Tag: religion

The Robot Flock

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The parish priest was tired of giving sermons every week, so he built a robot to deliver his sermons.
The worshipers were tired of listening to the priest’s sermons, so they built robots to listen to the sermons.
Robots delivering sermons to robots, week in and week out.
After the nuclear war, all the humans were dead.
But the robots kept going to the services, and the priest robot kept delivering them.
Nobody knows what the robots do the rest of the time.
Because all the humans died.
Maybe they write silly stories, and you listener robots listen to them?

The Belt of St. Judas

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A simple, ancient belt of rope cinched around a tattered burlap robe, a bag of old coins in a purse.
The Abbot of Saint Judas bears these relics.
Without Papal sanction, the mission continues in secret. Every night, the faithful gather, and he returns to the hovel in the shadow of The Basilica to preach:
“Jesus asked to be betrayed. He was forgiven. Judas’ only sin was to martyr himself.”
The old monk closes the book as the soldiers rush into the abbey.
Arrests are made, the veneration of a false saint.
The abbot shakes the purse. A lucrative trap.

Cheese Bunnies

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Maybe down there in Florida or Texas you have your chocolate bunnies for Easter, but up here in Wisconsin, we have our cheese bunnies.
Yep. Cheese bunnies.
We didn’t get the idea for them from chocolate bunnies. You got that idea from us.
Long ago, some guy made cheddar Jesuses and called them “Cheesus.” Got lynched as a blasphemer.
His son thinks “I’ll make them into bunnies.”
Now, not everyone has as good cheese as us, but they make good chocolate.
So, they make chocolate bunnies.
I hear someone makes them out of ranch dressing.
That’s kinda stupid, isn’t it?

Sacrifice That

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He commanded me to go up the mountain with my son and a knife.
“Prove your loyalty to me,” said The Lord. “Go kill him.”
God’s a prick. He’s always fucking with us like that.
Sacrifice this, recite that.
I’m tired of it.
So I let Him guide me up the mountain, His hand showing the way.
I lay my son on a flat rock, draw the knife, and ask if He’s sure about this.
“Just kidding,” He says. “Go sacrifice that goat.”
He points to a mountain goat.
I grab his Hand, cut off a finger, and swallow it.

Sabbath

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Servants are unreliable.
When the Sabbath comes, you cannot depend on them to do work.
Unsupervised, they do such a poor job. And they steal.
So, we decided to build robots to do the Sabbath chores.
It wasn’t enough to program them with the ability to cook, clean, and mend. They must do it the right way. We also filled them with reason and piety, all of the Talmudic Law on a chip.
The robots worked great. They freed us to do so much.
Until Sabbath. They joined us in prayer, reached for their own switches, and turned themselves off.

Caricature

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The revolting, hook-nosed caricature loaded his grocery cart with every discount Kosher food he could.
When finished gathering food for tonight’s blood rituals, he haggled with the young lady at the checkout counter, protesting every penny.
She kept sweeping every item over the scanner. Beep. Beep.
“Want paper or plastic?” the bagboy asked.
“So hard a decision,” said the caricature. “Does the plastic come from petroleum stolen from Arab holy lands? Does the paper come recycled from shredded and defiled Korans?”
The girl stopped scanning the items and the bagboy stared into empty space.
There was nobody there.
Never was.

The Menorah

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“The sun’s almost down.”
“That’s nice. Where’s the cat?”
“He’s outside. It’s time to light the menorah.”
“Where’s the candles?”
“I’m using an oil menorah this year.”
“An oil menorah?”
“Yes. Uses olive oil. More authentic than candles.”
“What?”
“More authentic.”
“You’re gonna burn the fucking place down.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“We’ve got a smoke detector this year.”
“Test it recently?”
“Um… no… errr…”
“Well, isn’t that a hoot?”
“You put the battery in the TV remote.”
“I did not.”
“Yes you did.”
“No I didn’t. I put it in the Blu-Ray remote.”
“What?”
“You’re a moron.”

Quote

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They say the devil can quote scripture.
Of course he can. He wrote it. Every word of it.
Branded on the backs of the sinners with red hot pokers.
Skin torn from flesh, pressed into sheets, bound between brimstone covers, still dripping with their blood.
He was there at the Council of Nicea, making changes to his rough draft, whispering in old priests ears and making deals.
I’ll make you a saint.
I’ll make you a hero.
I’ll make you a prophet.
I’ll make you a god among men.
Every hotel room is his church, his word in the drawer.

The Battery

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The monks bring out the iron chest and assemble the relics upon the altar.
Tears from a thousand saints poured into the Holy Grail, iron from the gates of Heaven and Hell wired with a slender silver thread that was hammered from Judas’ coins.
They connect the wires around my horns.
“Do you see The Light?” asks the abbot.
I wait. There is a buzzing in my ears, but no light.
“I am deeply sorry, Lucifer. Redemption is beyond your grasp.”
I crawl back to The Pit to continue my plans.
“A Hallmark card, perhaps?” says a demon.
Infernal fools.

Bacon

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The Law of Bacon is an axiom of our existence.
Creation’s purpose is two-fold: to evolve a form of life to generate a source of bacon and a form of life to consume bacon.
This is the Meaning Of Life. One without the other shatters the fabric of reality.
The wine and wafers are gone, replaced with strips of bacon.
The pews are filled with the faithful, led by the aroma and sound of sizzling in the skillet.
Today, we burn a heretic at the stake, a nonbeliever in our midst, the grease of turkey bacon still on her lips.