Tag Archives: Jesus

Never Mind the Chocolates, Here’s the Resurr-wrecked Apostle

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“Guess who’s back… back again…” The Real Slim JC


Well, that was Easter. The time of year when parents stockpile eighteen tonnes of chocolate for their children, even though at any other time of the year they wouldn’t let them so much as sniff a Taz bar from fifty feet away, but, don’t worry, it’s alright, “because it’s Easter”.

Yes, it’s a well-known fact that Jesus has the magical power to stave off diabetes. That and he’s really good at juggling. Any priest will tell you that Jesus elected to die screaming in agony in the desert so that for four consecutive days in every year we could stuff our children full of chocolate without fear of judgement or consequence: Maltesers on toast for breakfast, followed by Creme Eggs Benedict for lunch, and a Double Decker steak for dinner. Amen. Thank you, Jesus.

You’re probably wondering who this ‘Jesus’ guy is. You know, him. You do. You do know him. He’s the dude with the beard? He wears the sandals, bit hippyish? Has a heavy foot fetish. You know who I’m talking about, you do. Rose from the dead? Son of God? A Capricorn?

It’s pretty easy to forget Easter’s connection to Jesus, what with all the rabbits, boiled eggs and chocolate. In any case, most of us here in the UK are Christians by osmosis, and only when it suits us – we’re happy to wear a funny hat, munch an egg or accept a nicely wrapped gift or twelve, but that’s about it. Just the good stuff. Don’t ask us to get down on our knees and start muttering to an invisible man. That’s what alcohol is for.

If we do think about Jesus at this time of year it’s usually because his name pops up in a million shit jokes on our Facebook feeds, jokes that have been resurrected from last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Thanks Timehop. Next year, I hope we can roll the groans away (Jesus, that was awful) (Jesus: ‘Yes, it was’.)

Really, though, who needs jokes when the reality is funny enough? For instance, this Easter would have seen thousands of fundamentalist Christian pro-lifers splitting their time between glorifying a man’s violent execution, and grabbing a bunch of dead chicken babies and smashing them down a hill. The American ones would probably have let their five-year-olds blast the eggs to smithereens with assault rifles. Yay life!

I get that eggs are included in the Easter itinerary because they symbolise the transformative nature of life, or remind us of the rolling away of the stone. But what about the rabbit? Why the fuck is he involved? Was Jesus a recovering alcoholic, and the rabbit was his invisible best pal? It doesn’t make any sense. Celebrating Easter through the narrow focus of the Easter Bunny is like Muslims fasting during the holy month of Ramadan at the behest of a talking shark, who commands parents to hide marshmallow shark-teeth around their gardens which the kids then gather up in old divers’ helmets.


Easter, of course, isn’t just about oval things, resurrections and rabbits. It’s also the time of year when politicians exploit the seasonal theme of rebirth and redemption to spout pious bullshit that’s perpendicular to their actual policies, a blood-soaked arrowhead pointing away from objective reality at a right-wing angle. I suppose this makes them little different to the Christian church itself, which has rarely found itself preaching on the right side of history (but occasionally the far-right side).

The whole thing depresses me. Far be it from me to poo-poo a globe-encompassing engine of faith and the cogs which service it, but go get your face-wipes: here comes the poo-poo.

The devout will tell you that man possesses an innate drive to seek out the divine; a call to worship that’s programmed into his very soul. That’s why we build churches and mosques: so we can spend our lives chanting and bowing and praying; to make sure that God can hear us, feel us, and love us, wherever we are and whatever we do. But you need only look at the mechanical masses at the Nuremberg rallies (or at Trump’s rallies), or crowds during a football match, or the swell of people at a rock concert, to realise that whatever happens when groups of people get together under a shared banner of identity, or try to arrange themselves into tiers, doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with God. We’re animals, after all. Brave, beautiful, bold, bountifully clever animals, but animals none-the-less. And that’s enough. More than enough. That makes us awesome. Because we’re greater than the sum of our parts. And we don’t need to invent a God to tell us that.

Jesus wasn’t the only saintly figure on my mind last week. I recently picked up a second-hand CD entitled ‘Legends’ from a local charity shop. One of the tracks was a live recording of a song called ‘You’re My Best Friend’ by US country singer Don Williams, a singer whose music I’ve always loved.

From listening to the song, and from googling the man and his works, it’s clear that his more ardent fans not only adored him, but drew comfort and inspiration from him. They looked up to him like he was a prophet: the embodiment of all that they strived or wished for. If his concerts tended to sound like services, then many of his songs bear a striking resemblance – in tone, pace and structure – to hymns. ‘You’re My Best Friend’ is a great example of this.

It’s worth reproducing the lyrics of the song below so that you can see for yourself just how easily the song – originally written for Don Williams by Wayland Holyfield, and inspired by Holyfield’s wife – could be tweaked to place the emphasis on God.

 

You’re My Best Friend

You placed gold on my finger

You brought me love like I’ve never known

You gave life to our children

And to me a reason to go on

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

When I need hope and inspiration

You’re always strong when I’m tired and weak

I could search this whole world over

You’d still be everything that I need

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

On my CD, towards the end of the song Don Williams invites the crowd to join in. The cumulative effect of those thousands and thousands of voices echoing into the air around him is beautiful, haunting and reverential in a way that real hymns seldom are. It made goosepimples prickle over my skin, and sent a smile across my face.

Hymns are abstract. They force people to hinge their love and adoration onto something that isn’t really there. When Don Williams sings, he sings about the love we carry for our wives, husbands, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers. When a crowd accompanies him, his songs then become hymns to humans: a shrine to the most important qualities within us, and a celebration of what truly makes us who we are.

If anyone’s going to rise again, please let it be Don Williams.

Where have you been all my lives?

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linlithgow

Linlithgow: driving through its heavily congested high street makes you feel like you’re stuck behind the funeral cortege of somebody you’ve always fucking hated.

A few years ago a friend and I visited a shop in Linlithgow that specialised in religious and spiritual bric-a-brac. It was a weird little place: the sort of place where the Bible and the Koran shared space on the bookshelf alongside titles like ‘How to Exorcise Satanic Monopoly Pieces’ and ‘Making Your Cursed Monkey Foot Work For You.’

I wish you could’ve seen it. It’s not there any more. I’d like to think it just vanished in a puff of smoke one day, or that it never actually existed and my whole experience of the place was an hallucination triggered by the proximity of some ancient and evil artefact. But there’s probably a more humdrum explanation: the place was just too bat-shit mental to turn a profit. A Needful Things where none of the things were needful, and the devil running the place wasn’t a very good salesman.

spider-jesus

When you first walked into Needless Things there was a giant Jesus on a crucifix hanging on the wall; a Native American dream-catcher bounced from the ceiling above a wooden statue of an axe-wielding Native American chief in full ceremonial head-dress; Buddha squatted on a little side-table in a corner of the room, and a stone Virgin Mary stood on the floor next to him. It made me smile. I’d seen Night at the Museum. I sincerely hoped that the religious figurines would come to life at night for a scrap and a raucous party, and the shop-keeper would open the shop the next day to find Jesus scalped, and Mary no longer a virgin.

The lady who owned the shop was a tiny, shrivelled raisin with a limp. A quick visual sweep of her wrinkle-etched face convinced me that she was at least 6000 years old. I was surprised she could still walk owing to the tonne of jewellery that bedecked her bird-like frame, the weight of which gave her the gait of a half-wrecked skinless Terminator. I’m sure she was created in a laboratory as part of some weird genetic experiment to splice Yoda with Mr T.

She was also – and I’m struggling to be charitable here – absolutely fucking mental. Pitied the fool, I did.

mrt

The old woman teetered and clinked her way across the shop-floor towards us, fixing us with a calm, predatory stare from her lifeless shark eyes. My friend was suffering from anxiety and panic attacks at the time (a condition  that could only have been exacerbated by the sight of this mystic dinky toy with a waxwork face moving in for the kill), information she shared with the old woman after they entered into a discussion about protective amulets or some such shit. The words ‘panic attack’ appeared to be one of the old woman’s triggers; she adopted a look somewhere between possession and constipation. I guess she was thinking.

‘Panic attacks,’ she said, her ancient lips hardly moving, lending her the appearance of a poorly-painted, haunted ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘Some people think that panic attacks are to do with your brain. Others think they’re to do with bad things in your childhood. But did you ever consider… [wait for it, I thought] that they might be caused by something that happened to you… in a past life?’

Em, no. No, we hadn’t considered that. Mainly because we’re not absolutely insane. I was relieved that this crazy old coot hadn’t entered the medical profession.

“I’ve checked you over, and your panic attacks appear to have been caused by that time you were chased through the garden of Eden by a T-Rex. I’m prescribing an enchanted emerald and a bag of magic frog dicks.”

past-life-regression-therapy

The best was yet to come. She went on to claim that one of her pals – undoubtedly called Mags or Betty – had given her a past-life regression, during which she’d discovered that she’d been a black slave, transported on a galley from Africa to America. I bit my lip so hard I almost ate my face. She stared back at us. This woman was entirely serious. She believed it without question. She further claimed that this revelation finally explained why she had always felt such an affinity with black people. It’s a testament to the entrenched racism of most elderly people in Central Scotland that the only sensible explanation this woman could find for liking black people is that she used to be one two hundred years ago.

I wonder what wee Yoda is doing with herself these days, now that her business has folded. I’d like to think she’s returned to Brooklyn to be with her people. I can just see her now, limping up to a gaggle of guys on a front step somewhere, throwing her arms wide and hollering: “It’s me! It’s Acqwon! I’ve lost a bit of weight since the 18th century, and granted I’m now a tiny white Scottish pensioner, but don’t you recognise me? Come on, homeys, let’s roll up a trouser leg and shoot some hoops!”

FURTHER READING

Jesus Loves You: that’s the problem

Jesus is a jerk

Jesus comes to Stirling

 

Jesus Comes to Stirling

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stirling-blc

It would appear that the art of proselytising has gone corporate.

I was shopping in Stirling with my family yesterday. By which I mean they were shopping, and I was wandering the streets like a refugee displaced by war, desperately wishing I could return home. As I walked past Debenhams for the 857th time, I realised how thoroughly, head-thrashingly bored I was of the Thistle Shopping Centre and its Hannah Barbera-esque monotony. In a bid to shake things up, and stave off the desire to hurl myself under a bus, I decided to weave a different route through the white-walled labyrinth. I was also hungry. Ultimately, I didn’t care where the detour took me, as long as it took me to Greggs the bakers. Keeping to a semi-religious theme, you could say that I was on the road to Ham-ascus. Well, you could say that. But you probably shouldn’t. And I wish I hadn’t. Even the Christmas Cracker people would’ve rejected that piece of shit. I’m very Syria did that joke.

Anyway, let’s get on with this. I don’t want to be responsible for you being seized by the desire to rush outside and offer your skull to the nearest steamroller. My new route took me past a place I never expected to see in a mall in Stirling. To be honest, our Calvinist history not withstanding, I was shocked to see it in Scotland. It was the ‘Bible Learning Centre’, a neat, glossy, corporate, well-lit and slick shop filled with book shelves, biblical figurines, and blackboards. It looks for all the world like a cross between a classroom and a showroom, which I suppose it is.

“Hello there, I’d like to test-read a Bible.”

“I can tell by just looking at you that you’re a classic model man. We’ve just got an exclusive range of Bibles through the door, all kitted out in the original Hebrew. Bit pricey, but your neighbours will covet the hell out of them.”

“I was thinking maybe something a little more modern and conventional. Something reliable, affordable, with room for the kids.”

“Hmmm, I can do you a second-hand King James. Mint condition, apart from some kid’s drawn a spurting cock over the story of Lot’s wife.”

mormoons

The centre is a base for God-botherers, which means that preachers now have a permanent, six-day-a-week presence on Stirling’s streets. Except the people from the centre, who were loitering with intent outside the mall, neither bothered nor preached. Instead, they stood quietly in a row, holding posters and pamphlets perfectly still in their hands like mime artists, approaching and cajoling precisely no-one. I half expected them to be wearing little badges that said: ASK ME ABOUT MY JESUS.

What a wasted opportunity. I say if you’re going to go God, go full God, or not at all. Yes, Jesus was part of a touchy-feely, New-Labour-esque shift away from the lightning-and-locusts focus of the rather brutal Old Testament, but even in his softer, less-murdery, sandal-wearing incarnation, God/Jesus was still hard as fuck. He came down to earth and took more lashes than Anastasia Steele and an Iranian blogger combined, and didn’t even flinch when the Romans nailed him to a piece of wood. The guy’s a dangerous, kinky mental case, who could wink out the world with a twitch of his nose; he doesn’t want a line of meek, sharp-suited morons representing him, some ball-and-bowtie-less Muslim Brotherhood. He wants nutcases. Hectoring, full-blown nutcases.

He wants people like the guy I used to see standing outside one of the shopping centres off Union Street in Aberdeen, who would turn up every day with an amplifier and a microphone and let everyone know – through the medium of angry shouting – that they were all evil bastards who were going to hell. No exceptions. Even the babies were bad’uns.

I miss that guy.

Angry preacher

Perhaps if the Stirling missionaries injected a bit more vim and pep and honest-to-goodness fire and brimstone into proceedings, more people would visit the Bible Learning Centre. I know I would. “WELCOME YOU HORRIBLE FORNICATORS, SECRET MASTURBATORS AND SINNERS! COME SEE OUR DIORAMA OF HELL, WHERE ELTON JOHN IS FUCKING A DINOSAUR AND RICHARD DAWKINS IS BEING WHIPPED BY STALIN.”

Yesterday, the centre was deserted but for one lonely volunteer sitting up the back of the shop padding away at his mobile phone. No doubt he was taking to Twitter to enthuse about how great Jesus is. Tweets like:

@drippyhippy If you think about it, isn’t the Bible just a great big Tweet from God?140 characters, and Jesus is the star! #teamGod

 

@JesusTheFirstRockstar WOO! Jesus, your guitar solo of love flew through the amp and blew the devil from my stage! The crowd surfed him to Hell. YOU RULE JESUS!

 

@PiousPaul My cat licked its own chuff, so I burned her in the name of Jesus. #saynotopussy #mercifulJesus

If Jesus came back today, WWHD? I’ll tell you what he’d do. He’d lose the heid, Bible-style.  “ANN SUMMERS IS HEAVING WITH CUSTOMERS AND MY SHOP’S EMPTY?!” he’d bellow. “DILDOS?!! THE ONLY THING HOUSEWIVES SHOULD BE PUTTING INSIDE THEM IS MY LOVE!” Then he’d go on a major ‘taps aff’ rampage, smashing the shit out of every shop in sight, making his funny turn in the temple look like a sulky pre-schooler’s huff. Then it would be back to basics: floods, earthquakes, pillars of salt, the lot. “I’m never taking 2000 years off again,” he’d say, loading up another lightning bolt.

But thankfully you don’t need to worry about that, because Jesus is about as real as the doodle I just did on my notepad of a half-frog, half-beaver with George Galloway’s face.

Anyway, we’ve all learned something today. We’ve learned that the people of Stirling are more interested in nipple clamps and edible knickers than the Bible. And I’ve learned something, too: I actually quite like you, Stirling.

Thanks, Bible Learning Centre.

PS: Good people of the BLC: I’d rather my son spent a whole day wandering around a museum exhibition entitled ‘Pictures of Murdered Prostitutes Throughout the Ages’ than spend thirty seconds in your dead-eyed play-pen of lies. Happy Easter!

Jesus Loves You – That’s the Problem

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jesus

Letter from a friend? Letter from a terrifying stalker, more like. Is this letter supposed to bring me comfort? Really? It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to find under your pillow alongside a dead rat. A dead rat with blood-red lipstick smeared over its hellishly contorted face, and a message carved into its side with a stanley knife: “This how yoo mayk MEE pheel!”

And what in God’s name is Jesus – a God, the God – doing wasting his time on the indifference of one obliviously happy mammal while the whole world around Him echoes with the yelps and cries of the suffering of millions? Wait… shhhhhh. Shhhh. Do you hear that noise? That, my friends, is the sound of a malnourished East African child’s recently-deceased cheek thudding into the hot desert dust; Jesus could’ve saved him, but presumably he was too busy skulking around Scottish forests, jumping out at people from behind trees, and going, ‘WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU LOVE ME, OPEN ANOTHER FUCKING VEIN??!’

It’s nice that Jesus/God takes a non-interventionist stance on things like genocide and torture (“Well, you know me, Archangel Gabriel, I really don’t like to interfere.”), but doesn’t appear to mind sticking his beak in when he’s feeling a bit mopey and sorry for himself. No lightning bolts to fry those who rape and beat children, but rainbows all round for all the underwhelmed, non-plussed cunts of the world who’re just trying to get to work on time – and couldn’t give a jumping jackhammer for Jesus. That makes Jesus angry… and you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

No, this note does not indicate the behaviour of a benevolent and omnipotent deity; this note indicates the behaviour of a psychopathically jealous ex-partner who’s wearing a moustache made from bits of your hair he’s snipped from your head while you were sleeping. Having read this puke-inducing letter, you’ve got to believe that Jesus getting himself put on that cross two-thousand years ago was nothing more than a cry for attention from the universe’s biggest sulk.

I can see the FBI shaping a serial-killer’s profile from this note:

This is a man with grandiose ideas far out of touch with reality. He exhibits extreme narcissism, illustrated by the way in which he capitalises the word ‘Me’. Through his use of language, Jesus reveals a deeply entrenched God-complex.

We can speculate that in his childhood he was prone to violent bouts of rage, and may have committed anti-social acts such as flooding the entire earth’s surface and murdering millions of people. He may also have experimented with turning people into pillars of salt. Almost certainly he pissed the bed until he was 13.

Remember the Old Testament? Same dude, different beard. God was a total shit in the Old Testament, and I think that only makes his persona in the New Testament seem more sinister (remember ‘New’ Labour?). Jesus makes me nervous, like he’s an old gangster that says he’s gone straight, but you’re never quite sure: “I used to slice a mug’s fingers off just for lookin’ at me funny; now I bladdy love puppies, my san.” You know, a crazy glint in his eye that suggests he could go off on one at any minute. Perhaps, then, he’s more like a violent husband that’s trying to schmooze back into his ex’s good books: “Look, I know I got angry and wiped out a whole country with an earthquake when you forgot to close the fridge door that day, but that was the old me. I’ve changed, I really have… I promise…” Yeah, right, Jesus, pull the other one, mate! Jesus is Trevor, and we’re a planetful of Little Mo’s. And if it’s niceness you’re claiming, let’s not forget that Ted Bundy worked on the Samaritans’ switchboard. 

Creepier still, Jesus ends his ‘From a Friend’ letter by saying that he wants you to meet his Dad. But HE’S his own Dad. What next, Jesus? Discount coupons for a two-night stay at the Bates’ Motel?

Anyway, Jesus really freaked the fuck out of me with this one, so I’m busy drafting the text for a restraining order:

Jesus Horace Christ, you are prohibited from being within 30m of Mr Andrew, at all times and for any reason. This is in response to recent events, including:

Following Mr Andrew and his friends around the local park. You shadowed them on a parallel path behind the trees, intermittently breaking cover to blow in Mr Andrew’s face, and blind him and his friends with direct sunlight.

Breaking into Mr Andrew’s house in the dead of night. Mr Andrew said he opened one eye to find you sitting in a chair next to his bed. Your arm was outstretched and your fingers were approximately five inches from his face. You were crying, and mumbling to yourself: ‘I just want to touch you.’ You then opened the curtains and flooded the room with moonlight, muttering to yourself about DVDs of yours that were still in Mr Andrew’s possession. Mr Andrew was awake but was so terrified that he pretended to be asleep, hoping that you would leave the house of your own volition.

 

Folks, be afraid… be very afraid: Jesus loves you.

In Heaven, no one can hear you scream.

 

 

 

 

Santa’s Journal (Entry 5) – May 16 2013

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Drinking’s a young man’s game. I still feel a little out of sorts after Gundal’s birthday bash. My neural pathways are like never-ending corridors in a vast hospital; thoughts staggering down them like heavily-medicated mental patients with their dressing gowns open. I keep finding clues to my drunken behaviour. Trying to remember the other night is like piecing together a jigsaw made out of fog. Maybe some things are better not knowing. Like how the Jesus from Glasgow’s George Square nativity scene ended up in my bathroom. In May. How in the name of Hell’s bum whiskers did I manage that?

I might have a bit of magic at my disposal, but I thank all that’s good that time travel isn’t among my talents. Think how much worse it would have been if I’d managed to snatch the actual baby Jesus. I guess that’s why Doc and Marty McFly don’t get pished up before they hammer the DeLorean up to 88. I dread to think what Marty would have done to his mum if he’d downed a few bottles of vodka on the way to that dance. Anyway, I’ve wandered off the point a little. It serves a purpose, though. Nonsense talk about time travelling incest is distracting me from the fact that I can hear my heartbeat through my fingers. I’m even sure I can smell my blood, and it smells like Jack Daniels on burnt toast. Blasted bloody hangover! Margaret says I should clamp the reindeers before I start drinking. Or stop drinking. A novel idea. Perhaps I’ll consider it.

It might improve staff relations. Doritch, my most reliable elf, had to fly back to Greenland with Rudolph to pick up the elves I’d left behind. Apparently I kidnapped them. That’s a strong word. I’d like to think I invited them on an adventure against their own will. They weren’t too happy, the boring little buggers, but I’ve given the five of them a week off work, plus a bonus, so all’s fair in rum and war. On the home-front, the conversational cold war between me and Margaret finally has ceased, and relations have warmed. I’ve graduated from being a loutish brute to a lovable rogue again.

My friend Ronald phoned today. He’s flying out next week for a visit. We used to have a wild old time back in the day. We would’ve made Gundal’s party look like an Amish disco. Seems like we’re both slowing down. Age has done it to me, a new-found sensibility has done it for him. Was talking to him about my desire to retire, and he thinks it’s a good plan and I should really push it with Coca Cola. He said we can talk about it when he arrives. I’m looking forward to that. Haven’t seen him in years. Last time I saw him he was a natural fluorescent red. Now I gather he dyes it. Ah, well. I just hope he doesn’t bring with him that drippy friend of his; always gabbing on about this stamp collection and the mating behaviour of woodland insects. I can’t stand the Hamburglar.

RoboPope: Dead and Alive, You’re Coming With Me

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'Yes, I use Daz.'

‘Yes, I use Daz.’

Pope Francis has franchised out his brand to help him meet the demands of the Papacy in our busy, modern times. The new fleet of state-of-the-art RoboPopes was unveiled at a ceremony in Rome last month. Speaking at the ceremony, the Pope said that ‘a robot in my likeness will be sent to every country in which there is a Catholic presence’, each one personally blessed by the pontiff, and programmed to dispense Papal wisdom, and kiss the ground and shit like that.

‘Unlike God, I can’t be everywhere at once,’ said the Pope, ‘but now, with these surrogates, I can come close.’

Too beautiful to be bothering with any Popery, so he stays in his boxers.

Too beautiful to be bothering with any Popery, so he stays in his boxers.

The Pope was praised by senior clergy for ‘embracing change’ and ‘adapting to the technological age’, but Vatican sources insist that the Pope had these robots made because ‘he’s a lazy old cunt.’

‘Most days it’s a battle to get the Holy Father out of his underpants,’ confessed our insider, ‘He’ll just sit there eating ice-cream with a giant ladel, and watching South American Soap Operas. Los Tittos el Bitchos is his favourite. One time, he couldn’t be arsed going out on the balcony to address the crowds in St Peter’s Square, so he just pointed to one of the elder bishops and said, “Stick some glasses on that guy and shove him out there. No cunt’ll know the difference.”’

roboThere have been some teething problems with the robotic pontiffs. One model, trialled in La Paz, Bolivia, was addressing a congregation when it began flailing its arms and shouting, ‘DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!’ The priest who tried to subdue the robot was decapitated, and the organist lost an eye, an ear and one-and-three-quarter testicles. In Dublin, one of the robots began fingering a choir boy. The priest sent an angry memo to the Pope saying: ‘I have nothing against the fingering of a choir boy in principle, Your Holiness, but I had first dibs.’ In Paris, one of the PopeBots converted to Islam, and then whizzed down the Champs Elysees yelling ‘Allahu Akbar’, and loudly denouncing the Pope as a ‘heathen dog.’

The Vatican has ushered in a new era of electronic innovation, upon which other faiths and nations have been quick to capitalise. Iran, Israel and Brazil are all developing, or have developed, a range of religiously-inspired robots, in preparation for what Mahmoud Ahmadinejad calls ‘the coming robopocalypse.’

‘The streets will run with the Castrol GTX of the infidels,’ Ahmadinejad told viewers on Iranian state television, ‘just as soon as we sort out our Windows Vista compatibility issues.’ The Iranian prototype, NOT MOHAMMED, is set to be unveiled this Autumn.

Israel’s line of JewBots, or RabbiPods, will serve as one-day-a-week cleaners rather than metal holy men.

‘This will be a great way for us to get around the no-working-on-the-Sabbath rule,’ said an old Israeli man, who looked uncannily like ZZ Top, ‘I don’t much care if these robots can recite Leviticus, as long as they know their way around a vacuum cleaner. And it would be a bonus if I could hire one to fuck my wife for me.’

'You won't like Jesus when he's angry...'

‘You won’t like Jesus when he’s angry…’

Brazil has completed work on a giant, 300-foot-tall animatronic Jesus, which has already laid waste to nine cities. The cry of ‘JESUS, SMASH!’ has struck fear into the hearts of those on Brazil’s east coast. India is busy working on a 400-foot-tall … whatever that big guy with the trunk and the lots of arms is called, to combat the problem. Robot engineer Samjat Duwallawallawallah said: ‘Hinduism is a religion of peace, yes, but when our guy gets over to Brazil with his multiple pairs of arms I guarantee you he’s going to fuck Jesus’s shit right up.’

Despite some setbacks to his RoboPope plan, it’s clear that Pope Francis remains optimistic, and, more importantly, doesn’t really give that much of a shit.

‘It’s like McDonalds,’ said the Pope, ‘When kids have their birthday parties there, they don’t care whether or not the guy prancing about is actually Ronald McDonald. They see the wig and that nightmarishly fixed smile, and, to them, it’s Ronald McDonald. They’re happy. Same with my robots. People don’t think it’ll be real? Fuck real. Jesus isn’t real, and it’s never put me off. Anyway, these new PopeBots will give me more time off to enjoy my favourite soaps, which reminds me… interview over, got to go… Alejandro’s about to find out that his twin brother Alfonso’s been pumping his wife behind his back. Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself, actually. Smashing tits on that girl.’

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Jesus Christ!

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I never doctored these, or came up with the idea, but I just had to share them. Very funny. The theme is ‘Jesus is a Jerk’, and I suspect the images are from Christian materials that have been subverted/raped by cheeky wee scamps the world over.