For those interested, here’s a basic surmise of my argument for Jesus’s HISTORICAL existence with someone who wasn’t accusing me of being a Christian.
I’d like to thank jeverttx, should he ever see this, for the informative and honest discussion.
I would love to spend more time on this blog.
But as everyone knows: I’m an internet hardass. If you cross my path, I will spank your ass cheeks blood red. And I’ve been doing a lot of spanking in overtime.
Ask anyone on the streets, “what do you think of when world renowned shitposter Beau Montana comes to mind?”. And every last one of them will say, VERBATIM: “he’s one of the premier armchair historians of our age in the field of the historical Jesus and early Christianity, particularly in regards to the Gospel of Mark.”
So when such an honor is bestowed upon you, you can’t let transgressions like this go unpunished:
Bart Ehrman…noted atheist and academic…vehemently argues for the existence of the historical Jesus.
Perhaps the Instagram poster thought: “it’s common knowledge that Bart Ehrman argues for the historical existence of Jesus, so maybe my audience will think this meme will be ATTACKING Ehrman by using his own words against his claims.”
OR, as is most likely, the poster has no idea what Bart Ehrman actually argues, and lazily reposted this image which makes Ehrman look like he’s arguing against the historical Jesus.
That’s intellectual laziness and I’m not having it, especially since the public places their trust in me to provide valuable information and analysis.
To vent my frustrations, I took to the newest invention from our Lord and Savior Mark Zuckerberg, THREADS.
The result has been my most interacted with content I have ever posted to social media. Unfortunately I can’t link to it because it appears that Threads is still only in app form. But I’m proud of myself for adequately defending mine and Ehrman’s position with such gems as:
And
So rest assured that in this age of misinformation you still have people like me defending the truth with all the intellectual rigor required of a true scholar
The coffee tasted like something scooped out of a Mississippi toilet after thanksgiving. As I watched my roommate shovel the eggs and bacon down his throat, I suddenly lost my appetite. But that’s not why I attended breakfast.
I wanted to see Sam before her shift ended. I sipped on my shit-water as I watched her from afar. She was always busy, helping one bum through some crisis or another. But before 7am struck, she called for the cafeteria’s attention.
“Before I leave,” she stated, “I’d like to read one of my poems.”
There were a few inaudible groans. Most paid her no attention. “Hey everyone! Shut the fuck up!” my roommate shouted.
The cafeteria fell silent.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “This poem is called ‘Hope’. No matter how dark things may seem, tomorrow is a new day.”
She pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and began reading. “I believe in a future where no man is less than,” she read. “Where no woman is treated like urine; flushed down the drain, like a past that has no name…”
A few in attendance started to shake their heads.
“The future starts with us,” Sam continued. “So jump on the bus; this is the wagon train to the stars, we won’t stop until we reach Mars. So uplift each other’s dreams, let us not fall into despair, like the career of Harry Reems.”
The cafeteria was silent. It was the worst poem we’ve ever heard. But the roommate started to clap the I soon followed. Only the two of us applauded.
“Thanks again,” Sam said. “Enjoy your breakfast. Count your blessings, and I will see everyone tonight.”
I watched her fold the paper back up, place it back in her pocket, and depart the auditorium. While she may not have been much of a poet, I counted my blessings alright. I awaited for her return.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Here it is, the day we’ve all dreaded.
At the spry age of 83, Robert “Bobby” Montgomery Knight has kicked the bucket. The world of college basketball will never be the same.
Now I’m not saying that Bobby Knight was a good man. Or a nice man. Or a pleasant man. Or an intelligent man. Hell, I don’t even know if his players liked playing for him. Just ask Neil Reed what he thought (RIP).
What I am saying is that Bobby Knight was probably the last certifiably insane person to ever coach a college basketball team. There will be no more like him (nor should there be). He is also thus far the only inductee into the IRE Real-Ass Dude Hall of Fame. Regardless of what you think of the man, we should at least respect that.
Bobby Knight accomplished more things in his life than most of us will. My only regret is that his announcing career didn’t last longer. I can’t imagine why it ended so quickly:
She laid the shit and piss stained sheets over the moldy mattress. She was as plain as the prairies of Kansas. The words failed to come when she asked me if I needed anything else.
“A bourbon if you got it,” I said to her.
“There’s no drinking on the premises, Mr. Watkins,” she replied.
“Please, can you call me Donny?”
“Donny, pleased to meet you. I’m Sam.”
“Short for Samantha?”
“Just Sam. My parents abandoned me at the hospital so I’m named after the doctor who delivered me.”
Sam…a name that forever be etched onto my heart. “What’s your last name?” I asked.
“Malone. Sadly.” Sam then handed me the last bit of toiletries. “Breakfast starts at 6am,” she continued. “Please get some rest, Donny. I promise you that things will get better from here.”
“Will you still be here in the morning?” I ask.
“My shift ends at 7. So please wake up early. I hope to see you there.”
I nodded. “I promise I’ll be up.”
Sam gave a slight smile and departed the room. I didn’t bother stripping off my ratty ass clothes before I climbed into bed. I laid there for awhile thinking of Sam’s smile and soft voice before I dozed off. My roommate ripped a loud fart and I was fast asleep.
It was around 5 am when my roommate awoke. He was humming the words to some godawful song. “Lick it up! Lick it up! Ahhhhaaaahhhahhhh!” he shouted.
“Hey buddy, do you mind?!” I yelled.
“Yeah I do mind!” he replied as he was putting on his shit-covered boots. “It’s a new day. My dick still gets hard. And I got $12 in my pocket!”
“I have bad news for you,” I said, “you’re at the Salvation Army. That means your life is in the ditch! And Kiss sucks ass!”
“YOUR life may be in the ditch. But in three days I’ll be out of this shithole and in New Orleans.”
“New Orleans is a shithole too.”
“Cheer up, good buddy,” he said as he completed tying his boots. “Do you smell that? That’s the coffee brewing.” Then he farted. “And that’s the smell of the last vestiges of yesterday’s chili dog. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
The smelly roommate stood up, ran a comb through his hair, and took a piss. As he was about to exit, he told me one last thing.
“I’ve got a history lesson for you: Did you know that Bill Clinton’s father drowned in a ditch in Missouri?” he asked. “I can’t think of a worse way to go.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
So I was with my mom and dad in the Smoky Mountains when, for whatever reasons, I decided to get high. Much of my memory is shoddy after that, but I do remember stopping off at some mill. I don’t know why that mill was a popular stopping point for tourists (I guess that’s where Robert E. Lee sucked off Ulysses S Grant to end the Civil War (that’s how they ended wars back in those days. Look it up)) but I had to take a piss. I went into the bathroom and started chuckling over some stupid joke in my head when a dude in an Alabama Crimson Tide shirt starting pissing in the urinal next to me. There was also a guy absolutely shitting his ass out on the toilet. The Alabama guy kept looking over at me like I was some weirdo and I then I started uncontrollably laughing because I thought that HE thought I was laughing at the dude shitting his ass out.
The we stopped at a babbling brook. Everyone was standing around in awe at this beautiful sight, but all I can think of are those people that use nature as “proof of god”. Then I thought it would be funny if there was an atheist who had no understanding of science who used nature as proof that there was no god, so he just bitches nonstop at National Parks for how stupid and ugly they are. I dunno, I thought it was funny.
Anyway, that’s the story. The end.
Love is in the air (it smells like farts, btw). Plus I’m a “writer” and one thing I haven’t been doing lately is write.
So I’m gonna write a romance story. I’ve done a few of those and they’ve all ended in disaster. But I gotta get back in the game. After all, I haven’t completed a story in nearly a year for fucks sake.
So here we go. We’ll see what happens…
To Sire, With Love by Beau Montana
Everything changed that day. My luck had ran out. I put everything on the Bears Vs Raiders game and the starting quarterback went down in the first quarter.
I lost everything.
My house.
My kids.
My wife.
My pants.
All gone.
“Another bourbon, please,” I ordered the bartender.
He picked up a dirty ass glass and began wiping it down. “What seems to be the problem, Donny?” he asked. I knew he didn’t give a shit.
“Well Tom, my dick don’t work, my hair is gone, and I’m a crippled diabetic. Just get me another drink.”
He shook his head and laid down the glass. “This one’s on the house,” he said.
“Good,” I replied, “cuz I spent my last $10.”
Tom walked away to leave me in my misery. I slowly picked up the glass and sipped on the bourbon trying to extend my last bit of good luck.
Then a gaggle of hooligans waltzed in creating a ruckus. “Hey, can I get a Miller Lite,” one of them politely asked Tom.
“Can you shut the fuck up!” I shouted from across the bar. “I’m trying to get drunk over here!”
“I’m sorry sir,” the kid replied. “I’ll keep my voice down.”
“You know what?” I retorted, “I should beat the shit out of you. Do you know who I am? I’m goddamn Donny Watkins! My social security number is 674-76-1839 and my mother’s maiden name is Thompkins! And I’m in no mood to take your bullshit!”
“Perhaps you should stop drinking, Donny,” Tom interrupted.
“Shut up asshole!” I said. “I run this town, which is Boston by the way! God bless Wade Boggs!”
I was subsequently bounced from the bar and Tom banned me for life. After crying in a dingy alleyway for a few minutes, I knew I had to find a place to sleep. I wondered from one underpass to the next. All the drug dens were booked up.
The last resort was the Salvation Army. I stumbled up to the front desk, my eyes bloodshot and breath reeking of alcohol. “Do you have any identification, sir?” the receptionist asked.
I dug into my pockets to find anything that might say my name. I laid all the contents on the counter and started to rub my face while the receptionist fumbled through the paperwork.
After I lowered my hand, I heard an angelic voice. “We have a bed ready for you, sir,” it said.
That’s when I saw her..
TO BE CONTINUED
I wasn’t “fired”, okay?
I was “relieved of my obligations to the company.”
Thank fucking god. Because you know what I miss? This blog.
I don’t want to sound sappy or anything, but I miss everyone here. I miss reading your blogs because I didn’t have time to waste company time by sitting on the toilet for hours on end.
I promise on my next job that I won’t work so hard. I promise to halfass my day away while I devote my full attention to this website.
Did you know that I have only finished ONE short story all year? That’s unacceptable. I’m supposed to be an artist. My burden in life is to pull random stories out of my ass until I question my sanity. That’s my cross to carry.
So in many ways, I’m like Jesus Christ. As long as you worship me and empty out your wallet in my name, I will suffer for your entertainment. I’m just benevolent that way.
So my Honda 9 cylinder 4.12 v block 5 banger was going 9-0 down the interstate when it suddenly crapped out. To come to a stop, I had to ram it into a guardrail which caused me to tailspin back into traffic.
20 motorists were injured and one died. I feel bad about that.
But the important thing was that I was not injured and my Honda is still in working order. When CHP showed up, they ordered me to move it off to the shoulder. “Fuck you man!” I told them, “it cut off on me while driving! I’m not getting back in that thing!”
“Well you’re gonna have to get it towed,” they said, “it’s obstructing traffic.”
So I dialed up the nearest towing service and they gave me the runaround. “It’ll cost $47,641 and you’ll have to spread you ass cheeks when the driver arrives,” they explained.
“I’ll suck him off too!” I replied. “But get here quickly! I’m blocking nine lanes of traffic!”
So after the driver violated my penis in front of all the I-10 motorists, he dropped me off at the mechanic. “See you later sweet cheeks,” he said.
I blew him a kiss.
Later, the mechanic said I had a faulty carburetor, stolen catalytic converters, no gas in the tank, a shitty paint job, and that spoiler made me look like a fucking idiot. “So how much will cost to fix?” I asked.
He pulled out his calculator and thumbed the buttons. “Just south of 6 Gs,” he said. “A Honda 9 cylinder GF96x v block 4.12 liter 9 banger is complicated to work on. Plus we have to order parts out of Palestine.”
“Uhh, I think you mean ISRAEL, sir.”
🤦♂️
THE END
For the first time in my 109 years on earth, I’m trying to get hot. I mean, I’ve actually started combing my hair. Can you believe that shit?
I’m also trying to get absolutely JACKED. I want to rise up out of the ocean like Daniel Craig in Casino Royale with a blue speedo on and everyone think “I want some of that” before i disappoint them with my helplessly average penis. The problem is I’ve never weighed more than 98 pounds in my life.
Instead of looking like Daniel Craig, I look more like Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver.
To help put on the weight, I’ve just started pounding the supplements and basically eating out of a trash can. Whatever shitty food is out there, I’ve been eating it. And nothing has been shittier than Burger King.
So I pulled up to the window to place my order. The girl asks over the intercom “can I take your order?”
I say “yeah, I’d like a crispy royal chicken and…”
“Can you hold on a second?” she rudely interrupts.
So I sit there quietly for ten minutes before she comes back. “Sorry about that, can I take your order?”
“Yes, I’d like a crispy royal chicken…”
“Hold on.”
26 minutes later she comes back. “I’m sorry, are you ready to order?”
“Yes, a goddamn crispy royal chicken sandwich with a fucking Pepsi!”
“We only serve Coke products sir.”
“I don’t drink that piss water!”
“So you want just the chicken sandwich?”
“Yes! And some chicken fingers too!”
“Would you like any barbecue or Buffalo dipping sauce?”
“Give me some Buffalo sauce!”
“We’re all out of buffalo sauce sir.”
“Nevermind then. Just give me some fries!”
“Small, medium, or large?”
“Medium!”
“You can only do small or large.”
“Fuck me! Just give me small.”
“Will that be all?”
“Get me a strawberry shake too!”
“That will $204.97, first window.”
Then when they gave me my order, they handed me a bacon cheeseburger with onion rings! Instead returning it and ranting and raving like I’d normally do, I ate it and it tasted like ASS.
THE END
The Internet Ruined Everything 