Hey there metal peeps, I’ve been drinking the blood of the savior (or at least wine that tastes better) all day, so I’m not really in a frame of mind to send you a nice articulate essay on why Easter is a sham. But newsflash: It Is. I’d like to follow up on my Xmas diatribe with an Omega fitting of that Alpha assault, but it ain’t happnin. Checking out the White Mice, Black Math Horsemen and co., last night, I get the feeling there are some people around here who don’t go too far out of their way to celebrate the Res-erection, so maybe you won’t be disappointed in my lack of focus by blasting this piñata with shotgun instead of a laser.
T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month” or something like that, and I second that emotion. I’ve had shitty Aprils for sure. Something about the seriousness of winter fading into another orgy of pollen and summer “fun” before I can accomplish anything—it bums me out. I like summer—but April, I don’t know.
So, because nothing is a coincidence when it comes to timing, April is the perfect month for the Christians to make us feel bad, as though any lingering negativity coming into summer is OUR FAULT. Because we were naughty, a suicidal, depressed guy name Hey-Sues had to off himself in a very painful manner indeed—2000 years before my birthday. But just when you get to feeling guilty, like clockwork, here comes the Catholic church with a whole ‘nuther round of child sex talk to remind us that our sins ain’t shit unless we were fucking kids in the name of god. This week we found out the Pope himself covered up for the German pedophiles (maybe he should join Einsturzende Neubaten), and he might just be another bureaucrat jumping through hoops to throw any helpless kid under the bus in order to protect a status quo that legitimizes his sexless existence. And then the Pope’s own private Bible thumper jumps in during “Jews murdered God week” with “hey, if you’re asking questions about this child rape stuff, you’re just as bad as those anti-Semites [which is bad, but, you know, not so bad, since the Jews murdered God’s son Hey-Sues].”
And that puts a point on the problem: If the good lord gave you these sex glands, how did it become the ultimate display of affection in his/her honor to not use them? Why should the week celebrating the resurrection of god’s son be the most miserable (aside from his sexless birth)? Shouldn’t the Pope have his own private pussy posse out there running panty raids on the Convent and giving the gals what he/they think they really deserve for being such bad girls? “I’ve have sinned Father “Horse Cock” Murphy, show me the depth of my transgression!” Come on now Carmelites and Jesuits – It’s rush week – lay your cards on the table. I admit, sublimated sexual desire does lead to a lot of extra hours in the office, which helps the GDP, but leave that shit for the Mormons. They’re safely ensconced a couple of states in from the ocean, so let ‘em toil away blowing wads on CRT screens teeming with abusive German Helgas. The rest of us oughta chill by the pool, lounging in the teachings of Messrs. Nietzsche and Freud, as well as their slapstick homey Mr. Anton LaVey and his half wit kid Cronos. If yr reading this site, you know what I’m saying. Find someone you love and respect and use that thing for what it’s meant for. Whilst blasting Mercyful Fate and checking out the Easter bunny. Rise and shine and give god your glory, glory. Once for the father. Once for the suicidal son (screaming‘take this life and shove it’). And once for the City of Devils, where all dreams are revealed for what they really are.