New content every morning!

proselyting

I knew the disgruntled holy spirit chambers had been jostled when I penned my religious toxicity in a font story entitled ‘firestarter’.

Enforcement squads had been dispatched across Blasphemy Valley which had me and most of the other seasoned artists on edge for the past few weeks.

Our mobile home community was stickered as a nuisance clan that thrived on interference stirred from door-to-door holy ghost whisperers.

After my struggling artist submission stats were fed into Duotrope there was nervous isolation of a stifled cough outside my rented door.

‘LDS sir, not LSD,’ the peach-fuzz face sang to me through my rusty security door that was rich with abandoned cobwebs.

Opposite me were two dusk shadows licking at prepubescent male figures costumed in traditional club issued starched khaki tie combo costumes.

‘Yep LDS, that’s right. You kids flipped the script a few years back didn’t ya,’ I teased through the tiny maze of rectangular soldered mounts.

A subtle wisp of stale toast infused with crayons kissed my eye holes as one of the skin stick boys spoke.

‘My name is Elder-in-training Thomas,’ the confident one said with conviction.

‘Well, that is a mouthful for a Starbucks barista!’ I shuttlecocked back while slaying it with ‘Can you see me? I’m doing a spin jig behind my Wizard of Oz seclusion shield.’

At Blasphemy we understood the key to deflating power gospel campaigns was to impale these prodigy puffers with a timed-release of comic relief javelins causing their internal hypnosis chambers to be temporarily muted.

Tommy, the omniscient one, suppressed a confused chuckle by continuing with, ‘We can see a faint outline of what appears to be a kilt but your body is missing from full view. How are you today?’

‘I am a million miles away from buying a ticket to your gospel recruitment rodeo, but other than that my sebaceous cysts are on the mend and Gloria is getting her dentures out so our annual Gummer Chummer party will be at full tilt with 100% participation levels this weekend,’ collapsed out of my beard hole.

It was at that moment Earl Schieb (the other one), fired up the community bus that had been customized to remove the annoying roof attached to annoying windows. Gummer Chummer fiestas were bi-weekly so Earl needed to grab some of the naturally endowed members from our sister city Venery Village.

The nameless Elder lost nine shades of color while capturing his fainting training pants friend as our custom painted Bus of Magic Flesh Rides, with an unfamiliar horse trailer attached, crept behind them near my succulent riddled faux garden.

This week’s chum campaign was an initial phase of trying to be more inclusive. I had forgotten it was theme week which entailed everyone’s least favorite pudding cup, bestiality.

LDS stake scouts zip lined out of disappointed trees surrounding Blasphemy. Seventeen starched white shirt boys tossed a barrage of smoke canisters which allowed Tommy and company a sloppy retreat into other neighboring worlds that were thirsty for the perceived light they needed to force shine.

An unencumbered Gummer Chummer fiesta would launch at midnight.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.

Image generated on Magic Studio