Praises to The King of Himself

Here is my latest sermon to butter up my flock at The Podcast Church for Couch Potatoes — where I am the Minister of Defense Against Little White Lies and Great Big Whoppers.

To avoid interfering with tee-offs, tip-offs, brush-offs and shove-offs, I keep sermons under three minutes — depending on members’ listening speed.

I am not trying to poach anyone Don Jr. style, but if you have never heard me preach, I am happy to share today’s sermon with non-member couch potatoes.

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Friends, ramen noodle lovers and country music fans:

I know Rush is on, but please remove your earbuds and lend me your ears. I come today to praise The One Most High on Himself — not bury him under fake news. After all, it’s not in my best interest to upset tithers by talking smack about the King of No Tact.

Although the Fakir of Facts hasn’t yet been crucified for our sins, he has certainly made them more acceptable. We owe him a huge leveraged debt of gratitude for washing away our guilt in a raging river of non sequiturs re-carving boundaries once home to steadfast moorings tethering us together during stormy weather.

Now, praise to The Mighty Mouth of Winging It, we need no longer be restrained by quaint traditions depriving us of the thrill of the hunt our ancestors enjoyed when the size of their clubs was the only impediment to achieving the size of their greed in taking whatever they wanted from docile neighboring heathens wearing modest loincloths because they were raised not to brag.

Exaltations to The King of Himself for unshackling chains of adulthood preventing us from returning to childhood when the world was created in seven days (or there about) as our personal playpen with no one holding us accountable for not playing well with others.

In this unbrave new world we no longer need be bound by the expectations of our better angels, but only by the devil-may-care innocence of diaper-days when changing ourselves was not expected and crocodile tears brought Mommy running with cheeseburgers to our crib.

Now, inspired by The High Priest of the Imaginary America of Yesterday, if you don’t like Indians squatting on our God-given land, tell them to go back where they came from.

If you think language separated us from other animals, welcome back to the jungle.

If you like killing exotic animals, feel free to add a few African Pygmies to your wall.

Why waste energy looking for Mr. Right when we already have Mr. Always Right?

Patriots without portfolio can give dreamers a chance to prove their patriotism by allowing them to volunteer to feed God-ordained Americans through 14-hour days in peach orchards for peanuts before we show our Christian charity by chauffeuring them back to their birth country.

KKK patriots can march proudly without hoods and with freak flags flying across America First.

Adherents of His Beatitude with an Attitude can cry out with impregnability about being pro-life without the inconvenience of thinking about shadowy kids in countries too hungry to feed the children they have.

Now, with heads bowed, eyes closed and minds open, let’s pray with one voice to The Sultan of Stings: “We don’t like political jokes, so don’t count on our votes.”

Contact Wendel Sloan at: [email protected]