| Super Cool Jesus Stories for Kids |
| Super-Apostle |
| "ACLU Wins Historic Battle for Civil Rights," announced the New York Times' front page. Jerry threw the paper to the ground and spat upon it in digust. "Jesus will not stand for all this fairness and equality for all business!" he shouted as he raised his wrinkled, liver-spotted fist to the heavens. Suddenly, the phone rang--but not just any phone! A call was coming through on the Baptist Nazi Dictator Crisis Line! Jerry scrambled to pick up the receiver. "Jerry! Have you seen the headlines?" It was the frantic voice of Jerry's holy war sidekick, Pat. "Yes, Pat! And I know what I must do." Jerry tossed the receiver aside and leapt into his closet, bursting out seconds later as...SUPER-APOSTLE! His spandex constume stretched across his holy frame, revealing the rippling rolls of manly gristle cascading down over his belt. "To the Popemobile!" he cried. Jerry cruised at top speed through the city streets in the plexiglass-encased vehicle he stole from the wretched and evil Pope John Paul II. The wind rustled through his thinning grey comb-over as he lurched to a stop in front of Our Lord of Acrimony Rest Home. The front door flew open and out bounded Pat in his latex bodice and fishnet stockings. Super-Apostle and Pat are quite the equality-fighting duo. Together they raced to the Trinity Broadcasting Network headquarters and interrupted Tammy Fae Bakker mid-song. "I'm sorry, Tammy," said Super-Apostle, "but we have a situation here. Seems that the ACLU is once again plotting to uphold the values upon which the United States was built. God did not intend for us all to be equal, tolerant, or loving of each other. Only those who worship Him and send us lots of money are entitled to justice!" The audience was whipped into a frenzy by Super-Apostle's passionate speech and went running out of the studio, bent on attacking and slandering minorities to offset the judicial balance created by the ACLU. And so off they went with the grace of God to make the lives of the non-Christian perfectly miserable, all thanks to Super-Apostle and his sidekick Pat. |
| Fred Phelps Goes to West Hollywood |
| Having finally mustered the courage to face the raging liberals of southern California, the Reverend Fred Phelps and his band of rosy-necked followers embarked on a pilgrimage to Los Angeles, the West Coast's cesspool of sin. They marched the streets and protested before Catholic churches. They assembled at the funerals of AIDS victims, proudly bearing the Lord's words on clever signs: "God Hates Fags", "No Tears For Queers", and "Thank God for AIDS". They demonstrated in front of the state capital, denouncing gay and lesbian rights supports as "fag-enablers". Yes, their work was righteous indeed, and Rev. Phelps, while always remaining hidden in the background away from the media, lead them justly on their holy crusade. But as their journey was winding down, Fred felt the need to wander from the group and see the sights on his own. He boarded the first bus available and made his way to Hollywood--or so he thought. Imagine Fred's surprise upon exiting the bus: no studios, no wax museums, no stars gracing the sidewalk. No, none of the famed Hollywood sights were to be found. In their place, Fred was horrified to see gay clubs and bars lining the streets! Everywhere he turned, he spotted men holding hands, women kissing, drag queens gracing the sidewalks! He spun around, intending to leap back into the bus. But alas, it was already pulling away, and in the rear window he read: "W. Hollywood". Fred was stranded in West Hollywood, the gay capital of southern California. Fred composed himself, straightened his tie, and set his jaw. True to his righteous calling, Fred stood himself on the nearest street corner and began preaching. He screamed and ranted at the God-forsaken queers that passed by, reading aloud from the Facist Pastoring for Dummies pocket Bible he always carried with him. A small crowd gathered to watch his antics, moreso to taunt him than to bear witness to the Word. Suddenly, the sinners parted, and a cloud of pink smoke billowed through the crowd. Fred coughed and sputtered, and as the smoke cleared, he found himself standing face to face with the Queen of Queers himself, Boy George. "Darling, whatever are you working your cute self up for?" sang the effeminate Brit. "Was last night's lay not quite up to par? Perhaps you're more of a bottom than a top, honey. Give it a try." The hellbound crowd burst into uproarious laughter, and poor Fred's neck grew twice as red. But the Lord was not to be mocked, and Fred knew it was time to bring out the big guns. "You have blasphemed for the last time, faggot!" shrieked Phelps. "God has charged me with a special mission, to rid the world of queers and sodomites! I see that I have been far too peaceable in my methods thus far, but no more! Your kind ends now, sinner!" And with that, Fred pulled from his pocket the Hetero-Ray, weapon of mass diversity destruction! "Honestly, Freddy, do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?" taunted Boy. Enraged, Fred aimed the Hetero-Ray at Boy's groin and pulled the trigger. The weapon fired a radiant streak of godly light, blinding Boy and Fred along with the crowd. When the gathered regained their sight, they were awestruck. They Ray had bounced off Boy's shiny sequined pants and returned to strike Fred! And Fred was quite something to behold... His white suit had been replaced by purple vinyl pants and a skin-tight tank top that read "Catcher". He still wore cowboy boots on his feet, but now they were bright red and detailed with shimmering flames. His cowboy hat also remained, but it was now leopard print and trimmed with rhinestones. Boy laughed smugly, looked Fred up and down and said, "From now on, gorgeous, you're to be known as Frederika. Bubba, take him away. He's all yours." A hulking, burly biker, clad in leather and a tshirt reading "Pitcher", stepped forward from the crowd and grinned lustily at Fred. Fred tried to scream, but the only sound he could emit was a long, high pitched lisp. And lisp he did, as Bubba dragged him kicking and flailing off into the sunset. |