Jonathan Kieran

James, Tug, and Bobby were FAILING JESUS in the hot & sweaty ministry to bring people to the JOYS OF FUNDAMENTALISM.

To bring lost souls to the brain-dead adherence dependent upon meager scratchings flung at parchment by sociopathic visionaries with titmice in their wizened beards.

They FLOUNDERED in their efforts to attract teen sin-flesh to the glorious recreation of Noah’s Truly Goddamned Ark (Complete With Everything Except Two of Every Animal Species) in Buntsy Holler, ARKANSAS.

So they embraced the trans movement, had to beat off mushroom-colored university boys with whickety-sticks, washed their pantyhose in rainwater collected in barrels only on Tuesdays, and learned how to sing Ave Maria in seven harmonic cocktaves, even though they believed that addressing a dead Jewish woman was a SIN, no matter WHOSE mother she was.

Yeah, you best know it.

Then Betsy (the one in the middle) dropped dead on stage during a rendition of “I’ll Produce My No-No Hole Before I Let You Manhandle My Icy Witch Tit” (a popular Methodist hymn in the 1800s) and coroners averred that she had passed from Abject Grotesquerie.

Today, Myrna and Leeza sell taffy at a local gas station and take turns deciding who will play their thug music the loudest as they drive their blinding blue Subaru through an otherwise quiet community. When neither can decide, they play Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine Carpet Duty. Reupholstering is always required.

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