Crossroads Christian Worship Centre
Sonday January 3, 2010

Happy Twenty Ten everybody! It’s so great to ring in another new year here at the Centre. We’ve got a lot of great things going this year to keep you fellowshipping here with us, from the men’s wood chopping Bible study to the new “twitter” service (for all you webbies that prefer your Jesus in 140 characters!), there is something for every preference!

Great news for all you coffee buffs: CCWC’s in-house coffee shop Java Jesus finally has an organic, free-trade blend! We fly it in directly from Costa Rica once a month. This stuff comes highly recommended from our missionaries there, so grab a Zacchaeus (S), a David (M) or a Whopping 24oz. Goliath (L) before the service. It will definitely keep you from dozing off when Pastor Elliot goes off on one of his epic 40 minute messages! LOL!

Message from Pastor Elliot

Hey there bro’s and sis’s! The Centre had a great year last year, growing to over 65,000 members! It was so, so sick when we hit that number, I almost passed out. Praise the Lord! This year has got some really cool things in store for everybody as they come here to the CROSSroads. You may have noticed over the past few months that our budget hasn’t exactly been as spiffy and spirit-filled as we’d like it to be, so we’ve had to make some cuts here and there in order to keep the doors open. Don’t worry, we’re not getting rid of the jumbotron or closing our cutting edge fitness centre Lifting the Cross,* we’re just adjusting a few things to save some dough!

After Big Brother Government started picking up some of our slack with social justice programs (and we’re thankful – CCWC is the official worship centre of the Obama campaign!**), we decided that it would be a good idea to bring in some help for our prayer groups too! We’ve teamed up with a great ministry in Bali to bring you an ear to listen and a voice to pray 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. These guys are even available to pray on Christmas! This great opportunity is going to be available to anybody, not just CCWC members.

I’ve already used the service a few times and I can tell you from personal experience that this is a great deal! You even feel like you’re getting a sort of tropical vacation, just by hearing their accents on the phone. And get THIS: They’ll even say some of their own prayers in their native language for you! I couldn’t even believe it. I thought to myself, “it’s like they’re praying for me in tongues!” Before you ask: Duh, they’re totally praying to Jesus. It’s India, not Pakistan.

Additionally, we’ve picked up a sponsorship from The Olive Garden for our communions! It’s going to be the best communion experience you’ve ever had, guaranteed. Jesus never tasted this good!

Minor changes for CCWC, but it’s all in an effort to be better stewards of the money that God has blessed us with!

Thanks all for today, I’ll see you next Sonday which will feature the original DC Talk line-up leading us in worship!***

So I was at the post office the other day, mailing something to my special lady friend. It’s long distance so you really have to send letters and what not to keep points on the scoreboard, so to speak. I had tried FedEx and UPS, but their prices were astronomical – $60 bucks when USPS was $10 – $20.

There I was, putting some stuff in a box and filling out all the appropriate forms, when some girl came in to ship something. It was only the two of us there at the Post Office, so I could easily hear her conversation with the USPS employee. The girl was trying to pay for her purchase with a credit card that said “See I.D.” where the signature bar is on the back. The USPS employee was not down with that. You see, their policy is that you have to sign your cards. “You can sign your card right now, but we won’t take it if it’s not signed,” the employee told the young lady – the damsel in distress, you might say.

Logic isn't in their policy.

“I work at a bank,” the girl protested. “We tell all of our customers to write ‘See I.D’ on the back of their cards because it’s more secure. Your I.D. has your signature and your picture on it. It helps protect against theft.”

“Hard to argue against that logic,” I affirmed her silently in my mind. This was, after all, the same policy that I myself practiced.

“Our policy says that you have to sign the card,” the employee persisted.

“But you can just see my I.D.” the girl continued in futility.

“Ma’am you can either sign the card now or pay with cash,” repeated the error message, reminiscent of the infuriating experiences we’ve all had with some type of electronics that malfunction despite all forms of reason. The customer yielded, her white flag waving as she handed over the cash for her purchase. Her head hung low as she marched out of the building, defeated.

“Not me,” I thought rebelliously. “You’re gonna see my I.D., and you’re gonna like it.“ I walked over to the counter, my chest inflated with an air of defiance. Having rung up the costs of shipping my blindingly romantic, swoon-inducing package, the employee asked for my payment. I offered up a credit card that pleaded for the merchant to ask for my I.D.

“We don’t take cards that aren’t signed,” the employee spouted like a recording as she pointed to the little sign with their policy printed on it, the section regarding I.D. highlighted.

“My Father works at a bank. Putting ‘See I.D.’ is more secure,” I said. True story, my Dad really does work for a bank.

“Do you want to talk to the post master?” the employee said, appealing to their ultimate authority. “Finally” I thought, “I can speak to someone with a mind.”

I was wrong.

A bald man in his 50′s or 60′s puttered out from “the back room” where the dark alchemies of postal service are performed and came up to the counter to speak with me. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yes. I am trying to pay with my credit card. It is unsigned, but it says ‘See I.D.’ on it. This is actually more secure than signing it, because if someone steals my credit card then they would need my I.D. as well. Then, were they daring enough to offer up both the purloined card and the I.D., you’d be able to quickly tell that you were observing a fraud because their face would not be my face.” Triumph filled the air, echoing off of the walls with my flawless words. My tone was clear and stern, but peaceful. I did not yell or scream like an undersexed suburban mother, protesting the end of a sale at Kohl’s. No, I just presented truth calmly and succinctly. I had changed the world in a small way, for the better.

“Our policy says that the card has to be signed or we can’t accept it,” the man said nasally, extinguishing the fireworks of victory.

“But didn’t you hear what I just said? That’s not secure.”

“Well if they steal your wallet they would have your I.D. anyway,” he said, making that face that people sometimes make when they feel threatened, as if they are clenching their ass cheeks in anticipation of a punch to the face.

“Right, they would. But they wouldn’t have stolen my face too, would they? Unless we’re dealing with an Eddie Gein character, in which case I would suppose credit card theft is the least of our worries.”

“It’s our policy. Our national policy.”

“Understood, and I’ll pay with cash. But maybe you could use your Postmaster powers – great as I assume they are – to affect a positive change in the system?”

“I have. This is our policy.” He said, still standing with a slight lean backwards, ready to flee.

“Okay then.” I said. I left the Post Office, my faith in humanity and customer service shat upon once again by reality.

I then began thinking, as thinkers like myself tend to do. What if this were health care? While I agree that the American health care system works just as well as punching yourself in the face does for relieving headaches, do I want to have this experience every time I need to get some kind of medical work taken care of? The talk of death panels is sensationalistic crap, the talk of communism/fascism is bloated rhetoric, but I can’t ignore the experience I just had with a business that is operated by the government. It is so mired down in bureaucracy that the idea of “customer service” is as present as the days when MTV actually had music on it. It’s a vague memory and a happy one, but the present is such a stark contrast that the pictures in the photo album are faded beyond recognition. These Post Office employees literally have no motivation or incentive for being flexible for a customer. What the hell do they care? There’s still going to be a Post Office tomorrow whether I continue to patronize their establishment or not. They have their mouths firmly attached to the government’s bountiful teat, why on Earth would they choose to “go the extra mile” to have “service with a smile”? The customer may always be right, but they don’t give a damn about what’s right. If “right” isn’t in their policies, then “right” means nothing to them.

Are my fears well founded? Or am I just being a pessimist? I ask you the question that Third Eye Blind once asked all of us: How’s it gonna be?

Kent decided that he should make a foray into a different “art,” as he called it – the XTreme Roller Derby. Much like Michael Jordan’s short time with the Chicago White Sox, Kent broke both his legs and was incontinent for a month after his first race. He took a swipe at Donny “The DamageEater” Dean during the first 30 seconds, and quickly tasted the bitter soup of retribution. He walks with a limp, and I heard he still has trouble “standing up straight,” if you get my drift.

While Kent was experimenting with the “Raucous Rolling Righteous Reapers” (everyone had an idea for the name, no one could say no) I was embarking on a perilous journey of self-discovery all of my own.  I decided that what my life needed was a challenge. Challenge, I thought, looked like alligator wrestling in rural Louisiana. I took what was left of the fortune that we made when The Oxygen Network purchased our website (assumedly to remove two more chauvinist voices from the internet) and spent it on “Licky Lemmy’s Gator Trap.”

Don’t ask about Lemmy’s nickname. You don’t want to know.

Two days, half an ass cheek, and a vicious case of what the locals call “gator burn” on three quarters of my body later, I sold the Gator Trap to a drifter for $62. The bills were all wrinkled and stinky, but I was able to use them to purchase an inflatable do-nut to sit on, some aloe, and a bus ticket to Chicago.

I arrived just as Kent was rolling out of the hospital with two broken legs and barely enough pride to conceal the fact that he had to wear adult diapers for the next four weeks. We hobbled back to our downtown penthouse apartment only to find that our Swedish model girlfriends had robbed us blind, leaving only the eviction notice on our door.

Fast forward through the rehab/counseling/plastic surgery montage, and here we are. September of Two Thousand and Nine. We’re not rich anymore, nor are we famous, but we still have our pride.

And pride, friends, is what we’re here to talk about today. You see, although Kent still occasionally pees in his pants and I look like the leaning tower of Pisa when I sit down, we’re not completely devoid of self-respect. That sense of dignity is the reason why we’ve enacted a new policy here on TTM. A policy that, I think you’ll agree, is the beginning of an internet revolution.

You’ve heard of “assholes,” right? I’m sure you have. Well, we’ve had a few of those pop in here to the site and post some unhappy comments on our articles, defaming our content, our talent, and dare I say our very humanity. Distressed and having flashbacks of being straddled by an alligator named “Scoopy,” I called TTM’s Board of Directors for a meeting.

A Snapshot of our Board of Directors

There Kent and I sat, thinking. What do we do about these jerks? Do we let them crap on us on our own site? Do we delete their comments outright like the thought police? Do we respond angrily to every one like I did on that Michael Bay article I wrote?

We couldn’t decide. Then, after a few slurpees and a late night run to White Castle (which ended poorly, aside from this epiphany) our minds melded and birthed out the best idea we’ve had since buying new social security numbers on the black market to avoid bankruptcy and jailtime for extortion (long story involving that Jewish guy from The Lonely Island) – we’ll just change their names to something insulting! You see, we have that kind of editorial power here. After all, we did pay for this website (in friendship and gratitude, thanks Isaac!) and we do have complete dictatorial power over it, so why shouldn’t we exert that power when some doucher thinks he’s boss enough to come tell us how it is? We’ll tell you how it isn’t, sir. And how it isn’t, is how you said it is. Or how you said it is, it isn’t that way. Whatever, you’re an Ass Goblin and now that’s what it says your name is. Suck it.

So if you’re tempted to post a mean thing on any of our articles, whether they were written by us or by a guest, we’re going to make it seem like you named yourself Butt Sniffer because you deserve it. This isn’t a democracy. This is a Theo-merican Republic where Kent and I have eternal reign. Does that make sense? On TTM it does, because we say so.

If you’re going to be a dick, you forfeit your rights to be treated with respect. It’s that simple, Mr. I Love Eating Poop.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make my appointment for restorative ass surgery. Good day.

Hail to our chief.

America,

I’m disappointed with you. You got plastered-drunk on the Obama administration’s hip-flask of hope, and now you have a reality hangover.

It’s been a month… WHERE ARE YOUR FLYING HYBRID CARS?!? What have they been up to in Washington? A month long Scrabble tournament? What’s the hold up here?

This is not the bright new future you were promised when you chugged Obama’s champagne of change. You were foretold of a world free from genocide, poverty, and large words. A world where bipartisanship and children’s laughter would be the modus operandi. A world no longer bound by tyrannical right-wing policies like Monday mornings, awkward conversations, and confusing song lyrics. Together, we were to usher in a new day where butterflies would serenade us as rainbows sneezed Skittles. This was the vision you had when you snorted the opium of Obama optimism. This was what you signed up for.

Alas, a month has passed, and what progress has been made? None. We’re not one inch closer to that Utopian dreamland than we were in 2000. Loud noises are just as startling as they were under Bush. Parking spots are just as difficult to find as they were last year. Ugly people are still free to roam the streets, and the McRib still isn’t on the Dollar Menu. Let me ask you something, America.  How many times have you made out with a mermaid or ridden a unicorn under the new Obama-stration? ZERO. That was the very least you should have expected when you stuffed your face with Obama’s poundcake of promises.

I understand we’re in a recession and the world’s at war. That’s fine. Those weighty issues take time. But Obama’s margarita of merriment should have at least fixed the little things. For instance, you still have to do quick math in your head. You’re just a middle class person.  You don’t have the resources for that! You can send a man to the moon and harvest electricity from sunlight, but you’re still forced to do quick math at the grocer like you’re some barbarian?! Where is your dignity?!

And now you find yourself with a hangover. The bright lights of recession and the loud noises of nuclear proliferation are pounding your brain. What brought this searing pain? Let’s take a look back at November 4th, 2008 – your most shameless display of public intoxication to date. You had spent the previous months taking shots of Obama’s sanguineness and puffing from his peyote peacepipe of positivity. The media had been force-feeding you dimebags of dreams and you grew dependent on it. So you couldn’t help but stagger into the voting booth and order another serving of the stuff. I get it, I really do.

And that’s why I’m holding this intervention. You need help, America. Look at yourself! You’re stumbling all over the Middle East. You can’t hold down a job. I can see you’re depressed, but that’s no reason to lie in Cap’n Crunch residue watching Fresh Prince reruns all day.  Pull it together, man!!

You’re just ending an abusive relationship with your ex-president, and that can be tough. But don’t you remember the last time you got this drunk?  You thought Johnnie Kennedy and you were gonna be together forever.  Remember how that ended?  Heartbreak and entanglement in an endless, unwinnable war, that’s how! You were a wreck for a good 20 years! Do we really need to go through all this again?
Please, just take this stimulant (its package cost an arm and a leg!), get some rest, and go shopping or something.  That always made things better in the past right?  Whatever you do, for God sake, put down your needle of naiveté. You’re killing your family.

Kindest Regards,

Tory
Tory James Robert Schalkle is currently enrolled as a full time student of life. One of the most sensitive people you will ever meet, he spends his spare time reading at nursing homes and baking for veterans.  He frequently fails to write for us.  Incidentally, he also has two middle names.

To Whom it May Concern:

Recently I attended a birthday celebration at an establishment aimed at people over the age of 21. You may call it a “bar,” a “club,” or even a “house of ill repute.” Admittedly the third moniker isn’t completely accurate as the “transactions” that take place there aren’t exactly the same (“you give me money, and I will have sex with you” is exchanged for “you purchase alcoholic beverages for me and pretend to be interested in me for who I am, and I will have sex with you”) but it’s honestly close enough. I happened to ingest a respectful amount of alcohol prior to attending this gathering – one might refer to that action using a common colloquialism: “pre-gaming.” We could say that, on the scale of inebriation, I was in the “moderate to severe” range. It should be noted that I remember everything, did not black out, and did not retch. It should also be duly noted that drunkenness is not something that I condone. It just so happens that I am human and often am unaware of something that mature people call “limits.” I am typically what is generally referred to as a “jolly drunk,” and that trait was in full force that evening. I would venture to say that if someone decided to make an action figure out of me and, finding that the supply of the normal edition of a Dallas Conor McCarthy action figure was absolutely insufficient to meet the demand of thousands of foamy-mouthed, rabid women all over the world, then decided to release a special action figure based entirely on the version of me that was represented that night, it would be called the “Let’s Party” edition.

But we’re not here to talk about Conor “Let’s Party” McCarthy. He’s a good man and I stand by him, but his actions and exploits are not the subject of this little tirade, virtuous though they may be. No, ladies and gentlemen, fellow partakers of “the party,” we’re here to talk about the “Sober Guy.” This “Guy” is obnoxious, jealous, and generally one who takes a giddy, misanthropic delight in the raining-on of parades. This is a party-attendee that might normally be inebriated but isn’t for whatever circumstantial reason. Perhaps they are “taking one for the team,” to use the parlance of our times. Thus, out of a dark, selfish shadow of their heart spews a virus that hopes to spoil the fresh taste of my merrymaking.  To clarify I should say that the term “Sober Guy” is androgynous, although it does have the word “guy” in it which does certainly refer to people with penises. I am using it as a general term for all people who perform these actions despite their gender and would entreat you all to use it thus.

I encountered the “Sober Guy” many times that evening. You will know that you have encountered him by his pomp, and because he typically says things like this:

“You are drunk.“
Extra emphasis on “drunk,” which means that your drunkenness is, by their definition, of an excessive degree.
“You are so drunk.”
You see here that the modifier “so” is emphatically employed to let you know that your drunkenness is indeed thorough.
“You are out of control.”
This comes with the assumption that your faculties have been commandeered by some sort of alcoholic coup d’etat, relieving you of all sense and knowledge of your own actions
“I can’t believe you.”
Although this may sound like some kind of modern metaphysical iteration of Cogito, ergo sum – you do not think, therefore you do not exist – it is instead a much simpler exclamation regarding the drunken grandeur of your actions. Disappointing, I know.
“You are crazy.”
No clinical diagnosis is being made regarding the state of your psyche here, friend. No, “Sober Guy” is expressing how “out of control” you really are – out of control to the level of pure insanity.

You can see how “Sober Guy” has a penchant for exaggeration and for stating things that are quite obvious as if they are religious revelations. “Sober Guy” may also make these statements to an observer, like some inane sports commentator noting that “This team is playing to win.”

Here’s the thing “Sober Guy”: I’m not mad at you. Truly, I have once been you. Now, though, having quite fully experienced “the other perspective,” I now understand how irritating and dreadful you can be. Am I drunk? Really? Perhaps that was caused by the 20 ounces of Captain Morgan’s Rum I drank in the span of one and a half hours. So drunk, you say? Hmmm, I hadn’t noticed that. I was distracted by all of the self-described awesome dancing I’m doing or by all of the fights I have nearly gotten into or, finally, all of the ladies I have spoken to recently that are clearly interested in me. Obviously my intention in consuming that much alcohol was to thin my blood for health reasons, not to reach any extraordinary state of drunkenness. My apologies.

You are offensive, Sir, because I believe that you are only saying these things because you are not “so drunk.” Be it pride, jealousy, or loneliness, your motivations are absolutely not in my best interest and therefore I would urge you to silence yourself and return to whatever bastion of unfunnery from whence you came. Either do that, or go have a few shots of whiskey, put on your party trousers, and return to me reborn – a newly named diplomat from the land of Uz-Party-stan.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely Yours,
Dallas Conor McCarthy and, by proxy, Dallas Conor “Let’s Party” McCarthy

Editor’s Note: I understand that this article might come off as a bashing of “the squares” that don’t drink at all or who rightly avoid drunkenness. It can be read a certain way to reach that conclusion, although I don’t believe it was written unclearly. My intention is not to bash people who take a sober stance for moral reasons. Naturally, Kent and I also believe drunkenness to be sinful. Is this story true? Some of it. Am I proud of my sinful lack of moderation? No. Is it worse than any other sin I commit daily? No. My intention in this article was multifaceted, but mainly to be funny, to make fun of myself, and to make light of a somewhat embarrassing memory. A valid point that can be drawn from this article – albeit a point that was not necessarily my intention – is that this sin isn’t a special one. It happens, it’s a common experience, and there should not be some stigma in our community that makes it extraordinarily bad. It’s that stigma that causes so many young Christians to abandon moderation. They get driven from one side of the spectrum to the other. Should Christians (I make that distinction very intentionally) be called out for their sinfulness? Absolutely. I just believe that should be done in gentleness and love, rather than in anger and pride. Furthermore, having a serious conversation about sin with someone who is under the influence of alcohol tends to be less than productive. Choose the right time and place, be firm and do not waiver from truth, but be aware that often damage is done by people who think they are acting in righteousness but who are themselves in need of a healthy rebuke.

-conor.

But, what am I saying?  That’s not what you came here for.  Our time is brief (and by “our” I mean “your”) so lets get down to brass tacks.  As the Prince of Darkness and Commander-in-Chief of All Evil Forces Above and Below the Earth (CCAEFABE) people are constantly pestering me with all manner of trivial and uninteresting questions.  Did you invent the Dentist?  No, but he is a close friend.  Can one actually swim in the Lake of Fire?  Yes, from 12pm-8pm daily and from 8am-10pm on the weekends.  How do you feel about the way you are portrayed in popular literature and film?  Mostly ambivalent.  R.L. Stine probably came the closest to getting me right.

Yet more than anything, people are constantly inquiring about my political leanings.  People assume that, as the CCAEFABE, I have the ability to shape coup d’etats, military juntas, and prom queen elections to my liking.  This is true only in part.  Yes, I have been a registered voter for the past two and a half centuries, and yes, I often use movies like The Golden Compass and The Da Vinci Code to speak my message to the masses, but when it comes right down to it, I’m only one principality of the underworld, and my vote counts the same as yours.  (It counts slightly more than she-devil votes as she-devils are still regarded as only 3/5 of a demon.)

Do I use that vote to expand my kingdom of darkness?  Of course I do.  I write myself in.  With the exception of 1988 when I voted for Dukakis, I have written my name on ballots in almost 350 local, state and national elections.  Some of you may call this practice wasteful, but you would be wrong.  Turns out a lot of people routinely write “Satan” on their ballots.  In fact, I was almost elected mayor of New Orleans in 2004.  Of course, the city was destroyed by water the following year, but my contacts in Heaven assure me that that was just a coincidence.  Point being, my political movement is gaining steam.

That being said, some of the more astute of you have already identified Barack Obama as perhaps the only person more qualified than myself to run this country.  Points to you!  In fact, I did vote for Mr. Obama earlier this month, but it’s probably not for the reasons you think I did.  Well yes, he is my son, but that’s not the only reason.  He also happens to be a smoker, which I have a great deal of respect for.  He’s smart enough to know what tar and nicotine are doing to his body, but he does it anyway!  The gall!  The stone-faced indifference!  That’s exactly the kind of “devil may care” attitude we need in the White House.  And yes, I do care.

Also, I appreciate his stance on homosexuality.  As you may suspect, I am a big supporter of the GLBT cause, and no, it’s not because it is clearly opposed by scripture (although, usually that’s reason enough).  It just so happens that some of my most loyal supporters – Ryan Seacrest, Carson Daly, and Oprah to name a few – happen to be gay, and I like to throw them a bone whenever I can.

Lastly, but most significantly, John McCain is a bit jowly for my taste.  Didn’t look very “presidential” if you ask me.  Additionally, his running mate was clearly anointed with supernatural powers of some sort and, as a rule, I try to avoid those people.  And what’s this I hear about him referring to his time in a Vietnamese torture camp as “hell on earth” or “a living hell?”  What the H-E-double hockey sticks is that all about?  (haha, nice one Satan)  He ignores my frequent invitations to visit, and then he turns around and mouths off about my home?  As if he knows what it’s like down here.  I mean seriously, how pretentious can a person get?

So there you have it.  Yes, I voted for Obama. Yes, I think he’ll do a great job running the world.  I mean America.  Is he the anti-christ?  Too soon to tell.  We’re still doing interviews, and he’ll get the same consideration as all the other candidates.  I’ll let you know as soon as I know.