Bee Vomit & Baking Soda

BEE VOMIT AND BAKING SODA

In order to save money, I stumbled upon a really easy makeup remover. Instead of buying the expensive cleansing towelettes, I bought baby wipes. But they didn't completely do the job (neither did the expensive wipes).

I came across an article that said to try baking soda and honey. Well...suffice it to say that the first time I used this formula I used WAY too much baking soda and it felt like I was washing my face with course sandpaper:

Not in a good exfoliating kinda way either. We're talking I-fell-off-my-bike-and-my-face-scraped-the-cement-for-half-a-block kinda pain. OWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😵😡😰

The next night, I sprinkled just a large pinch and put more raw, unfiltered organic honey on my wash cloth. I fully expected to have a sticky face that was going to attract ants, fruit flies and gnats as I slept.  Like I imagined when I saw this Ohio Players album cover as a kid:

Or at the very least...the queen bee would find me, sneak in and lay larvae in my nostrils or something. ('Tis the curse of an overactive imagination.) 😳😱

Nothing could be further from the truth. There was just enough baking soda to neutralize the stickiness of the honey and it left my entire face, free of oils but not dry as baked clay either. 

It was just right (to quote baby bear & his porridge temperature) AND honey has anti-bacterial properties so after a few days, all my oily skin eruptions seemed to disappear and my skin feels softer...more pliant.  

I used to have to use 3 to 4 different products on my combination skin. A moisturizer, only for the eye area, an occasional acne med for my breakout oily areas & a fade gel for the acne scars.

I have to say that now that I'm older, my skin has become FAR more sensitive and I break out in rashes at the drop of a hat so my doc gave me a prescription for 2.5% hydrocortisone lotion too.

I haven't had the need for any of them since! \o/ YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you 🐝🐝🐝for your sweet, healing vomit!!!!

Love,

Janilani ☺️😘

Clown Terror Has A New Face

After hearing for years about American Horror Story, about 3 weeks ago, my friend Terri DVR'd the first show of the new season. We sat. We drank wine. We drank more wine...and we were both were introduced to our latest craze. I spent the next 2 weeks on Netflix catching up on the past seasons.

Prior to watching American Horror Story, the most terrifying clown I'd EVER come across was Pennywise the Clown from the book "It" and the mind of Stephen King and played to the hilt by Tim Curry in the film adaptation.

Pennywise hid in the sewers of the requisite creepy Maine town and his favorite food of choice was...kids. Sure it's a bit ghoulish but who am I to criticize the culinary quirks of clowndom's citizens? So Pennywise liked to eat kids. Kids can be annoying. John Wayne Gacy was a real-life killer clown and he creeped me the fuck out. I don't think he developed a taste for kids but if you were a handsome, young gay man, you might end up buried in the crawlspace beneath his house.

I LOVED Homey the Clown. He was hilarious. He belted kids across the chops with a quarter-filled sock. I was delighted by Caesar Romero, Jack Nicholson and Heath Ledger's portrayal of The Joker:

I even liked the band, Insane Clown Posse a little bit.

I liked clowns. OK...I did want to kick Ronald McDonald in his clowny little gladbags. But most clowns were OK...until I happened upon Pennywise. Pennywise fucked it all for me.

In the previous seasons of American Horror Story, I was introduced to a host of scary characters. But holy fucking shit! The thing that scared the living shit outta me and gives me nightmares is a character called "Twisty the Clown". Twisty doesn't talk...at all. He performs like a normal clown. Makes balloon animals, pulls bouquets of flowers out of his sleeve, has the eternally long string of knotted scarves in his pocket. The thing about Twisty is he can go into a murderous rage when his balloon animal pops or you don't find his antics particularly amusing. And sometimes he just murders for no reason...or maybe he has a reason we're not privy to. We have absolutely no clue what's going on in Twisty's mind. Because he doesn't talk. His creepy clown suit is filthy. Twisty doesn't seem to care about personal hygiene. Oh yeah...Twisty doesn't pull rabbits out of hats either. Usually...it's a head. A human head. He DOES appear to be wearing a real clown hat...made out of a real clown. In episode 2, we got a glimpse of what is under that giant rotten grin.

I would hand-feed my kids to Twisty. Morsel-by-morsel. Twisty is not mocked and I find his silence far more menacing than any clown I've ever encountered. The character actor behind Twisty's visage is John Carroll Lynch who last scared the crap out of me in the HBO series "Carnavàle". He has definitely upped the ante.

As a kid, I remember after Halloween trick or treating, sitting down with my parents to sort through the candy to check for tampering. No doubt if I had gone to Twisty's house, I'd have come home and dumped my candy on the floor...and human heads would have rolled out of my sack. I seriously doubt they teach "Head Severing 101" in clown college.

Go ahead and fuck with Twisty. I dare you. I double dare you. I triple dog dare you.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN BITCHES!

Curiosity Doesn't ALWAYS Kill The Cat...But Sometimes You Wish It Had

While watching a TV series on Netflix, they mentioned what I deemed a sexual term I was unfamiliar with that started with "Cleavland" and ended with a guy saying to three prostitutes, "There's a glass top coffee table right there. Two of the three hookers said, "Uh uh...I'm outta here." The third said, "OK. But it'll cost you $1,000 extra."

Well, I'm sure you can guess what I did. I sat down at my computer and I went straight to:

Then I gagged.

I had stumbled on a Mother Lode of repellant, offensive, disturbing, disgusting, and deviant terms for what I had always considered a pleasurable act of love between consenting adults.

I. Had. No. IDEA! OMFG!!!! And all this in spite of working for six months at a print company that made boxes for porno videos (and kids video games under a completely different company name of course!)

I was responsible for inputing new orders for these videos and each order was accompanied by a sample of the box. I'm no shrinking violet, but I've never been into porn. I mean I was curious when I was young so me and my high school chums snuck into The Pussycat Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard to see the infamous "Deep Throat" triple feature.

And you know what? It bored us. Plus, the floor was sticky. Extra sticky. Plus, the audience was chock full of men...in raincoats. We barely made it through all of Deep Throat and didn't stick around for the other two features.

So that was the depth my porn education. Sure I had boyfriends that tried to get me to watch but I truly didn't understand why they always had to show two women together but never two men. Frankly (pun intended), I would prefer to see a veritable sausagefest than the proverbial up-close-and-personal vag shots. I'm sorry. I just find vaginas kinda gross...except mine. I'm very fond of mine. (No wonder I have so much in common with gay men.)

I am a proud Gayboy Bunny. But girls licking each other just never did it for me. I wondered why man-on-man shots were never in "straight" porn. So I asked my boyfriend and the reply was always, "That's gross!" I so said, "But two women is OK?" Apparently this turns straight men on. OK. But I don't get it. I mean no disrespect to my lesbian friends and relations by any means. I love them. I love everyone. I don't mind looking at boobs. It's just a matter of personal preference I guess. So...I own no porn. None.

The print company was run by a mostly female staff (no pun intended). Nearly all the office staff, the general manager and CFO were all women. We also had lunch together every day. Let's just say that my porn education was a source of a amusement for them. I had NO clue there were so many varieties of porn. We had titles that ranged from "Puffy Nipples" to "Spank My Fanny, Granny". I know. Ew. But sometimes we got things that were rejected. One title came in with a picture of a guy with a florescent orange traffic cone stuck up his butt.

I was constantly in shock. And we discussed my shock every day at lunch. One title had a man on the cover with let's just say, a plethora of testicular and penile piercings. I have no clue why a dude would want to stick spikes through his dick. I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. We had titles that were high-end and artsy but we also had our share of low budget porn and I don't think I've ever seen more bad boob jobs in my entire life. One poor unfortunate had boobs that looked like Marty Feldman's eyes:

Seriously. I think this was the birthplace of my distain for unnecessary plastic surgery.

One day, I brought a title into the lunchroom with my eyes brimming with tears. I asked the general manager if I could reject the title because it showed a woman on all fours, smiling but her anus was so enlarged that in near tears, I said, "But how does she not poop herself constantly? She must have to wear diapers! Oh my God! We can't print this! This is cruel that she has a handicap and has to support herself in porn!" I didn't know what her condition was called, but I was appalled at the exploitation of this poor soul!

Oddly, my outburst was met not by compassion and empathy but raucous and hysterical laughter. I didn't understand! I would never laugh at someone with such a horrible disability! They laughed so long, and so loudly at my indignation, umbrage and outrage that the CFO came in to tell us that even with the door to the lunchroom closed, she couldn't hear her phone calls.

This was the mid-1990's and I was unfamiliar with the term "digitally enhanced" or "airbrushing" photos. This was before Photoshop was in wide use. They were familiar with the title in question, but I was seeing it for the first time. This was the only job I ever truly loved going to. We had so much fun and laughter. It paid well. Sadly, it was destroyed by internet porn.

Fuck Me. Pun intended...but NOT in ANY of the terms expressed on those lists!

I never did find out what "Cleveland" had to do with coffee tables.

Mea culpa.

I am in possession of a macabre sense of humor and graced with a creative potty mouth but this...this...was...no.

I have no intention of including hyperlinks to ANY of those lists herein.

You're on your own.

CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #2

A friend of mine just last week asked me why I hadn't blogged in a very long time. The last few years haven't exactly inspired a lot of happy thoughts or creativity. My imagination was as dry as a menopausal vagina truth be told. I took a nap today, awoke at midnight and had this retro real-life dream that I thought I'd share:

CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #1: When I was a kid television was still in its early adulthood and I could no more distinguish what was real and what wasn't exactly real. I recently posted on my Facebook wall how I failed at my first television-inspired experiment.

After watching the 1968 Summer Olympics, the first time I encountered a swimming pool, I jumped in fully expecting to swim like Mark Spitz. As I stood at the bottom of the pool, completely devoid of any panic; contemplating why my limbs weren't magically making me perform a spectacular butterfly stroke worthy of an Olympic champ; all I felt was letdown. Had my Swim Fairy Godmother been having her mani-pedi? Nope...it was the first time I realized that maybe...just maybe...things that happened on TV weren't altogether true. A lot of things were! Like commercials for certain toys, bicycles, talking and urinating dolls, Tonka trucks, The Brady Bunch and Partridge Family (or so I thought -- turns out the Brady dad, Robert Reed was gay), etc. Though I never could get my motherfucking Slinky to walk down the stairs like the commercial promised: Fuckers!

Anyway, suddenly a giant hand reached down, grabbed my arm and snatched me from the water. In partial panic and partial anger, my dad yelled at my mother, "Why weren't you watching her?" She had been busy getting my little sister into her swimsuit. My father looked at me and screamed, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" Completely devoid of guile I answered, "On TV whenever someone jumps into a pool they start swimming! I thought that's what was going to happen!" His look said, "I've-spawned-an-imbecile / her-egg-was-fertilized-by-a-Special-Olympics-sperm!!"

OK...back to CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAILURE #2:

My second fail arrived a few years later. Our family now consisted of me, my little sister Linda and my new baby brother Russell who was probably less than a year old. Who incidentally made me and my sister's life a misery.

Whenever we tried to play with him, he would emit this high-pitched whine and my parents in unison would yell, "STOP TEASING THE BABY!" We were only trying to play with the little enfant terrible.

Mom and Dad didn't believe their lives should come to a screeching halt just because they shat a few vag poops into the world. They took weekend trips, they took separate all girls weekend trips and all boys weekend trips. My mother was on one of her all girls trips. So dad had us for the weekend. We were pretty good kids but one night, my dad was out working in the garage with his macho power tools creating something wondrous (he was really talented with building things incidentally), but it always worried me too.

TRAUMATIC CHILDHOOD MEMORY #90: When I heard the song "Moonshadow" by Cat Stevens, I thought it was about a grisly industrial accident by moonlight. A lovely little ditty about a blinded, toothless, mouthless quadruple amputee! I worried about my dad working in the garage after dark with his circular saw, goggles & improper lighting at night for years.

But I digress. Back to CHILDHOOD EXPERIMENTAL FAIL #2:

Worthy of mention, some years later, when I became old enough to babysit solo on occasion, this is what they came home to:

Enough said. So I was left in temporary charge of my younger siblings. The night in question was much earlier in our young lives. My brother started screaming his lungs out. I tried bouncing him on my lap, making funny faces and sounds, rocking him and nothing I did abated his ear-splitting caterwauling. So, I did what I had seen repeatedly done on TV. In any and all situations on 1960's and 70's television if someone was having hysterics -- you slapped them and they promptly came around. I had seen this done repeatedly on all the TV dramas. So...I slapped my little brother in the face. *FAIL* He just screamed several octaves higher and quite a few decibels louder. My sister, "The Snitch" ran outside to tell dad that I had just slapped Russell in the face. I don't think she did it to curry favor or anyting. She was just being brattily informative.

Well, Dad was livid. He snatched my little brother from my arms and screamed at the top of his lungs, "HAVE ME OR YOUR MOTHER EVER SLAPPED YOU OR YOUR SISTER IN THE FACE? HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I SLAPPED YOU?" I answered in the negative. No, I would prefer not to be belted in the chops. He took a deep breath and asked why I had smacked my brother. I answered honestly. "Whenever someone on TV is hysterical, someone slaps them and then they're OK again." Dad wasn't mad anymore and looked at me with an expression that said, "Me-and-my-wife-have-given-birth-to-a-retarded-boob."

He was rendered speechless and shook his head and walked away with my screaming little brother in his arms. As I've said before, I had to test theories to find their truth. I still do. I'd have either made a brilliant scientist or inadvertently ended up menstural wall goo by trying to come up with a better recipe than my professor. C'est ma vie de merde!

Janilani's Least Loved Christmas Tales

Go get your cup of cocoa and gather 'round the fire kids.

This is the story of what happened to Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer after Christmas. Yaaaaaaay!




After Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer went down in history just like the song says -- and his tour of duty serving Santa was complete; Santa shot Rudolph in the head and after removing the sleigh bells, he slit Rudolphs throat and hung him upside down in the shed to drain. Then Santa sharpened his new hunting knife that he bought on Amazon.com, gutted Rudolph and made a lovely and savory venison stew for all the elves and Mrs. Santa.

Then Santa sliced Rudolph's meat very thin and made venison jerky and froze some venison steaks in preparation for the long, cold winter so he wouldn't have to kill and eat a few elves like last year.

R.I.P. Herbie


Then Santa got his axe and killed The Abominable Snowman and made Yeti burgers because without any teeth, Snowy was only able to consume liquified walrus blubber shakes and Mrs. Claus was fed up with having to clean puréed walrus innards from her blender blades.




But Santa spared Clarice a bloody demise because she and Rudolph had done the nasty! She was pregnant and Santa really wanted to have another mutant reindeer just like Rudolph to guide his sleigh for next year!



Be good kids or you could end up like Rudolph or The Abominable Snowman!

'nighty-night and Merry Christmas!

Egypt's Poop Wonderland

Monday, July 09, 2007
...And the waters of the Nile ran...brown.
Current mood: crappy
Category: Travel and Places
I was so excited to be taking my first and only trip to Egypt . It's been a lifelong dream of mine. In going over my list of "things to pack" recommended by the tour group; I came across a strange entry. Toilet paper. Don't they use toilet paper in Egypt ? Why do I have to bring a roll of my own since the tour stressed that the hotels were superb. Also on the list was Imodium AD. I had toilet paper handy and threw a roll into the suitcase -- but I'd never used Imodium AD and had none -- and promptly forgot about it. I was going to spend 15 days in glorious, exotic Egypt !

There was also the customary travel and cultural warnings. Don't go out alone if you're female. Dress in light colors and more conservatively. Stay hydrated because the temperature can get above 125°F. Don't eat any dairy because they don't pasteurize milk. In retrospect, this casual phrase should have been written: DON'T EAT DAIRY BECAUSE YOUR BOWELS WILL VOMIT THEIR CARGO AT A SPEED CLOSE TO WARP FACTOR NINE!!!!!!!!!

When we landed after a 10-hour flight, everyone was tired, cranky and hungry. We checked into our hotel, went to dinner and went to bed. The next morning we had a wake-up call at 5:00am, breakfast at 6:00am and we hit the road by 7am. You travel early in the mornings or early evening because in the middle of the Sahara Desert -- it gets Satan-scrotum, scorchingly-hellish-hot midday. I was so exhausted and jet-lagged from the night before that I completely forgot the "refrain from dairy" caveat. That evening, I had two spoonfuls of pudding and then cursed myself mid-spoonful for forgetting.

The Sphinx and pyramids were spectacular. I was fine. Day after that? Fine. I felt I'd dodged the bullet. So with the Cairo portion of our trip over, we boarded a plane to Luxor to see The Valley of The Kings. I was traveling solo so the tour company matched me with a female roommate -- Helene. Worthy of mention is the fact that thus far -- I felt no discomfort from the two teaspoons of pudding days ago. Nada.

Imagine our delight when we were assigned one of the few rooms that overlooked the Great Nile River ! We opened our hotel room door and began hugging and jumping up and down for joy! All of a sudden with no warning whatsoever, the contents of my fartpipe went from solid to liquid. It happened as suddenly as the final episode of The Sopranos ended. Instantaneously. No warning whatsoever. No pre-gurgling, no pre-cramps. Hot Eau de Poo.

I stopped mid-jump and I guess the expression on my face said or something close to "heart attack" because Helene said, "Are you ok?" I grabbed my guts and made for the bathroom with little, tiny Geisha steps because my butt-cheeks were clenched tighter than the Virgin Mary's legs to prevent the dread crème de cacao accident. Once in there, I realized that I'm wearing a jumpsuit that zips up the back! FUCK! I finally got the zipper down whilst dancing "The Merry Poo Jig" and I think I was shitting before my ass touched the seat. I was crappin' at a speed close to light. Apparently there was a little, itty-shitty, pissed-off Charlton "Moses" Heston in my colon commanding Yul "Pharaoh Ramses" Brenner to let his chocolate people go -- and make haste! So let it be written, so let it be DONE! And the poo Jews were liberated from Egypt ! Every last one. My poo runneth over.

This lasted for about 20 minutes. Helene kept knocking and asking if I was ok and all I could manage was a groan. When I exited, I was too ill to even be embarrassed by Helene undoubtedly hearing the 140 decibel earth-shattering-space-shuttle-blastoff shit I just took. I was shaking all over, bathed in sweat and dangerously close to tears. I apologized and then I lay across my bed.

Apparently the microbes have a gestational period. The next day at breakfast, we compared stories with other erupting travelers. We were traveling with 2 busloads of tourists and both buses were equipped with a bathroom. Both bus bathrooms smelled like a rotten camel carcass left in the sun. I'm talking O DEAR! One bus driver actually locked the john and told us it was broken because he got sick of the smell. Eventually, he was forced to unlock it or risk having to clean shit off his seats. The extreme heat, the vile diarrhea took its toll on us all. You'd take Imodium and be fine for a day -- then the medicinal butt plug would fail and you'd be back on the commode singing "Kumbaya." Someone's shitting My Lord, Kumbayaaaaaaaaaaaah!

My ass was a Bosco-chocolate syrup factory and I turned every toilet into my own desert poo oasis. I have a horrible fear of crapping in public restrooms from my past "poop post-traumatic stress disorder" but I had no other choice. Technically I guess I could have crept behind the Sphinx or some other national monument -- but who knew the punishment if caught? This is a Muslim country after all. A rectal beating with a cane? Anal amputation? I wasn't going to risk it.

By the time we got to the Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan, I was sore and in need of some Rectal Chapstick because my anus was swollen to twice its normal size from overuse. I'm sure my butt lips looked like I had gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson punching me in the rectum. The further South down the Nile we traveled, the fewer creature comforts we had. When I rang housekeeping for some extra toilet paper, she showed up with 3 of these tiny one-ply 1/4" thick rolls. I'm used to the giant, bunny-fluffy 2-ply 4-1/2" double rolls! What the fuck is this? Nearly all the toilets had a hose attached to them but who wants to go to the Rectal Car Wash every visit? I didn't carry a hand towel to dry off anyway. I pictured Gomer & Goober Pyle asking with a Southern twang, "You want an anal-wax with that, Ma'am?"

I began trading meds on the black market with our fellow travelers. Bartering. I've got Advil for some Imodium! Do you have any Kaopectate for some Midol? Imodium for Benadryl? Anyone got any Preparation H? Not just me -- others were coming down with moderate to severe bleeding hemorrhoids from the 1999 Lalapoo-pooza Crapfest.

By the time we got down to Abu Simbel, the worst was over for me -- but only beginning for others. There was a really rude lady on my bus -- and I had witnessed her obstreperous harangue to a bartender the night before. I overheard her yell, "Don't you speak English!? What the hell is the matter with you people?" Ahhhh…The Ugly American rears her ugly little head. Sigh. You are in a foreign country and the entire world does not speak English Missy. But, she got her just deserts when we arrived back at the hotel because as our bus was pulling up (she was seating on the aisle) she leaned over her seat partner and barfed out of the bus window and as I looked over, I noticed a spreading brown pool emerging on the back of her pants. A befitting poo de grace. OOPS! Ms. High and Mighty had crapped her khakis! She shrieked, "IT'S COMING OUT OF BOTH ENDS!" I looked at her poor seat mate's face and he was beyond horrified. His expression was priceless. He wanted nothing more to do with Count(ess) Chocula. Judging from his expression, you'd have thought she'd crapped on his upper lip.

I tried my hardest not to laugh but I almost developed a hernia from trying to hold it in. After all, she was an unpleasant, malicious person so this assuaged my sotto voce giggling somewhat. And you know what? By the time the trip was over, that big roll of 2-ply, bunny-fluffy toilet paper I brought was g-o-n-e! Always listen to the tour company children. Always.

The good news is that I lost 10lbs on that trip and how many people can say that they crapped from Cairo to Nubia ? (In retrospect, probably lots.)


Currently reading:
What’s Your Poo Telling You?
By M.D., Anish Sheth
Release date: 26 April, 2007

Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Why Does the Body of Christ Taste So Shitty????????
Current mood: peaceful
Category: Religion and Philosophy

NOTE: For those of you who don't know, I posted this blog last year and my site was recently attacked and a malicious code placed in the blog comments of my blogs regarding religion which rendered my site inoperable. So in the interests of free speech which is sorely in jeopardy under our current administration, I extend a hearty "fuck you" to the "wrong-wing" extremists...

If you are a Serial Christian, do yourself a favor and read no further...

Though I'm no longer a Christian, sometimes I wonder about the strange thoughts that occurred to me while in church with some big, fat, sweaty guy yelling at me about my sins while he eyed the godhead titties of the choir director. It was especially traumatic because I went to a predominantly black Southern Baptist church which is one step away from Pentecostal Snake Handling. Freakish. Seriously.

Yelling, eyes rolling up to the whites, screaming gibberish, falling out in the aisles, jumping up and down, the rending of clothing, and general mayhem which all seemed the fault of "The Mysterious Holy Spirit" which I wanted no part of since he made people spaz out in public. They drug one lady out by her arms, kicking and screaming with her dress hiked up over her hips and her girdle showing! Come to think of it, if she had vomited green bile and humped the crucifix -- we would've had the movie "The Exorcist" way before its time. Either that or unbeknownst to us -- we were attending Our Lady of the Sacred Epileptics Congregation.

Whenever I would look up at my mother when someone had one of these apoplectic fugues or conniptions, my mother would say, "Well they're just full of the Holy Spirit." "Well keep that seizure producing SOB away from me" was what I was thinking. I was a terrified child and to this day, the sound of gospel music freaks me out. I didn't want the entire congregation to see my Underoo's. After being forced to eat flavorless Jesus, the seizure producing Holy Spirit -- and I had no clue what the hell was up...

So, behold my twisted musings:

Why does the body of Christ have to taste so bland?

Hey folks! Why can't we at least have saltines or Wheat Thins? Wheat Thins even have fiber in them. So when you're trying to give birth to an oversized butt gherkin, and screaming to Jesus for assistance and/or relief, the thought may occur to you, "Next time, I'm having the high fiber Body of Christ!"

Or, what about those little frozen pizzas? You'd have your choice of flavors: "Mmmm...the body of Christ is spicy. He tastes of pepperoni and sausage. Jesus is one tasty savior! I love the basil & cheese Jesus with extra sauce...try it next time!" Trust me. Willing souls would be lined up around the block for a taste of Jesus.

If I'm expected to eat the body of Christ, why can't I have a choice of what part I want to eat? Does it always have to be crackers? "I'd like to have a wing and a leg of Jesus and hold the 'slaw please." Who said it had to be crackers? And if it does, can't we at least spread some Smuckers Jam on Jesus?

If I'm supposed to drink the blood of Jesus, why can't we make it more pleasant by turning it into a Jesus Tasting Festival? "This vintage of Jesus tastes awesome...fruity with the full body of Christ." Can you pass me a thigh of Jesus with some mashed potatoes and gravy please? Thanks."

Technically, the wine is supposed to only represent the blood of Christ so why does it always have to be red? Why can't we have an amusing Chardonnay or Rosé? I don't want a heavy port or Bordeaux first thing in the bleedin' morning! Or fuck it! Let's all just drink blood! Slaughter your pew neighbor and drink his blood.

If your church is too cheap to serve wine, and your only choice is grape juice; why can't I have grapefruit juice instead? Or orange juice? Juicy Juice makes a great cherry juice and its 100 percent Jesus Juice with no high fructose corn syrup and you get a full days supply of vitamin C too!

What if you don't like wine and crackers? Assuming that all of Jesus is simply delicious -- why aren't we allowed to explore the possibilities? "I'd like to try the toe jam of Jesus please" which probably tastes like the finest caviar. What about prime rib roast of Jesus with horseradish?

While we're on the subject, why does Jewish food taste as bad as the Body of Christ? I know he was a Jew but really! Ever tasted gefilte fish? Matzo? Who the fuck did the cooking for these unfortunate souls? Probably Mel Gibson.

Why does un-leavened have to mean flavorless? Instead of bitter herbs, what about a pot of collard greens & un-leavened corn bread and some fried catfish? Your suffering should be over with by now especially if you're supposed to be Gods chosen people! I'm beginning to think differently since he forces you to eat that shitty food.

I'd rather dine on a bucket of chum.

After the Mohel circumcises a little Jewish infant, what happens to the foreskin? Is that what those fried pork rinds are really made of...like Soylent Green? They certainly don't taste like chicken and I thought babies were supposed to taste of chicken. What a gyp!

I shudder to think of where the idea for Hebrew National Hot Dogs came from? Penis of Jesus? Shudder.

Because of the shitty food factor, I truly wonder if Jesus was a black man because obviously Big Mama Mary's cookbook sucked. After all, former slaves made the diet of organs, guts, gonads, chitterlings (pronounced chiddlins), pig's feet, ribs and shit work! Where art thy culinary creativity?

Another reason I have questions about his ethnicity is if you ask ANY black man to die for the sins of the asshole that just beat him to shreds with a whip -- the reply would inevitably be, "Fuck those muthafuckas! Mary! Get the donkey! We out!"

What do we really know about Jesus? I'd like to cut thru the holy bullshit and see the real Jesus...and taste him too!