a blogevangelist extravaganza: ding! dong! the douchebag's gone

Is it wrong to laugh at someone's death? Almost usually. But no more wrong than every single thing that Jerry Falwell ever said, including the time he said, "Sure!" when a waitress asked him if Coke was okay when he ordered a Pepsi. (Note: he then prayed for her heathen, Coke-selling soul.)

So apparently Ol' Jer dropped dead (or, if you'd like to use the medical terminology, he was 'smote') around noon. Right as I was getting up vaguely early so I could go vote. And oh, boy, am I glad I voted. Now I'm going to have yet another reason to want to go a-vote-castin'! Not only will I order up some democracy, Sheetz-style, but now I can hope that somewhere, every time a "Vote" button lights up, a disgusting ball of intolerance and adipose tissue will heave a sigh and then flop to the ground. Or, in the case of Fred Phelps, have a crystal-meth-induced seizure atop an underaged male prostitute.

Everyone who has a blog is today writing something about Falwell's death. Some, like me, are clapping their hands and cackling. Some are sure it's a sign of the apocalypse. (Note: if ever there is a day during which nobody says the words "it's a sign of the apocalypse!" it will actually be the apocalypse.) And some are saying that we shouldn't mock his death because he had a family, and it's mean. Or something.

Dude, what the fuck ever. I have a family, too, and he didn't seem to have any problem bashing every single thing I stand for. And if I keeled over today instead of him, he'd have surely condemned my entire life, glossing over all the good things I've done and focusing instead on the fact that I like to kiss girls. Right, so, party at my house. Let's get a fucking keg and celebrate all the oxygen that's freed up for the rest of us now that he's not yammering about homosexual cartoon characters. Naked post-barbecue absinthe-and-THC-fueled moon-worship is optional but encouraged.

Phelps is going to protest the funeral, which confirms my theory that Phelps does not actually understand the concept of a protest and just has some kind of a homemade-sign fetish. A protest is to bring attention to your cause in order to bring about some kind of change. So in protesting a funeral, what is it you want to change? The death? Isn't that somewhere along the lines of questioning god? Shouldn't you disappear in a cloud of logic right about now, Phelpie? I think being called "Phelpie" by such a "fag-enabler" and carpet-muncher such as yours truly would really drive him...well, crazier. If such a thing were possible without some kind of lobotomy. I thought maybe the protest was just a rumor, but you can't make this shit up. There should be a mental disease named after that man.

Funniest thing about it is not that I agree with one of the statements therein (that Falwell split hell wide open) and with Falwell when he called Phelpie a lunatic or somesuch a while back. It's not even that everything is so poorly written. (If you can't make your point without exclamation points, then you are an idiot and should sit down.) And it's not even that the first three digits of the zip code of Ground Zero of these nitwits are 666.

No, the funniest thing about all of this is that just a few days ago, I was channel surfing and landed on some televangelist. And he was blathering about something and using completely ridiculous attempts at logic to prove that god exists and free will is a myth. He claimed that if a man makes a table and then dies, the table still exists. So far, I'm with you. I've never seen a table get blinked out of existence. But then he just threw in that the opposite is true for god and the universe -- that the universe cannot exist without god and that if god ceased to exist, so would we. Right, because that's something you can prove. If you have a guy, some wood, and a gun, you can prove the first part pretty easily. But the two aren't really related beyond sharing a couple of verbs. That's so ridiculous that I can't even come up with an appropriate analogy.

So in watching this jackass rattle on, I got so irritated that I apostrophized god or whatever mystical force might enjoy listening to basements in Forest Hills, and I said, "Aren't you fucking sick of this by now?"

It would seem that I got an answer today. I think I might be ready to be America's next cult leader.