Oh, it’s been a terrible week, sinners. Having a beautiful body is hard work, and it takes hours of maintenance and repair work to keep it beautiful. Every time I take my Mercedes in for an oil change, I get a little work done, too.
Just this week the car was in the shop, so I was also getting my annual exam, grimacing with pain as the doctor accidentally pinched me in my moist, sensitive area. I flinched and tried to scream, but couldn’t speak — for I was sitting in my dentist’s chair. My tears streamed as his pudgy fingers violated my mouth, looking for a dark cavity.
I feel dirty when I get my teeth cleaned, for my oral opening is a mouthpiece for God. And when thick fingers hurt me, they also hurt God, right? And we know what happens when God gets angry.
Don’t kid yourself, sinners, God gets ticked. In Hebrews 12:29, his anger is a “consuming fire.” That’s not the inner fire like when my lawn boy takes off his shirt, his milky smooth skin sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight as I view his lanky muscles moist with sweat. God’s consuming fire would burn that poor boy’s skin right off his body, and I certainly hope God would wait until the kid got the front yard finished.
The Lord doesn’t have as much patience as I have, but if things don’t get better, He’s going to throw the “wrath of the Lamb” at you. Not a rack of lamb, which is quite delicious but still hurts when thrown. It’s “wrath,” which Google says is anger or rage. Kind of like the energy in a drag-queen dressing room when the boys have to rip their glued-on boobies off bare chests. Ouch.
I tire of talking about God’s anger, for my voice is the word of the Lord and never gets angry. Speaking of my voice, you should listen to the YouTubes of my lovely soprano solos in my church. It’s tough being Kansas City’s most talented Christian. Most mornings, I have birds at my windowsill (much like Snow White did) waiting for my golden vocal cords to take flight. I know my voice matches the beauty of my soul, which pales in comparison to my beauty-queen looks. When I was created, God scored a triple home run, I modestly admit.
How many people can honestly say they speak for God? I’m the only one in Kansas City. You can tell by my teeth. They’re pearly white, like angel wings. I have a sneaking suspicion that legions of angels gather around my bed at night, delicately opening my ruby lips to see my teeth. I can imagine their gasps as they see me smile, for my teeth are second in beauty only to Jesus’ teeth. He had the most gorgeous set of choppers you’ve ever seen. In fact, everyone else in the religious community keeps their mouth shut because their teeth aren’t as white as the Lord’s. That was ... until I was born.
But teeth need to be taken care of, just like a soul. If you homosexual sinners attended to your faith half as much as you do straightening and bleaching your molars, I wouldn’t be writing this column now, would I?