Zombie Jesus and Easter Egg Grenades

Consider yourself warned  or Why Jesus is a Zombie

It is a well known fact that if you die and come back to life you are 

a)  a vampire

b) a werewolf

c) a zombie

since there are no reports of Jesus being super extra hairy or having a thing for blood then we can assume he is indeed a zombie.

This is further proved by the Catholics ( codename for zombies in waiting) who will all become zombies at the time of the rapture (codename for Apocalypse) because they consume the blood and body of Christ ( codename for Zombie Jesus)  during Mass ( codename for Zombie meetings)  at communion ( codename for  eating zombie flesh eating meetings).

It's lent right now.  ( codename for Catholics have to give something up because they thought Jesus was dead and didn't know he was a zombie yet.)

Soon,  we will all hunt brightly colored easter eggs which a big bunny will hide to celebrate the day zombie Jesus woke up.  Because it all makes perfectly good sense.

What you don't understand about this?  

Even the super religious say that Jesus will come back and do battle with the Anti Christ.

What they forget to tell you is that "The Anti Christ" will be the leader of the Anti Zombie Coalition. 

I am pretty sure there will be brightly colored easter egg grenades involved in this.

I have already said to much, consider yourselves warned.

XO

PEACH OUT

*disclaimer- I don't hate Catholics, or Jesus, anymore than I hate Hercules or Joesph Smith, unless they are zombies, this is a joke, probably.

Dear Heathens of Alabama and Miss Arkansas I am a setting up a refugee camp

DEAR HEATHENS OF THE SOUTH.  

PLEASE DO NOT PANIC.

 I AM HERE FOR YOU.

In some un fucking fathomable parallel universe a judgmental person who thinks he has the right to take his personal interpretation of a human interpretation of what a ( possible) Omnipotent beings wishes are and then use them to pass his own personal judgement on you publicly.

SHOCKER!

This is not rare, it happens every second of every day in nearly every culture, in fact nearly every war in history on this planet was fought on some variation of this basic principal, even if veiled behind another " front cause. But this HUGE DINGUS KHAN, is an elected official, who did it during his inaugural speech on of all days- 

  Dr Martin Luther Kings Holiday which celebrates UNITY.

Just in case you have been, held hostage in a cave,  in a submarine  busy being probed by aliens,  out of touch,  here's what the elected representative ( Governor) of the people of the had to say to the people he was elected to represent ( in Alabama);

 “Anybody here today who has not accepted Jesus Christ as their savior, I’m telling you, you’re not my brother and you’re not my sister, and I want to be your brother.”

I probably don't even need to point out how that pretty much excludes anyone who does NOT believe in not ONLY in his specific deity but indeed that his specific deity had an illicit affair with a virgin that is against his own rules and then didn't pay child support the kid was homeless. (it din't end well read the book, theres like 7 versions)

Wow.   Ok.  Wow.  Excuse me for a second while I go bang my face on a 2x4 that I have driven rail road spikes through because my dalmatian just facepalmed and asked if we could possibly move farther away from Alabama.   I woke up this morning to find out that the cat who is a bitch had simply packed her shit and already left leaving only a note saying, don't contact me this is far too humiliating.  Finally I agree with her.

So let me get this straight.  We have a delay so stuff like a star spangled nipple pasty on Janet Jackson doesn't slip out  in public but shit like this CAN just fly from his mouth like he's a direct Representative of GOD on earth here to pass out judgement like he knows all these dead birds and magnetic pole shifts are indeed the sign of the apocalypse? ( wait . shit. I should call him and check on that maybe later)  

Is this dude related to Miss Arkansas?  I mean really? I saw that "scholarship show" ( because smart people need high heels that match their bikinis too y'all)  and guess what.   That poor girl doesn't have a friend on this big blue marble.  You know how I know this?     THIS is how I know this.  Exhibit A

UGLY ASS sequin jumpsuit. and yodeling Ventriliquist dummies.

So basically she has no friends.  A friend says, " you have brocolli in your teeth, yeah that dress makes your ass look huge, or NO THAT TALENT IS STUPID AS HELL AND YOU LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT. " Really they let this poor girl go on a National show with what is equal to having a fist sized boil on her nose and massive camel toe. 

Which leads me back to Alabama Governor Mc Doucheydouche.  

He has no real friends.  Real friends would go, " Dude, I respect your relationship with your higher power, I also am proud of you for getting elected to this political position,  but since it's 2011, and there's this new thing called separation of church and state, I know totally freaking crazy right?,  also?  it's MLK day, and  your not going to believe this but we don't really have gun control, and they invented this new shit called the internet so if you do indeed go ahead do your usual asshattery it's going to go viral in seconds, I accept that you have the judgement of that dead armadillo we passed on the way to the stage full of press microphones, so I went ahead and edited your speech just a tad so you wont set our state back to circa 1914, because I love our state, and you, that's what friends are for man."

BAM- NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED.    BUT HE DOESN'T HAVE A FRIEND.

or a speech writer,   ( but I bet he has 1 of those things now, guess which 1)

In lieu of the obvious need for all heathens to evacuate the great noble state of Alabama,  I as a neighboring southern state will go ahead and set up a Heathen refugee camp.   It wont be pretty but refugee camps aren't supposed to be.   You will need to bring your own potted meat, road kill or peanut butter ( yeah peanut butter was invented there folks pay homage now ) your own pillows and toilet paper.

Directions-  Simply  Turn your back on the Alabama Governors Mansion and start walking toward the BP Oil Spill,  stop just before you smell the waft of urine soaked streets and Jazz Music. 

Or we are gluing these over all the yard sale signs we can find along the way. 

If re-incarnation is real I think at best I am currently looking at cat turd status

xo

PEACH OUT

What I don't blog about

Hello there, this is the VERY FIRST, of a New Feature on my blog.  If you look up, you will see.  "YOU WRITE HERE"  a page, that gives you, as a friend, follower, fellow blogger, non writer, an option.  An option to get it off your chest.  Step out of your box even if it's just some imaginary rules you have cornered yourself into.  Go read it, it will bring you right back here.  To a post by a very brave, very honest, very lovely woman who needed a place to write what she can't in other places.

xo

PEACHOUT

This writer wishes to remain anonymous 

Legal Disclaimer stuff: The views, thoughts, choices or opinions on this post are those of an author who wishes to have anonymity and not necessarily those of ThePeachy1 


I do not blog about work. The fear of being found out and the need to
go through entire archive. Or worse, the need to kill this, my life's
work. (I can hear you snicker. But sometimes it feels exactly like so
to me. Actually, I lied. It is not sometimes. It is always...)

I do not blog about my co-workers. Even though one of them causes a
lot of stress for me, and it would have been a great release for my
mental anguish to "talk" about it, I still desperately need his (and
everybody else and their uncle's) acceptance and approval. You wonder
how bad it is? How about this: My co-workers have managed to make me
feel ashamed of my PhD degree and therefore I stop bringing it up when
people ask me about my credentials. When I think about it, WTF. Srly.

I do not say much about my siblings and their families because they do
not speak the language in which I write this blog in and I feel it is
unfair to do so.

I do not talk about my friends in real life because well, I have none.
LOL. In fact, my really really good friends and friends that I feel I
can trust? I have told them about my blog. So far only TWO of them
actually read my blog. What does it say about me and my friends and
our relationships that when I repeatedly sent them emails wth the URL
to my blog, they do not even click on it? I assume they are busy. Or
that they are just not into reading stuff online. I get that and I
respect that. However, it does puzzle me that one friend particularly
seemed to go out of her way to ignore the words that came out of my
mouth, "I have a blog." Pause. She just ignored it, as if she did not
hear what I had just said, then carried on with our conversation.

I do not blog about "dirty laundries".

I do not blog about things I heard when inside my "cultural circle"
said by my people. I do not blog about how my  friends ask me
what Americans eat at home and make faces when I tell them what I make
for dinner if I am home early enough to make dinners. I do not blog
about how ridiculous I think it is that after being in this country
for decades that many of them still think that bread is not as filling
as rice and that sandwiches are exotic, unhealthy, food.

Because that would totally play to the stereotypes and undermine the "cause".

I do not blog about the happy moments in my life. Well, not too much
anyway. I use this blog as my therapy coach and when you are seeing
your shrink, what's the point if you are all happy and content? I see
my contribution to you all as the blog that does not make you feel
shit(tier) about your life and the woman who has more issues (or at
least, just as many).

I do not blog about how awesome I think I am. How gorgeous. How
charming. Because it really is 50-50. And I do come tumbling down from
the highs almost as soon as I declare myself to be perfect just the
way I am.

I do not blog about my in-laws. Again. In case one day THIS is found
out. More importantly, my husband reads my blog and he takes great
offense to any slight jab at his mother. I only wish my children put
me on a pedestal as such when they are older.

I do not blog about however hard I try, I cannot be convinced of the
concept of Immaculate Conception and Jesus Christ, and how I wonder
how any devout Christian can without irony and self-awareness make fun
of Scientologists. Just wait for a few hundred years, I sometimes
think, you never know.

I do not talk about how I worry for my children's attending religious
education because one of them seems to be especially susceptible to
authority figures and doctrines. I do not voice my concern because I
believe that THIS will be one of the things that create an irreparable
fissure in my marriage.

I also do not blog about how I sometimes wonder whether I should have
given this whole inter-faith thing much more thoughts before I said
yes. I did not realize that it would have become a point of discomfort
at least for me. Or about how I sometimes think WTF because it was not
made clear to me that he would have taken such a strong stance when it
comes to our children's religious upbringing even though he himself is
a twice-a-year-Catholic and making sure the kids attend Religious Ed,
Ash Wednesday, misc. special masses has somehow, ironically, become my
responsibility.

I do not blog how fortunate I am that my husband takes care of me and
helps out after all day of hard work. How I feel appreciated and loved
and protected. How I feel pampered because my husband buys me shit.
Because that would have been lying.

I do not blog about the ONE thing that causes strife and stress in our
family. Chores. Division of labor. I know I should. It would have
helped some other women out there who are also struggling with this,
to know that they are not alone. It would be an exercise in futility I
know that in my heart. Nothing is going to change. And I have learned
to live with it. I think. I did not however relinquish my right to
bitch.

I do not blog about how I cringe when reading posts about other
people's husbands. Where did they find them? "Model Husband
Warehouse"?

I do not blog about how for an itty bitty tiny moment I wish women who
brag about their husbands and their happy marriage ill and then very
quickly I am disgusted by myself. I have learned to simply skip those
posts and sometimes the entire blog.

I do not blog about the fights I've had with my husband even though I
feel that I should because I always wonder whether I am the only one
who's worried that it's all going to the dogs.

I do not blog about how I actually wonder whether it would have been
better with someone who has found "god" or a mountain man or a strong
but silent carpenter/plumber/handyman since they all seem so calm and
patient and I bet they don't yell at their wives.

I do not blog about how I am not sure whether this time would be the
last time I put up with the short fuse, the quick to anger, the lack
of patience. About how I devote 50% of my energy in preventing a
blow-up, making sure to phrase my questions and announcements of
household repair needs in the right way so we could solve the issues
rather than waste time on an argument over how my tone is picking a
fight.

I do not blog about how I can't call myself a feminist because I
simmer but I bite my tongue. I let "it" go whenever the 30-second
storm is over even though now it takes me an hour to get over having a
voice raised at me.

I do not blog about the fact I smirk behind his back even though I
manage to bite my tongue.

I do not blog about how I scream my retort back in silence inside my
head so loudly that I have a headache all the time when I bite my
tongut because I secretly think I am the more mature one in our
relationship.

I do not blog about all of this because I don't want people to think,
Oh, she puts up with this because she is, you know, from another culture, further
reinforcing the stereotype of submissive and subservient little women
that devote themselves to pleasing their husbands.

I do not blog about how I buy shit for myself as retaliation. Or,
actually, since I bring in a substantial amount of income, I am
entitled to buying shit for myself for no reason at all.

I do not blog about my sex life becasue in order to write about
something, you need to have it first.

I do not blog about how one night when I asked my husband how come we
don't do it like when we started dating and we had sex almost every
day and he said "Because we have each gained 40 lbs.", I turned around
and wept silently into the pillow.

I do not blog about how I have strangely come to terms with the idea
that I may never ... again [omitted for modesty]. Hello, right hand.
Actually, I don't even bother with that any more.

I do not blog about how I actually thought about joining some cult
that demands chastity: since I am not going to have any, I may as well
get a sainthood out of it, right?

I do not blog about how on some days stepping off the train track as
the train is barrling down to the station feels easier than carrying
on. Or how the lights from the oncoming traffic beckon at me like the
fire that lures the moth.

I do not blog about how the movie Sunshine Cleaning has banished those
thoughts from my head.

I do not blog about these. But I write about them inside my head. I
write out an entire post and then I squeeze my eyes tight to erase it.

When I open my eyes again, I forget how fucked up all this is and I
carry on my merry little ways.

Monday is a sin

Over the years my love and lust for Fridays has flickered out but my hatred for Monday has just increased.  Actually I am thinking of a creating a religion where Monday can not happen as it's a sin.  Plus I totally want the tax breaks.

If this goes through there will be no Mondays for anyone in my religion, you will baptized in Vodka, Cheesecake will be used at every service and there's a million awesome things about my cult religion like we wont demand long skirts touching the ground and multiple marriages like big love, but we wont care either,  in fact all the higher ups in the church will probably be found smoking in their PJ's and no service will last longer than 10 minutes you can attend on line or watch at your convenience, actually I wont care, I will probably be watching something on netflix. 

Sounds good right? I  know.. I am totally going to hell.  But look at the fun people going with me.

I have to go stain some old parchment paper with coffee and write up the lost books that will make up my "book" for basing this religion on.  

See ya

xo

PEACH OUT

I aint a Waffle !

Hello you fruits it Freaking Friday and I am Flipping delighted. I mean really cause I just can't wait to be done with this week and charge on in to next week which according the calendar could actually suck harder than this week did.  SWEET  bring it on.

But this post, this post is not about me, it's about Miley.   My bloggy friend Miley who brings me laughs and smiles.  She even guest posted for me over on BeingPeachy  a couple days.   

She is juggling quite a few major life changes right now.  She opted to check out a new church.

I jokingly ( sort of) told her that it would either be in a cafatorium/gymateria  and that if they brought out snakes to run.  We got into a southern religion deep discussion and I made her a bet.

It was indeed in a cafatrorium,  I told her they would be required by law to either bring out snakes, or throw around some fire and Brimstone with the end is near speech or discuss how to be a dutiful women ( wife) because in most places you can't be a woman without being a wife that would just be so silly.

The bet was that she would go and at least one of these things would happen or I would write an entire post dedicated to how wonderful she was and glowing and beautiful and smart and yeah she says I lost so here's your post Miley ( she could be lying it's not like I am going to go to find out).

Here is here site  http://musingsofaconfusedwoman.blogspot.com/   

She has this running thing for her readers that if LSU wins she will post a picture of her boobs.  It's not that risqué her boobs are covered.  

But my dear sweet adventurous often confused always rambling adorable Miley has been sidetracked with even more real life Craptasticification and she wasn't able to post her LSU boobs.

So here.

 OH yeah  just in case you don't know me. Those are not my boobs, I am pretty darn sure they aren't Miley's either.   But it's boobs with LSU on them ( thank you photo shop).     So there.

This is me paying off on the lost bet.  A post about Miley and how awesome funny and amazing she is, so whatever I am super sure they had at least 1 snake in that cafatorium.  Damnit.

Love ya Miley.  I don't waffle on bets, even if you have to remind me.

xo

PEACH OUT

************************UPDATE*****************************
While working on some other articles I came across this Purple and Gold Beauty and thought wow this has LSU written all over it..  

you are welcome...