My Lord! Which Way To The Keg?
There are a lot of Gods.
Let’s see… Depending on your religion, there is God, God, God, and, um, God. You’d think we’d give Gods names. Larry, for instance. Or Billy. I’m sure they have them. I wonder if when they all get together in the neighborhood for BBQ and Kool-Aid, if they have nicknames. In my neighborhood we never used real names. It was always Kermit, Puppet, or Leprecunt. They must do the same, right?
God 1: Hey Hoof-rot. Did you want some potato salad? I made it from scratch.
God 3: Hoof-rot? Ha ha ha! That’s hilarious.
God 1: You need to stop wearing those sandals all the time, Hoof-Rot. I don’t need to stare at your rotting toe nails, and shit.
God 2: You should talk, Freddie Krueger.
God 3: Freddie Krueger? Ha ha ha! Oh shit!
God 2: Those fingernails are disgusting. You probably have potato salad wedged under there from 1382.
God 3: 1382? Snap!
God 2: What are you laughing at, Quasimoto.
God 1: Quasimoto? Ha ha ha!
God 2: Stand up straight, you crooked ass, no spine, lung butter having bitch. Where’s your God? I’d go to the complaint department and file a grievance.
There are a lot of Lords.
There are Drug Lords, War Lords, Time Lords, Traci Lords, Lord Infamous, Lord Somerset, Lord Windsor, Lord Have Mercy… Jesus, this could take a while.
A lord is simply a master of sorts. A ruler. Which, one might think, is something you would aspire to be. But usually men want to be Kings and women want to be Queens and little women want to be princesses. Little men don’t care about this monarchist title business. They either want to be LeBron, who is referred to in the states as “King James.” Or Rupaul, who is world renowned as “THE Drag Queen.” So, maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.
A man dressed immaculately in black is standing at the pulpit. Black tie, black shoes, white face, black lips, with his arms stretched out to the heavens in praise. “Join me, beautiful people. Join me in a song.” A hundred thousand voices roar in approval. A gathering so impressive, it’s difficult to make out where this massive collection of followers end and the horizon of the day begins.
“Let’s sing a song of praise to the two true lords of this world. The only two lords that matter.” The crowd gets louder. Angrier. Frothing at the collective mouth. “Sing your hearts out for Lord Violent J and Lord Shaggy 2 Dope. You know the words!”
As the DJ scratches the intro, the pit begins to swirl. The man dressed immaculately in black and white face starts to bang his head. Which is odd, because you don’t bang your head to hip hop. You would usually just stand there looking uninterested with a gat in your hand. But not here. This is The Gathering of the Juggalos. And then, suddenly, the beat drops and the hook begins.
“Oh, clown painted face
guide me to the keg
and release my cock from these stockings!…”
Perhaps, most people have no interest in being Lords, but prefer being Lorded over. Followers. Bitches. Which, of course, is a non-gender specific reference. Or is it? Because there are The Cumberbitches. A faction of women, (and men who identify as women), that worship at the alter of Lord Benedict Cumberbatch. Which is ridiculous. Because if there is anyone who should not be a Lord of anybody, its Benedict Cumberbatch. Because he’s a fucking actor. And we all know actors are idiots.
But, it doesn’t stop at actors. No. It seems everybody is getting involved. There’s The Fanilows, The Beliebers, The Christians, The Bronies, The Dickheads, The Cheeseheads, and The Parrotheads, to name just a few. There are a lot of “heads.” You’d think there would be more heads. Like The Jesusheads. Because, let’s face it. Head is great!
A tiny girl sits on her bedroom floor ruling over her collection of dolls. Her father walks up to the entrance of her room and smiles lovingly down at his beautiful creation. “What are you doing, Sweetheart?”
“I’m playing Princess, Daddy. These are my followers.”
The Father chuckles lightly and says, “Your followers? That sounds interesting. Can I play too?”
“Of course, Daddy,” she coos. She pats the floor next to her. “Sit down right here. I’ll show you how to play.”
“Cool.” The Father sits next to his beloved daughter and grabs one of the dolls. “So, what do I do?” he asks.
“Ok, Daddy. This is what you do. You see, that doll is the housemaid.”
“Yeah. And because we are very hungry. We are always hungry, Daddy. We can command her to feed us.”
“Yes, Daddy. You don’t seem to be following. I’m the princess. Here, I’ll show you.”
The tiny girl grabs the doll from her daddy and backhands her across the head. “What the hell are you looking at, peon!? Get the hell outta of here and go make me a sandwich, bitch! And no mustard this time or I’ll kill your whole family!”
The Father, speechless, looks down at his abomination of God. The tiny girl giggles. “Like that, Daddy.”
This Lordy Lord business fells a bit like Rule 34. Which is defined as such:
“Pornographic or sexually related material exists for any conceivable subject.”
Which is either shockingly true, or shruggingly true. It depends on your level of depravity. I’ve seen artwork that depicts Lilo getting double teamed by Gantu and Dr. Hamsterviel while Stitch is beating off in the corner. I’ve seen Macaulay Culkin and his iconic Home Alone face photoshopped onto the butt cheeks of a man with a prolapsed anus. I’ve seen a cartoon based on fan fiction where Shrek anally rapes one of his beloved followers. The victim says he loves it. It’s kind of confusing, but beautiful.
So, if you could be The Lord of the Rings or The Lord of The Flies or The Lord of the Damned, you could surely be The Lord of the Poop. The Lord of the Unicorns. The Lord of The Cum Stained Family Sheets of Yesterday. It really doesn’t matter. If you can think of it, you can “Lord” it. It is only limited by your twisted imagination.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will Lord over a bucket of whiskey. And maybe a doughnut. Why not.
“Come here, Jeeves! And bring my ladle!”