When it opened my box, another servant in a white coat looked in my eyes with a light, stole a vial full of my blood, and stuck a thermometer in my butt. The last time this happened, I scratched the servant in the white coat with all my indignant fury, but this time I just grumbled. Whatever.

The last couple of days, after eating my dinner, the servants have been holding me down and shoving a little yellow pill down the back of my throat. Either they are trying to kill me or they think I’m one of them. Typical.

I’ve noticed that, since I’ve started taking the pills, I feel like playing a bit more. Just yesterday I took it upon myself to knock my jingle ball across the kitchen floor and then chase it. I almost purred but stopped myself.

After they forced the pill down my throat today, I had an epiphany. Maybe it’s not me that is boring, maybe it’s them. Maybe I’m not the lazy one, maybe they just took me on as a responsibility when I was little and cute, and now that I’m grown and exert my own independence, they don’t want to take the time every day to play with me like they should. Maybe the pills are just enabling them to continue to be lazy, selfish things.

I guess if I’m to be ignored, then the pills are better than nothing. It seems absurd, though, considering all I really want is to be exercised and mentally stimulated properly. Oh well. If they were smarter, they wouldn’t be my servants, would they?

The Survivalist’s Son

The Commies never came, dad.

The Ruskies or the slopes.

Now my “better dead than red” tattoo

Draws a lot of jokes.


Next it was Al Qaeda,

Then our first black president.

For all you spent on baseless fears

I’m shocked we made the rent.


I thought that you’d gone crazy,

But now that I’m a man,

I see that this was just a kind

Of redneck savings plan.


The food down in the bomb shelter,

Has all but long gone bad.

But for the place to grow my pot

I’d like to thank you, dad.


The big stockpile of weapons

You taught me how to shoot?

I sold it on the Internet

For a big stockpile of loot.


So now I’ve got a lot of cash

And I’m always good and high.

Thanks for the inheritance,

You were such a clever guy.


Breaking News: Bigoted Street Preacher Converts Random Passer-By

10aaNorman, OK- Earlier today a local man was completely converted to an evangelical Christian sect who supports strict Biblical literalism while walking back to work after his lunch break. This news comes at a critical time for religion in America, with congregations declining among Protestant denominations across the nation.

Maybe that’s why no one was more surprised than local fanatical bigot and street-corner preacher Abraham Jenkins. “At first I was a little shocked,” said Jenkins, “This hadn’t ever happened before, and I wasn’t sure what to do. So, I let him hold my sign.”

The sign, which reads “All sinners will burn in Hell” on one side and has a picture of a late-term abortion on the other, is a familiar sight in the community, where Jenkins protests Western civilization and spouts borderline hate-speech six days a week.

Roscoe Kneibard wasn’t planning on having his life changed today, either. “I was just going back to work when I walked past this guy who was yelling at everyone,” said Kneibard, who only moved into the area a few weeks ago. “I could tell that it was something really important because he had this super intense look in his eyes.”

That intense glare and maniacal hollering prompted Kneibard to stop and listen. Within minutes of his first encounter with Jenkins, he was transformed by his message.

“I guess I just didn’t realize that everyone was going straight to hell. I also didn’t realize that I had bought a condo right in the middle of a den of iniquity and shame,” lamented Kneibard. “I asked if I could help warn everybody, and he handed me this really neat reversible sign.”

Kneibard spent the rest of the day screaming at passers-by, waving his new sign dangerously close to people’s heads, and listening to Jenkins preach.

“How do people not know about this stuff?” Kneibard asked our field reporters with honest confusion. “The message just seems so simple to understand. Like, earlier today, when I screamed ‘all fags will writhe in a lake of fire for eternity’ at this woman and her kids, I could tell by the look on her face she was scared and obviously hadn’t realized how serious this is. She grabbed her kids and hurried off, probably to warn others.”

Kneibard says he plans to quit his job as a software designer and join Jenkins in building his sidewalk congregation full time.

“The holy spirit is strong with the kid,” said Jenkins of Kneibard. “I couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated, intelligent, passionate, serious, statuesque disciple with pretty green eyes. Today was a good day for bringing a beautiful soul home. Home to the Lord, I mean.”