Religion jokes

"They call my husband 'The Exorcist.'"

"Why?"

"As soon as gets to a party, he rids it of all the spirits."

Season's Beatings

There's gotta be a better way to spend December.

Let's face it: once you're old enough to fall off of Santa's "List", Christmas loses some of its magic. Actually, it loses all its magic and turns into a super-commercialized orgy of over-eating, binge drinking, and familial Hell. But there isn't any "bah, humbug" here... no siree! We just think the venerable holiday could use some fresh changes, nothing big... just a couple of twists here and there. Like a new cover of "White Christmas" sung by Robert Downey Jr. perhaps, or maybe a Ninja Santa, or instead of giving presents, give advice. That way everyone gives and gets. So we kindly suggest that you enact some of these new traditions in your celebration of this holiday season.

* Decorate your fireplace, tree, and house with long fatty strips of Christmas Bacon.

* Fill a pair of galoshes with cottage cheese and leave them by the door Christmas Eve. Check back in the morning to look for Santa's little curds-slathered footprints.

* Get rid of your Christmas Tree and invest in the new Yuletide rage... The Chia Christ!

* Decorate your nipples with frosting, sprinkles, and tinsel.

* Attend Midnight Mass and hoot "boo-yah" every time the priest mentions "the savior".

* Carve stars in pumpkins, and hide painted eggs in your yard while dressed up like Abraham Lincoln. When your neighbors ask you what you're doing, respond, "I was going to ask you freaks the same thing."

* Dress up like an elf, go to a playground, and collect lunch money from kids to "pay for Santa's chemotherapy". Buy a Christmas six pack with the proceeds.

* Find out exactly how many cups of spiked eggnog it takes to get sugarplums to dance in your head.

* Eat Christmas dinner at a soup kitchen in a suit and tie and complain loudly that the service is lousy, the creamed corn is lumpy, and someone smells like "ripe ass".

* Casually hang out at a mall dressed like Santa. When hurried parents ask you if you're the on-duty Santa, smile and say "No. I'm John Wayne Gacy".

* Get the crap beaten out of you for showing the "Christmas Spirit" by hugging strangers on the street.

* Boil goat heads and festoon the outside of your house with them. Suggest to neighbors that they do the same because the skulls "spook flying reindeer".

* Tell your parents you're bringing home someone special, and then arrive with a life-sized Gingerbread Man. If you're a man, tell your folks you're "gay for gingerbread". If you're a woman, tell them you have something else "cooking in the oven".

* Make sure all your toy-sized nativity scenes come with spring-loaded attack sheep, kung-fu grip wise men, and shepherds that transform into robotic tarantulas.

* Christmas Morning Happy Hour at Hooters, 6am 'til Noon.

Every Time A Bell Rings, An Angel...

* Spit-polishes his halo
* Buys a maxi-pad with wings
* Drops out of a so-called "Choir of Angels" because that's really just a place for a bunch of diva show-offs to shine sunbeams up God's butt
* Orders a plate of "Hades Hot" Buffalo wings
* Drinks a little too much of Junior's blood and falls off a cloud
* Listens to Paul McCartney sing with his band "Wings"
* Takes a heavenly crap
* Decides to reveal the Lord's majesty to the masses by appearing on some aluminum siding in east Texas
* Obeys his Pavlovian conditioning, and barks like a dog
* Sits down for dinner
* Prank calls the miserable whiners in Hell
* Gets his union card
* Takes the fruitcake out of the oven
* Gets his wings ripped from his back, so they can be given to a more angelic and deserving angel
* Tells a mortal, "Oh c'mon, jump already! I don't got all day!"

Buy me a beer if you want the story told
Of why I moved down South from the frost and cold.
Why I'm knee deep in therapy, liquor, and pills.
Why I've given up charity in lieu of cheap thrills.


Why I loathe mistletoe, fruitcake and bells --
And why I'll celebrate Xmas when it freezes in hell.
You'll never see this elf make angels in snow.
Hey thanks for the booze – so I guess here it goes:


"Twas the night after Christmas in the North Pole
No creatures were stirring, not one lousy soul.
Santa's house appeared eerily silent
But inside the fat man was hungry, was violent
.

This workshop of toys for kids of all ages
Was filled with elves quaking in cages.
Who woke up from their long winter's naps
To find themselves snared in a devious trap.


Hours before I had been bingeing on nog
Passed out under the bed, I spied the whole saga.
I saw all my brothers rounded up in cages.
Sleepy victims of wicked midnight rampages.


Then what to my horrified eyes should appear
But a wild-eyed Santa pinching an elf by the ear.
Each little sprite shook in their tights and boots.
That this monster was Santa, no one could refute.


His size and his beard gave him away as St. Nick
His fangs and his scales made me quite sick
Blood seemed to stain his white fluffy trim
He was hunched, drooling, and disgustingly slim.

"Come little helper! Climb into my maw!"
He laughed, then casually ate the elf raw.
He greedily sucked the imp's hide off the bone
I was awed! I was scared! I was truly alone!


Dainty elf paws clutched bars and cried
Drunk on deinal; confounded by why.
(He lost his count during his murderous spree
Thought he'd rounded up most, but forgot about me!)


His hunger was wracking his hunched-over frame
With a crippling appetite that didn't know shame.
"Don't eat us! We love you! Look at our faces!"
The doomed little elves made their sad cases


But Santa ignored them with a swipe of his fist
Pulled out some parchment and started a list:
"Silence, you nuggets – I'm trying to think
Who to char-broil, who to blend into drink.


Who to dice, fillet, bake or panfry
Who to boil in soup, who to stuff in a pie"
These taunts seemed so strange to come from a man
Who held the dreams of children in his hands


Teeth full of gristle, he then sadly revealed
To his captive chorus of angel-faced veal,
That humans are greedy, petty, drunk on their vices.
And each Yuletide revel exacts gruesome prices


These prices are paid by the magical gnomes
Who hammer the toys that clutter up homes.
The payment's a life – one for each holiday sin.
Delivered by Santa, after his joyful break-ins.


Perhaps he was cursed by the Easter Bunny
Or an April Fool's jester who thought it'd be funny.
The Great Pumpkin, Jack Frost or just maybe –
That jealous and bratty New Years Eve baby.


Maybe it was a clue, how well we were fed
On cookies, cakes, lard balls and bread.
But our nature's to love, not to distrust.
So we hugged the fat Claus's and finished each crust.


Ignorant to what would soon transpire
We'd collapse in heaps by the crackling fire.
Expecting the old man to come flying back
And start making next years toys for his sack.


But how does he have enough sprites for his belly?
The final act of sorrow starts as fetal elf jelly.
That ferments inside his wife until it's a broth
Filled with thimble-sized elves that surge forth like froth.


And these newborn elves, spawned pure from her womb.
Don't understand: their workshop is really a tomb
Their dimples are gumdrops, they sneeze pixie dust.
Santa doesn't hate them – he's cursed with a lust.


Elves are packed with vitamins A, C, and E
We're awfully juicy, tart yet also fruity,
We go well with gravy and mayonnaise and toast
But casserole is how Santa likes us the most.


Barbequed, fricasseed, or flambéed
Sunny-side up, shish-ka-bobbed or flayed.
Prepared anyway, our flesh is quite delicious
And it's not like toy-happy children will miss us.


Goodbye Carl, Zud, Sprinkles and Jan!
Blossom, Hortense, Cobweb, and Stan!
Julie, Miss Knickers, Fidget, and Ralph.
I'm sorry you're dead, you wonderful elf.


A mouthed greased with fat, Santa then hibernated.
As Mrs. Claus squatted and grossly gestated
And all that is left of my cherubic siblings.
Was a pile of bells, curly-toed boots – mostly elf things


So much for good cheer! But don't shed a tear:
This gruesome cycle has happened for hundreds of years.
And as the fist to survive Father's murderous rout
In a month I stopped hiding and got the hell out."

Now I spend my days soaking under a sun like a yolk
(Yeah, I wish I'd have saved all or some of my folk)
I now have a tan where the rum's in supply.
Sewing up flags for Captain Fourth of July.