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There is a funny column that appeared in "whatever magazine". It featured "advice" from Reverend Gills McStretchy. The magazine can be found here: http://www.whatevermagazine.com/index.html but I'll post the series here so you don't have to bother going there and finding them. |
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Dear Rev. McStrechy, I know the commandment says, "Thou shalt not steal," but what about when you're hungry? Is that still wrong? Wondering In Warwick I feel your pain, Wondering. This ethical conundrum tortured me as a seminarian until I sought the advice of my most esteemed spiritual advisor. He assured me that the Lord would not count it as a sin if a man stole because he was hungary. That was all I all I needed to hear. I immediately went on a seven-day fast during which I heisted a Nisson Bread Truck and filled it with all the tv, stereo, and computer equipment I could burglarize from the friendly neighbors. When it was Eat-or-Die Time, I spent the afternoon stuffing my face and unloading my neighbor's gizmos at pawnshops downtown. Voila! Bucks-Up-The-Wazoo! I used these revenue enhancement techniques to grease my wheels all the way through my seminary years and still go on a little fasting spree when the church kitty is looking a little light. Now, you may not have the cajones to be pulling B&Es on an empty stomach like I did when I was a young go-getter, But even you can take advantage of this loophole in God's plan for Your Salvation. Some Friday you should skip lunch and spend the afternoon wandering hungrily around the office, coyly ripping off everything that's not nailed down. It's allright with the Almighty. Your Hotline to God, Rev. Gills McStrechy Dear Rev McStretchy, It is with the heaviest of hearts that I write pleading and praying for your advice. My problem concerns the man who works in the cubicle next to mine at the publishing company where I am temping. He is, quite frankly, Obese. Actually, he's several hundred pounds overweight and the sight of him makes me truly ill. As if this were not bad enough, the loud, high-pitched wheeze of his torured breathing makes it impossible for me to think. Each day I am driven closer to madness by the noxious, flatulent stench which wafts from his computer terminal. Everyday, just before lunch, the voices start. "Ki |
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Everyday, just before lunch, the voices start. "Kill him!," they chant, "Kill the Flatulent Whale!" Please Help Me Praying In Providence I hear you Praying. Sometimes, I hear those voices too. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by implying that some archaic, insufferably cryptic passage from the Bible can in any way console or assist you. You live in Hell and that sucks BigTime. It's been my experience as a Shepard of my own little Virtual Flock that people like you never get a friggin' break. Don't bother quitting your job; you'll just get another one where the guy in the veal pen next to you will be fatter, more plegmatic, and smell even More like a sewage treatment plant. If you go ahead and kill this Limbaughvian Methane Machine, you'll wind up in prison and the guy in the cell next to yours will be a moutainous, asthmatic, flesh mass who oozes tear gas. You will be his Girlfiend. The long and short of it is: Your Screwed and things aren't ever going to get better. You must have done something really Horrible in your last life. Sorry, The Esteemed UberMahatma, Gills McStrechy |
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Dear Reverend McStretchy, I've always tried to lead a good holy life but recently my drinking has gotten me into a good deal of trouble and I fear that I might be an alcoholic. I've been drinking to the point of unconsciousness nearly every day and, though I live alone, my empties have taken on the dimension of a very large, messy roommate. My friends are very concerned and they often suggest that I seek substance abuse counseling or join a 12-step program, but I feel that you're the only person I can trust. Please help me because I'm...... Plastered in Pawtucket Wait a second here Plastered. You say you put on a pretty good buzz every day. Sounds good to me. What's the problem? You say your friends are concerned. If you're anything like me, and it sounds like you are, you've already subjected your pals to all the regular stuff a bonafide, howlin' at the moon, saucebag puts his compadres through. You've already sat next to them at the neighborhood pub, slobbering "I love you" as you drool into your Jaegermeister. And they're still your friends right? Don't worry about them: they're not going anywhere. Any flack they give you can be written off as sheer jealousy. You see Plastered, you're one of the chosen few. Monks, saints, sages, yogis, and the like have labored through the ages to achieve a blissful, divine, state of consciousness which allows them to directly experience the ecstatic majesty of their oneness with the cosmos at large. To achieve this state these poor folk must endure intense disciplines which involve ceaseless prayer, dietary restrictions, breathing techniques, and horribly uncomfortable body positions. But for you this would all be a tragic waste of time. You just crack a beer and the gates of heaven open before you. The unwashed among us call this a "problem." Clearly this is merely the deceiver working through them. Ignore them and keep chuggin', for the kingdom o f booze is at hand. No Plastered, you do not need professional help or the corrupt fellowsh |
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No Plastered, you do not need professional help or the corrupt fellowship of lapsed alcoholics. What you need is a girlfriend. Don't be foolish enough to think that the devotional life of a dipso-mystic necessarily precludes the presence of a significant other, nothing could be farther from the truth. In reality, no cosmic booze-hound's sacred lifestyle is truly complete until he has taken upon himself the daily responsibilities of an intimate relationship. Ideally, a truly gifted person such as yourself will eventually find his perfect match, the other half of him which he had always felt to be curiously absent from his life, his bar-mate. The bonding among bar-mates is truly among the most elegant experiences available to mortal man. They tend to recognize each other instantly, hastily coupling in tavern parking lots before even exchanging names. From there they go hand-in-hand through life, joyously discovering the sacred joys of transcendent drunkenness. But alas Plastered, it seems that this is not to be. Not for you. Not in this lifetime. If your bar-mate hasn't shown up by the time you reach legal drinking age, it generally can be assumed that she died shortly after receiving her driver's license. But don't despair, there is no reason for you to lead a life bereft of romance. An adequate replacement for your prematurely departed mate can be found, and you won't even have to cough up a rib. Don't succumb to the temptation to choose a like-minded believer who has her own personal relationship with distilled spirits, that way lies madness. In fact the ideal help-mate for you would be a mature, stable woman, several years your junior, who has absolutely no sense of self whatsoever. In order to attract a mate such as this, you need only perfect the art of appearing to be the ideal "fixer-upper." You must work to maintain the illusion that you are the ideal man, although you may be a little "rough around the edges." Whatever psychological strategy you employ to ensnare the love of your lif |
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ah, screw it. The rest are over there in the back issues. |
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thanks ian noll |
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